Disclaimer: I do not own The West Wing or any of its characters. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Note: This is my first fanfiction in nearly five years, and my rambling, joyful, messy love letter (likely the first of many) to The West Wing. It's hard to explain how much this series means to me. I have never watched a show as masterfully scripted, acted, and realized as this one, and I doubt I ever will again. It not only reminded me of why I love good stories with even better characters, but rekindled my need to write and read and consume those stories whole-heartedly, without coming up for air. Although Josh and Donna are only part of why I fell in love with this world, their dynamic, tension, and absolute devotion to each other captivated me from the very beginning. I'm a romantic and an idealist at heart, and a good, drawn-out, unspoken love gets me every time. While writing this fanfic, I was reminded of why I am a writer. The process has been hard and unbearably slow; I've worried over each word choice, each line of dialogue, each scenario. It's been a good way for me to get over finishing the show after marathoning it for months. It's been a distraction from work and real life, a way to relax at the end of a long day. Most of all, though, it's been unbelievably fun. This story took on a mind of its own, blossoming from what was supposed to be a relatively short one-shot to a 39,000-word monster. I had only intended to write from Josh's point of view, but then, it was impossible for me not to get into Donna's head. Once I'd given up on the idea of my quick, easy little story (about halfway through Josh's first part), I figured, what the hell. Why not tack on a third section that features both of them?
Thank you for taking the time to read this. I hope you enjoy the story, and I would love your feedback (constructive criticism is beyond welcome). The title and song lyrics are obviously taken from "Reminder" by Mumford and Sons, which is one of the many songs I've listened to recently that has made me think of Josh, Donna, and how stupidly perfect they are.
a stoic mind and a bleeding heart
Josh
"Don't let me darken your door,
That's not what I came here for.
No, it's not what I came here for.
And I won't hear you cry when I'm gone,
I won't know if I'm doing you wrong.
I never know if I'm doing you wrong."
–"Reminder" by Mumford and Sons
1.
It's definitely the long hours.
That's what Josh decides, after he finds himself staring at her for the tenth time in as many minutes. It's the long hours, it's the lack of sleep, it's the lack of caffeine. It's the lack of anything resembling a life outside the White House and this damn bill. He can't remember the last time he slept in a bed, or the last time he got more than a nap at his desk. What's it been, two, three days? It's making him loopy—it would make anyone loopy.
It's definitely not because he likes her.
Okay, Josh likes her; of course he likes her. How could he not? She's Donna! Blisteringly smart, funny, capable, resilient, snarky, unsettling (and yet all at once, completely grounding) Donna. There's nothing not to like. He wouldn't hire just any degree-less, charming girl off the Wisconsin streets. Of course not. Of course Donna's special.
Special. Josh squints at the paperwork in front of him, scratches his ear. He isn't going to look at her. He isn't going to look again, he isn't—
She's so funny when she's concentrating. She always furrows her brow just like that, a crease right between her eyebrows. And normally, the pen tapping might be annoying (especially because he's trying to focus—it's important work, drafting bills), but the way she does it is so...
This is ridiculous.
He bites his lip, jerks his attention back to policy. What policy is this? What has he promised Leo he'll deliver? It's almost ten and he has to have something to show before senior staff meets at eight tomorrow.
"You got anything?" Josh asks, decidedly not looking up from the papers spread across his desk.
"Well," Donna says, a little too brightly for someone who's been at the office for close to thirteen hours, "you'll be pleased to know that I did finally manage to decipher the first section of your notes from the meeting with Wolchek."
"You're blowing my mind," Josh mutters. "An hour and a half to go through two pages?"
"I'm starting to think you need occupational therapy," Donna snaps, tossing his notebook down in front of him. "This is illegible, Josh!"
"You're one to talk. And hey, my handwriting's not the problem here!" Josh snatches up the notes, flipping a page. "Look, I can read this just fine: 'Republicans willing to knock down two votes on the floor for...'" Uh-oh. "'...for...party condol—cam—compromise? Yeah, party compromise on tax...taxPAYER-funded—'"
"If you would just let me sit in on these things," Donna cuts in, "and type up coherent notes for you, we could have been out of here three hours ago, happily eating our respective dinners at a normal time, like normal humans do." She crosses from around the front of the desk, leans over his shoulder, jabbing a finger at a sentence halfway down the page. "Is that even a word, Josh? Because it looks like a confused kindergartner took a stab at capturing Senator Wolchek's thoughts on immigration!"
Josh cranes his neck, opens his mouth to inform Donna that nobody but her has ever had trouble deciphering his penmanship, but he can't get the words out.
It's because he only got two and a half hours of sleep last night. It's not because Donna's alarmingly close to him. It's not because she smells good (really good, like...flowers? Or something flower-y.). It's not because she's right here, with one hand on his shoulder, her hair falling across her face, while she gives him that look, that self-righteous, entirely adorable look that means he's in as much trouble as anyone can be in with their assistant.
It's not because she's beautiful. (Even though she is.) (Of course she is. He's her boss, not a monk. He's allowed to think she's beautiful. Just not allowed to do anything about it.) (Not that he'd want to do anything about it.) (He's just tired, okay?)
"Josh?" The back of Donna's hand is on his forehead now, like he might be feverish. "Are you okay? Are you having a stroke?"
He jerks back from her touch, almost out of his chair.
"Fine," he croaks, wishing his voice wouldn't always pitch an octave higher than usual when he's nervous. "I'm fine. Dandy, even!" Donna doesn't look like she believes him even a little bit. "I'm just, y'know. Exhausted. And late. It's late, I mean. The hour."
"Okay," Donna says slowly. She's retreated back to her side of the desk. Josh is currently preoccupied with staring down at his illegible notes, but if he had to guess, he'd say Donna's looking at him right now like maybe she needs to call his mother.
"I'm really very fine," he says. Whispers, almost. "I'm sorry. It was a long day."
"Yeah," Donna says. "Did you even go home last night?"
"I crashed here." Josh glances up, catches her frown. "What? I do that sometimes."
"When was the last time you had a shower?"
He winces.
"A full meal?"
His wince intensifies.
"Josh!"
"Donna!"
"That's it," she says, tossing her pen onto his desk and shoving her chair back. "We're done. You're going home."
"Donna, I have to at least get some notes ready for Leo," Josh protests, but it's too late. She's got him by the elbow, she's throwing his backpack at him, she's wrestling him out of his own office, and before he knows it, they're halfway through the bullpen. "Hey! I'm not messing around. I've gotta—"
"What you've gotta do," Donna says, steering him towards the exit, "is go home, eat whatever's somewhat edible in your fridge, take a shower, and get at least five hours of sleep. I will get your notes ready."
"But—"
"I'll come in early. It'll only take me another hour, and then you'll have some basic talking points on the bill. Then Leo's happy, you're well-rested, and I won't have to report you to the Secret Service for being a crazy person who lives in his office." Donna pauses just before the door, takes a breath. "You can't take care of the country if you can't take care of yourself, Josh. Go. Home."
He looks at her again. He can't not. The way the glow from the streetlights just outside is catching her hair...it's distracting. The way she's scowling at him is distracting. Come to think of it, so's the way she's not letting go of his elbow.
What about her isn't distracting?
"Josh?" she asks, and this time, the frustration is almost gone from her voice. "Do you need me to get you a cab or something? You look..."
"No," Josh says, easing his elbow out of her grip. "No, you're right. I'll go. I really should sleep. I hear it does wonders."
"Thank you," she says. "Now, I'll see you tomorrow morning, but not too early. Don't think you can sneak in ahead of me. I'll know."
"Yes, ma'am," he says, shuffling nervously. "And, uh. Thanks. For doing all this."
"Well." Donna's trying not to smile. As usual, Josh is trying not to stare. "Somebody has to."
"I'm nothing without you, Donnatella Moss," he says, going for charming and quippy. It comes out too low. Too serious.
Before he can be any more of an inappropriate basket-case, he hoists his backpack over his shoulder and shoves through the door, out of the White House. He is determined not to look back at his assistant (who he doesn't like—not like that); he is determined to find his way to his car and then somehow get home without crashing into anything.
And yet. He turns, just for a second. Donna's still in the doorway, watching through the glass. As soon as she sees him, she jolts out of sight. Josh ignores his stomach twisting, snaps his eyes shut, exhales slowly.
It really is just these long hours.
Really.
2.
One shot in:
Toby is heckling him. It's in a more friendly way than usual, but it's heckling nonetheless.
"So, you're telling me you've never thought about it," Toby says, swirling his Jack and Coke. He raises his eyebrows, tilts his chin. "Not once." Josh might scream.
"For the last time, goddammit, no," he hisses. "And she's right there, might I add, so if you'd switch to a less insane topic, that'd be swell." Josh hopes he doesn't look as red as he feels. He wishes that Donna were anywhere else but three stools down the bar right now—maybe Tokyo? Would that be far enough? Gritting his teeth, Josh signals the bartender for one more, which makes Toby snort and rub his forehead like they're talking polling numbers and swiping errant committee votes instead of whether or not Josh is trying to sleep with his assistant.
For what it's worth, the assistant in question is thoroughly absorbed in her conversation with C.J. (who will probably be trying to get them all well and truly hammered after her second bourbon kicks in). Donna's not looking at Josh, because why would she be?
"Mmm," Toby says, following Josh's gaze. "You know, there are many things you're not exactly bad at. In fact, there may be several things you're actually good at; even I'd admit that. But Josh, poker has never been your strong suit."
"So, we've moved on to cards now," Josh says. His shot of Cuervo arrives and he downs it without the lime. He likes vodka okay, can occasionally stomach whiskey, could never begin to handle gin, but tequila...now that's a thing he can get behind every time. It makes everything smoother, brighter. Makes C.J.'s laugh ring pleasantly in his ears. Makes Donna's hair shine like gold, even in a smoky bar. Makes Toby less of an unbearable asshole, which is really quite something to see.
"Joshua." Toby's finished with his drink now, too, and leans forward, blocking Josh's view. "I did not ask you a question earlier. I told you: you need to do something about, uh, whatever this is, because it's becoming obvious."
"And I told you that I don't know what the fuck you're talking about." Josh isn't slurring yet, but he's working a little harder than usual to enunciate vowels. "Except I said it nicely then, because I really thought you could not possibly be serious with this." Toby laughs, leans back in the stool, and orders another drink. Josh takes a minute to regroup, to try to focus on his hands, on the sticky bartop, on the crappy band screeching in the background. Where's Sam when you need him? He was supposed to be here by now.
"Look, she's beautiful. That's not in question," Toby is saying. "Not to mention, she's ten times smarter than you. We all know this. If Donna had the law degree and the policy background, she'd be running the place, and you'd be getting the coffee."
"She doesn't get me coffee," Josh snaps. "God, Toby. This isn't the 50s. I get my own damn coffee." Toby waves his hand.
"Yeah, I know she doesn't get you—would you listen for a second?"
"Y'know, it actually seems that all I'm doing here is listening." Josh shouldn't order another shot. Maybe a beer. A light one. Never one to take his own advice, Josh catches the bartender's eye, points at his glass: yes, one more. Toby leans in even further, his crinkly forehead and dark frown swimming fuzzily in Josh's field of vision.
"I'm talking about your picture in the paper, Josh," he says, and any hint of warmth from before has evaporated. "I'm talking about headlines screaming about sex scandals. I'm talking about Donna's career on the goddamn rocks, okay? She'd never work in politics again."
"Toby, this may come as a shock to you, but I already know that," Josh bites out. He won't risk a glance down at Donna or C.J., who've been thoroughly uninterested in the Josh and Toby Show for over an hour, anyway. Where the fuck is Sam? Or Josh's third shot, for that matter? "You think I haven't—I mean, this isn't like that. The point is moot. But, hypothetically, if it were, I sure as hell am not stupid enough to think I could, you know, act on it."
"Well, good," Toby nearly shouts. "In that case, you might want to stop staring at her slack-jawed anytime she wears something new. You might want to stop buying her flowers on your, what was it, oh yeah—your 'anniversary.' You might want to stop shooing all her potential suitors away. And, just maybe, you might want to practice being convincing, in case someone more important and much scarier than me decides to have this conversation with you."
The third shot is here. Josh stares at it, considering: how drunk does he need to be for Toby's onslaught to stop feeling like a series of sucker punches to the gut? How much more tequila before Josh stops wanting to smash things?
The band is playing another shrill song. Toby is mercifully quiet beside him for the first time in half an hour.
"Okay," Josh says, pulling a hand through his hair. "Okay, okay, okay."
"Okay, you'll get it together?" Toby asks. "Or...okay, you want me to shut up?"
"Both," Josh mutters."Both, okay?" Toby's quiet again. Josh leans forward, head in his hands, and wonders why the hell he agreed to come out tonight. It's 11:25 PM on a Tuesday. He's an adult who's more than a little responsible for helping run the country. He should know better.
"Josh," Toby says, and this time, he doesn't sound angry or funny or even annoying. "Are you in love with her or something?"
"Okay. Shut up."
"Shit. You're in love with her. I didn't realize—shit. It's just that people have been talking. I hear things. I wanted to—"
"I hear things, too. I know what people think, but I don't...I don't, you know. It's not..."
"Josh."
"I want you to drop this," Josh says softly, unable to do anything more than dig his fingernails into his forehead with renewed vigor. "I am asking you to please, for the love of God—"
"What have you two been arguing so intently about?" C.J.'s voice is louder than usual. She's practically shouting in Josh's ear. "I thought we agreed to put the shop talk to bed for the night, boys."
"The government never sleeps, Claudia Jean," Toby says. Josh glances up, and Donna's right there, leaning over to talk to the bartender. She smiles to thank him, and Josh doesn't want to notice this, but it's one of her best smiles: the real one, the one that's like concentrated sunshine. The one that always makes him feel slightly wobbly, even when he's sober.
C.J. is yelling about Sam and how he always drags his feet getting to these things, and Donna's waiting for her drink, and Toby, Josh realizes, is watching him watch Donna. And now Donna's got a cranberry vodka or something and she's giggling with C.J., and everything Toby pummeled Josh with keeps running through his head on loop, and the band is getting worse, and then the next thing Josh knows, he's knocking back shot number three.
"How many?" Donna asks Toby, inclining her head towards Josh. Toby smirks, holds up three fingers.
"Traitor," Josh whines, but he's grateful Toby doesn't say anything about the two beers they'd each had right when they sat down.
"You have a breakfast meeting at 7:30!" Donna says. "You're going to be completely useless." C.J. elbows her in the ribs and a good half of Donna's drink sloshes onto the bar. Toby snatches his wallet out of the way.
"C.J., you're drunk," he says, reaching for the stack of napkins.
"No!" C.J. says. "I'm just the only one who isn't mentally still at the office! For the next...well, at least the next two hours, provided nobody's pager goes off, we are not talking about work and we are not talking about breakfast meetings. We are focused on our sole and judicious imperative."
"Getting trashed?" Toby confirms.
"You got it, buckerooni."
"I'm beginning to think that your nicknames get folksier in direct correlation with the level of your BAC," Toby says, but he's smiling, and his gaze has shifted away from Josh and directly on to C.J. Josh seizes the opportunity and stands before he can't anymore.
"I'm done, guys," he says. "Donna's right. Got...yeah, that thing. In the morning."
"You drove him away!" C.J. cries, pointing an accusatory finger in Donna's general direction. "I was so looking forward to seeing him all liquored up. It was the only thing getting me through that last tortuous briefing."
"Sorry as I am to ruin the night, I think it's best for everyone involved if I duck out before the last shot takes hold." Josh is already feeling slightly unsteady on his feet. "Everything's all...shiny."
"I'll take you home," Donna offers. "Just to make sure you get there okay." Josh opens his mouth to say no, but instead he blurts out: "Yeah, thanks," and then, amidst C.J. groaning and Toby staring at Josh again over his drink and Sam finally fucking showing up, Josh waves them all off and shoulders his way towards the door, his hand on the small of Donna's back (so as not to lose her in the crowd, of course).
His apartment is a short walk away, but he's stumbling, and it helps to have Donna right there, her arm linked through his, helping him navigate all the turns and the crosswalks. Two blocks from his place, Josh stops, a sour taste in his mouth, trying to brace himself against Donna's slender waist. Not a good idea. He lets go of her almost immediately.
"I'm sorry," he says, lowering himself to the curb. "Can we sit? Just for a minute. Or you can go on. I'm almost there." Donna smooths her skirt and settles down next to him.
"Don't be silly," she says. "Where else do I have to be?"
"Oh, I dunno. Asleep?" Josh props his head on his hand, turns to consider her. "Still at the Hawk and Dove? Enjoying the few precious hours you have without the pleasure of my company?"
"Though you have a point, and you do know how I treasure my you-free time, I have to say that I always sleep better knowing you're alive. As a general rule." She brushes a hand across his shoulder like she's dusting him off.
"Just had a couple drinks," he mumbles. "Thanks, Mom. Think I'll live to die another day."
"Thank God for small miracles."
They sit there for a minute, a little closer than maybe is professional, but then...Josh tries not to sigh audibly. They are, after all, at the point where she's walking him home, and then maybe upstairs, knowing her—just to be sure he doesn't fall down and break himself, which is a real possibility, and what did he ever used to do back before she breezed into his office and started answering his phone and sorting out his life?
"You're nice, Donna," Josh says, flopping his head against her shoulder. He wants her to understand. "You're nice, and I appreciate you."
"Thank you, Josh. That was sweet."
"Really. I appreciate you and your...your hair."
"My hair?"
"It's nice, too. Pretty. Smells good."
Donna blinks down at him, and Josh realizes by the way she's flushing that maybe he shouldn't be saying any of this.
"Sorry!" he says again. Everything Toby rambled on about earlier is sloshing around in his stomach, soaked in tequila and anxiety. None of it's true, Josh reminds himself. What Toby had said. What does Toby know? He's drunk, too.
"What did Toby say?" Donna asks, her arm around Josh's shoulders. If he had better control of his fine motor skills, Josh would squirm away from her. Whenever she's touching him, it's hard to talk.
"What'd you say?" he asks, and he's definitely slurring now.
"You said none of what Toby said was true," Donna reminds him. "Just now."
"Out loud?"
"How else would you have said it?" She taps at his shoulder impatiently. "Now, what about Toby?"
"Nothin'," Josh says. "He was...it was dumb."
"What was it?" Donna asks. Josh tilts his head to look at her, and he almost says it. It's right there, waiting—Toby thinks I'm in love with you, and he says everyone else does, too—but she's so...so Donna, and she's seemed happy tonight, and this feels like it would make everything less happy. Besides, she might leave if he says it, might get up off the curb and be embarrassed and tongue-tied. What if she felt too awkward to keep working with him? What if she got up and took her methodical lists and her effortless wit and her pretty hair and her sunshine smile away? Sunshine smile. The hell? Josh begins to feel his IQ dropping, adjective by adjective.
"It was about, y'know, complicated," he finally says. Ugh. That's not a sentence."Uh, complicated man stuff."
"Man stuff?" Donna wrinkles her nose. "Okay, maybe I don't want to know."
"Wise of you," Josh agrees. "But anyway, Toby was wrong about all of it. He usually is."
"Almost always," Donna says, nodding her head against his. Her fingertips are sweeping across his shoulder, ghosting along in small, rhythmic circles. This feels easier than it should.
Josh closes his eyes, focuses on the world not spinning out from underneath him. His stomach churns and he can't think; his mind is like a TV set with no signal, all mounting static and noise. It's the tequila and it's Toby and it's Donna, right here beside Josh's drunk ass, telling him she has nowhere else to be. It's the thought of how her skin would feel against his, his hands slipping through that gold hair, his tongue in her mouth and it's wrong. It's all wrong. Josh is wrong.
He throws-up, but not until later. Not until he's told Donna good night and gotten himself upstairs just fine. Not until he's safely ensconced in his bathroom, stripped down to just his boxers, kneeling in front of the toilet and wondering why the fuck he ever thought drinking with Toby Ziegler was going to end any other way. And Toby can't be right, but Josh finds himself missing Donna's hand on his shoulder, missing the way she'd worried after him, missing—well—her. Just her, all banter and fussing over him aside.
He ends up sprawled across the bathroom floor wrapped in a towel instead of in his bed, just in case his body decides on mutiny again. He can't concentrate and the ceiling's swirling above him and the floor's so cold and the night's so long and God damn him: he misses Donna.
But Toby's wrong. And Josh is going to get it together. And this won't keep happening. He repeats this to himself like he's memorizing Hebrew for his bar mitzvah again, until the words are humming through his brain. Josh believes it all, too, right before sleep comes crashing down over him.
Almost, that is.
3.
When you work with someone every day—and sometimes it is really every day; sometimes it's Sunday afternoons, early Christmas morning, 2:15 AM on a Monday in June, not to mention everything and anything in between—you have to trust them. It doesn't matter if you like them, it doesn't matter if they shred your nerves. Doesn't matter if you've known them two weeks or ten years. If you trust you can tell them to do something and that it will be done, if you can ask their advice and not wonder if they mean it, if you can find yourself laughing with them at the end of an unbearable day...that's it. You'll be fine.
Josh used to hate Toby. The feeling, of course, had been mutual. In the early days, back on the campaign trail, Josh had overheard Toby complaining to C.J.: "Who is this Lyman kid, anyway?" Like Josh was twenty-fucking-years old or something. Like he hadn't breezed his way through Harvard and Yale and the bar; like he hadn't been working the Hill and cutting deals and bullying politicians since he actually was a kid. Josh had shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the other side of the doorway, jaw set, while Toby sniped that Josh was a used car salesman, a wheeler-dealer, that he looked and acted like a hotheaded teenager. C.J., to her credit, hadn't agreed. She didn't really know Josh yet, either, but she'd liked him right away, which didn't always happen with women (or anyone, really). When Toby had finally shut up, C.J. reminded him that Josh was beyond qualified—a supposed wunderkind, even—and that Leo had hand-picked him.
"Besides, Toby," she'd said, "you don't have such a winning personality yourself." Toby had scoffed and grumbled about that not being the point, but he'd let it go. Josh had slipped away back to his motel room before either of them noticed he was there.
It's hard to say now what changed. Of course, Josh's friendship with Toby isn't exactly easy, but somewhere between getting Josiah Bartlet into the Oval Office and then fighting non-stop to keep him there, they had figured out how to trust each other. Maybe it was all the late nights right before the first election, how they had to sit civilly together and hash out policy until dawn. Maybe it was the time Toby unexpectedly backed Josh in a tense meeting with then-Governor Bartlet (Toby had cut Bartlet off in the middle of bellowing at Josh about ad space in New Hampshire, had put a hand on Bartlet's arm and said, "You know, Governor, Josh has a point."). Maybe it was that Toby actually had a sense of humor, buried under all that misanthropy. Maybe it was that Josh could get most people to take a shine to him eventually, if they could get past the layers of ego and his knack for shooting off his mouth. The point is: here they are now, several years down the road. They like each other most of the time. They trust each other always.
It was never that hard with Sam, obviously, or C.J., for that matter. There's never been any question with Leo.
But then: there's Donna.
ooo
"You're my assistant!" Josh shouts, leaning over his desk.
"So what?" Donna shouts back. Her voice is shriller than usual, her hair falling down out of a messy ponytail. Josh shoves past her, slams the door so hard it shakes.
"So, you know...assist me!" He's being too loud. He clenches his fists, flexes his fingers, takes a breath.
"I have told you a hundred thousand million times not to shout at me, Josh!" Now Donna's arms are crossed tightly across her chest. The color's rising in her cheeks and her eyes are red-rimmed, but Josh refuses to feel guilty. "I have also told you where the NEA budget report is. I have told you on three separate occasions—today alone—that it is in the green folder in your top desk drawer." Oh.
Well, if she hadn't taken the snippy tone with him when he asked...if she'd just said that...
"This system doesn't work for me," Josh says, lowering his voice. "I want you to hang on to these things until I ask for them from now on, or else we'll keep ending up, uh, here."
"This isn't my fault, and you know it," Donna snaps. "But I'm just your assistant, so I guess it's fine to humiliate me for no reason in front of everyone I work with."
"Humiliate you?" Josh's voice pitches up a half-step. "Donna, I didn't—"
"Everyone out there can hear you," she says, staring intently down at the floor. "They can hear how you speak to me, and I'll tell you something else, Josh. They feel sorry for me."
It's like a physical blow.
"What?" he says, because there's honestly nothing else to say.
"I'm not incompetent. I'm not a child. And I'm not your g—" Donna stops herself. "What I'm trying to say is, you can't just scream at me like that. Not for real. Not for no reason." Before Josh can say anything else, she's slipping out of his office, shutting the door behind her with a gentle click. He takes a shaky breath. All the air has been sucked out of the room along with Donna.
Josh moves back to his disaster zone of a desk, flops down in the chair, runs a hand over his face. There's the NEA report in the top drawer. Green folder. Donna's messy scrawl on a sticky note right on top: Told you.
Shit.
He finds her at her desk, sorting through two neat piles of memos. Her hair's fixed, now, and her eyes aren't red.
"Donna," he says. She doesn't look up. "Donna? Would you...please come back to my office for a second?"
"Why?" She slams one stack of paper down, never so much as turning in his direction.
"There's a...there's a thing." Josh shifts uncomfortably. "Just come back here, please? Okay?"
"Okay," Donna says, "but you have a meeting with Congressman Dwyer in fifteen minutes. And you've already missed the NEA briefing."
"I'll reschedule the NEA," Josh says. "I'll see them tonight instead."
"Do you want me to call now?"
"No. Come on."
This time, Josh closes the door softly, then goes to lean against his desk. He promises himself he isn't going to raise his voice.
Donna still won't really look at him, is fighting to appear composed and coldly disinterested in Josh Lyman and whatever it is he wants. Josh can picture it: Donna combing her hair smoothly back into place, dabbing at her eyes, steeling herself against him. Maybe she'll go home tonight and pull out the want ads. Call her mom and ask if she can come home, just until she figures out what to do next. Maybe tomorrow, there will be another Post-It on another file, only he won't have her to tell him where to look. Josh can almost read the note now. I quit.
"Donna." He tries her name again. Sometimes, if he uses just the right inflection, she'll soften. If she would just stop frowning down at the ground, if she would just look him in the eye, she'd know what Josh was trying to say. She wouldn't need to hear it.
But she won't look, and Josh isn't good at this—at apologizing, at feelings, at convincing women not to leave him. She will leave him, too; he's sure of that. Maybe not tomorrow, or the next day, or even the next, but yes, yes, she'll go, as certainly as Josh will try to stop her. She's already outgrown him. If he were a better boss (a better man), he would have kicked her out the door himself a long time ago, flatly told her she was better than pushing his papers and tying his ties and refusing to bring him coffee and neatly honing his chaos into order, into usefulness, into greatness.
Josh was many things before Donna. Yeah, he'd been smart; yeah, he'd known his shit; yeah, he could get almost anything done. That was how Leo had initially sold Josh to the President: "Josh Lyman gets it done when nobody else can, sir." Josh would sink his teeth into something and refuse to let go, would work himself and everyone around him ragged, would snap, would shout himself hoarse, would pace and pace and nearly climb out of his skin until the problem was solved. Until he'd gotten it right. Until he could deliver. He would lose weight and notes and sanity, would stumble through presentations, show up at meetings in the nick of time. He would skate by on luck and charm and the grace of his Ivy League education, flashing his dimples so nobody would guess he was floundering. He tried to prove that he could keep getting it done, single-handedly, so he would be indispensable, invaluable—so the Governor and Leo would never let him go. He kept taking on projects he knew he couldn't juggle. He wouldn't delegate. He wouldn't trust anyone.
Donna had not given him the option of trusting her. She hadn't earned it. Josh had not looked up one day and realized he could not do without her. Just like the way she'd basically hired herself, Donna has worked her way into his life, under his skin, without Josh noticing or minding or wanting her to stop. She doesn't force him to eat, but there's always food waiting. He wants a bottle of water: there it is. Where are his notes? Donna has them. When's that meeting? Donna will know. He doesn't have to focus on keeping his head above water anymore—she does that for him. And God, she's smart, she knows everything, can rattle off trivia and poetry and (mostly) translate three languages, has absorbed more about politics in a handful of years than Josh had known when he graduated from Harvard. It's why he gives her more work than any assistant should have. It's why he keeps her late, why he tries to keep her busy and challenged, why he wants to teach her everything he legally can. She's not just good. She's the best kept secret in the West Wing.
If Josh were a better man, he would tell Donna all of this. He would swallow around the hard lump in his throat and admit that he's not one hundred percent sure he'd still have this job without her. He would humble himself before her.
Instead, Josh reaches out a hand before he can stop himself, grips her upper arm, and chokes out, "Donna." She looks up finally, wide-eyed. Reflexively, he squeezes her arm, runs a thumb along the seam of her sensible cardigan. Josh doesn't want to care about the way her face shifts, almost imperceptibly. "You were right. I'm an idiot."
"This isn't news, Josh." She's being careful now. "This isn't the first time."
"I know. I'm just…look, I'm sorry, okay?" He reluctantly lets go of her arm. "I'll make it up to you."
"You can make it up to me by using the intercom," she mutters. Josh snorts.
"I've told you, Donnatella. I prefer the drama of the unfiltered human experience. Electronic barriers are for chumps."
"Well, I prefer not to be shouted at!" Donna's starting to thaw. Josh can practically feel the temperature in the room rising. "Fine, then. If you're not going to use the intercom, you can make it up to me by letting me humiliate you in front of the President."
"The President?" Josh throws up his hands. "All I did was berate you a little in front of the underlings. You want to drag me over the coals while the leader of the free world watches?"
"Yes," Donna says, hands on her hips. "He'd likely cheer me on. Oh, and another thing, Josh. The underlings and I are unsatisfied. We want raises. We want them yesterday."
"How 'bout I buy you lunch instead?" Josh is already halfway to the door. "We can talk about all the ways you'll kick my ass in front of the President. Then, when we're through, you can tell everyone out there that you almost talked me into the raises I don't have the power to give them."
"And why will I tell them they're still broke?" Donna wants to know. She hasn't stopped looking at him yet; he can see her pretending not to smile. It warms Josh all the way through.
"Definitely tell them how lacking in power I am," Josh says, nodding sadly. "Tell them I'm just muddling through and you're pulling the strings. Tell them you'll trick me into it eventually." Donna's smile emerges in full force, familiar and vibrant and enough to make Josh wish, for a split second, that he could be somebody else. Some guy in some bar, offering to buy her a drink. Some guy on the metro, holding the door for her. Some guy who could...
No. Not this. Not right now.
"It's not much," Donna says, "but I'll take it." She marches past him out of his office, and Josh follows, just a pace behind her. He skips the meeting with Dwyer and buys Donnatella Moss the best sandwich in the mess, plus a brownie. Josh listens to her complain about the book she's halfway through and worry about this stupid guy she's seeing and laugh about something Margaret said earlier. He doesn't check his pager for 45 minutes. When they go back to work, Donna's still smiling, and Josh is, too. It doesn't matter that he's unbelievably behind, or that he'll have to grovel to smooth things over with the Congressman. He feels light.
And hours later, when C.J. and Sam stop by to fill him in on the NEA briefing, Josh shouts: "DONNA! Where's the NEA report?" He lets her take him to town in front of C.J. and Sam, lets her slap the report in front of him and call him utterly useless and worse than a small, needy child and unfit to run a village post office, much less the country (whatever that means). Instead of arguing, Josh just nods and focuses on turning red, stares at his hands until she slams the door of his office behind her. Sam whistles, low and nervous.
"Don't ever screw up like that again, Josh," he says. "Also, please remind me to do whatever it takes to stay in Donna's good graces."
"Wow," C.J. says, and Josh hopes Donna's listening at the door. "She's really something, Joshua."
"I know," he agrees, biting back the stupid grin that's threatening to spread across his face and give him away. If Josh were a better man, maybe he'd let it. "Isn't she?"
4.
It's Leo on the phone again.
"Still nothing," Josh says instead of hello. His connecting flight doesn't board for ten more minutes, but it might as well be ten hours. He can hear his heart pounding dully in his ears. It reminds him of just after Rosslyn, waking up in the hospital surrounded by machines and people and grief. Josh had been able to see someone trying to talk to him, had heard the faint buzz of their voice, but for those first few blurry moments of consciousness, his heartbeat had washed everything else out. Back then, it had sounded like this: Thump. Thump. I'm alive? Thump. Thump. I'm. Alive.
Now, it sounded more like this: Thumpthumpthumpthump. Donna. Thumpthumpthumpthump. Donna Donna Donna.
"Josh? Are you there?" Leo's voice finally cuts through. "Josh?"
"Sorry," Josh manages. "Just...you know."
"Yeah," Leo says. "Well, just keep us posted. We're all pulling for her. Let me know when you get to Germany, and if I somehow hear anything before you land..."
"Please call," Josh says. "Put a message through to the cockpit if you have to. I don't care."
A brief moment of silence, punctuated by Josh's heartbeat. He checks his watch. How can there still be six more minutes?
"Okay, kid," Leo says. "I'll let you go, then."
"Okay," Josh says. "Thanks, Leo."
"Uh, Josh—I..." Leo sighs. "Never mind. Safe flight."
"No, what's up?" Josh asks, eyes still glued to his watch. Five more minutes.
"It's just...hold on a second." Josh can hear Leo shifting the phone around. "Okay, I don't like saying this. I wish I didn't have to say this. I don't want to be your boss right now." Josh's mouth goes dry. Fuck.
"Then don't say it, Leo. Please." Four more minutes.
"I want you to remember that you are the White House Deputy Chief of Staff," Leo says quietly. Josh imagines he's cupping the phone's mouthpiece with one hand, hoping Margaret won't overhear. "I want you to remember that Donna is your assistant. I want you to be very careful about this, and I want you to think about how this trip will look to anyone who doesn't know you."
"How it will look?" Josh demands. His heart is racing even faster now. "Leo, I'm the one who...I have to go. You know I have to go."
"I do."
"You told me everyone would understand."
"That's right, Josh. We understand."
"I'm not sure you do!" Josh has been digging his nails into his palm without realizing it, and now he can't seem to stop. His knuckles are turning white. Thumpthumpthump, goes his heart. DonnaDonnaDonna. "It's Donna. I have to be there."
"I would never try to stop you," Leo says, his voice unexpectedly gentle. "I'm going to let this go for now, but I want you to think about something while you're on the plane."
"Think about what?" One more minute.
"You don't drop a grand on an international flight to get to your assistant at a moment's notice," Leo says. "Not even for someone as good as she is. Not even if you (stupidly, might I add) think this is somehow your fault."
"Leo," Josh croaks. His heart is getting louder, louder, the thrum of it rushing through his skull. He can't seem to catch his breath.
"You just don't do this." Leo's voice is impossibly weary. "Not unless—"
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!" chirps the gate agent. "We're about to begin the boarding process."
"I have to go." Josh hangs up without waiting, jumps to his feet.
Thumpthumpthumpthump. Donna.
ooo
Much later, after the unbearable flight and waiting for Donna to wake up the first time and suffering through her new Irish boyfriend's smug face and silently praying his way through the surgery (not to mention navigating the bizarre covert ops mission Kate Harper had sent him on), Josh sits beside Donna's bed and tries to sleep. Well, close his eyes, really—just until the others are back. Good old Whatshisface had persuaded Mrs. Moss to let him take her to get something to eat in the hospital cafeteria, which even Josh had to concede wasn't an entirely stupid idea. It had taken reassurances from three doctors and one very patient nurse to convince Mrs. Moss that Donna would likely be unconscious for several hours yet, and that this was the best opportunity for a real meal before...well, before they would know anything, brain damage-wise.
"And if she does wake up," Josh had said, "I'll have someone find you right away. I'll make sure Donna knows you're here." Mrs. Moss had only been in Germany for seven and a half hours, but she had clearly been awake for several days; she'd been pale, shaky, unable to concentrate for longer than a few minutes. She'd asked questions over and over (like the answers would never sink in), waved off coffee, snacks, fresh clothes. She had refused to go to the hotel room Josh had booked for her, even to drop off her bag. If she hadn't eaten or stopped to catch her breath since Josh had called right after the accident, he wouldn't have been surprised. Josh grimaces now, thinking about Donna's mother's face. When he'd brought her into the room for the first time, she had just stared at Donna from the doorway, one hand on her mouth, the other clutching Josh's arm. He'd leaned into her grip, wouldn't let her fall, wouldn't let her even sway. It had been a solid five minutes before he could get her to a chair.
"I didn't think it would be like this," Mrs. Moss had kept repeating in a very small voice. "God help me, I didn't think it would be like this."
Josh clenches his teeth, shakes himself a bit. This isn't helping, this obsessive play-by-play. It doesn't fix Donna. It doesn't fix a goddamn thing. He flips on the TV because anything has to be better than sitting here, listening to all the machines beep in time with Donna's ragged breathing. Anything has to be better than reliving the way she'd stared up at him from the operating table, that raw fear in her eyes, her hands trembling, holding up the notepad: Scared. Anything has to be better than wondering if Donna will even know who her mother is, who Josh is, who she is, when she wakes up. If she wakes up.
I can't do this without her. Josh has thought it before, too many times to count, but it's different now. This isn't work. This is everything.
He should have said it, in the OR. He should have made sure she knew that she was more.
Two separate men have now told him, in a handful of days, that you don't just fly to Germany for your assistant—the implication being, of course, that Josh's feelings (whatever they are) are both more transparent and more complicated than he wants to admit. Stupid Whatshisface had looked so pleased with himself, too. What had he said again? Tragically unconsummated love, kept at arm's length by puritanical American workplace ethics. Josh swallows, stares blankly at the TV.
She's always been more.
Does Donna think like this about Josh, too? Had she felt this helpless after Rosslyn? He knows, vaguely, that she had worried, especially after one of his bad nights, but had she been this...lost? Josh doesn't think so. She'd seemed so capable to him back then, so put together. Josh can't imagine her falling apart beside his hospital bed. He had never asked everyone how she'd taken it, him getting shot, because Donna had just been herself. All business, at the ready with a thousand lists, a chart for his meds, half of her things in his apartment so she wouldn't have to leave him alone, a plan to help him work from home, a set of rules to keep the rest of them from asking too much of him, a schedule that stopped him from losing his mind (mostly) on the days he thought he'd never be able to dress himself again, let alone advise the President. Donna hadn't been scared. She had just shown up for work like always: determined, ready to help Josh however he needed. Ready to get it done.
Josh finds himself looking at her, even though he's been trying not to. Mostly, it's because she'd hate it. Donna doesn't like to be gawked at when she's conscious, and definitely not when she's banged up and half-dead in a hospital bed. It's also maybe because seeing her like this makes Josh feel like he's going to drown, like his lungs are filling and he's sinking to the bottom, like the fear will never stop and the air will never come.
Donna's face is unchanged, slack and drained of all color. He immediately turns back to the TV. Tries to stop peeling his cuticles bloody. Wonders if this is the last way he'll ever see her, if he'll trudge through the rest of his life with the lack of her burned into his heart. His heart.
It's catching up to him again, that desperate pounding. It's crescendoing over everything else, until the beeping and the sound of his own breath and the news and the nurses laughing in the hallway are gone, and all that's left is thumpthumpthumpthump.
Donna. Donna with a pen twisted in her hair, frowning at him over a cup of coffee. "Tell me again about 149? I don't understand this rider."
Thumpthumpthumpthump. Donna. Donna beaming down at his inscription in the book like she's going to carry those words with her wherever she goes.
ThumpthumpDonna. Donna in a little black dress Josh has been trying not to notice, calling back over one freckled shoulder that he's a slave driver and she's going on her date whether they get the vote or not. Donna in a little red dress that could end wars (or start them), telling him, "This is the guy, Josh." Donna with her hair all curled, standing in the snow, wrapped in Josh's coat, and she's so fucking beautiful that he can't even bring himself to care that she almost made him fire her and they're going to a ball (going to eight of them, actually) and God, her smile.
DonnaDonnaDonna. Donna in his office, taking notes. Donna at her desk, typing. Donna rushing after him with the latest briefing memo. Donna yelling. Donna worrying. Donna learning how to tie bow ties and outsmart Republicans, two things she always reminds Josh she'd never planned on mastering. Donna listening to him explain: laws, earmarks, legislative agendas, polling data, vetoes, floor votes, everything. Donna never forgetting a single detail. Donna staying all night when he told her to go home at seven-thirty. Donna taking care of him after the shooting, staying with him when they both knew she should go. Donna back in his apartment after she took him to get stitched up one awful December night, tucking him into bed, brushing a hand over his forehead, whispering: "We're going to beat this, Josh."
"Josh."
Donna's eyes are open.
"Josh? Josh."
Josh's heart stops.
He's on his feet and leaning over her before he knows what's happening, and she's really awake, really blinking up at him, really seeing him. She's here.
"Hey, you're awake," Josh hears himself say. Everything feels very far away right now. "Your mom is here. Colin took her downstairs for some...I don't know, some schnitzel or something."
"You're still here," Donna whispers, but it's somehow louder, clearer, than anything Josh has ever heard. It drowns out the world.
"Yeah." DonnaDonnaDonna. Donna, after surgery. Donna, who can go on as many dates as she wants and wear as many little dresses as she can steal, who can lecture Josh about the difference between diffusion and osmosis, who can snark at him early in the morning and file files and sing under her breath whenever she's bored and put off doing her dishes and break Josh's heart however she pleases. Donna, alive. Donna. "I'm still here."
5.
This is what he does after Donna quits:
Josh spends about five minutes panicking in his office. He stands with his back flat against the wall, hands fisted in his hair, and runs through his first set of insane strategies to convince her to come back. Promotion? Nope, she'd call him on his bullshit; ask where this had been three weeks ago, three months ago, three years ago. Pleading? It would just make her feel sorry for him. Yelling incoherently until she listens to him? That always turns out so well. Maybe the President would call her and insist that she take her job back—for the good of America, obviously. Genius.
Five minutes are up. Josh shakes his head as hard as he can, because no, this is not a dream, and yes, she's really gone, and yes, this is what he knew would happen, and no, she really isn't going to forgive him, and yes, yes, yes, she really quit with zero notice. He lost her.
Time to stop this, now. Time to stop fucking thinking so fucking much.
Josh isn't thinking when he gets on a plane and talks Matt Santos into a shot at the presidency. He isn't thinking when he drops everything to run the campaign. In fact, he decides to stop thinking all together, to let this thing consume him whole, to eat, sleep, breathe primaries and ad buys and the votes and coaching the candidate and molding him into an ideal, a man the American people will celebrate. Whole weeks of Josh's life flash by, the days bleeding into each other one by one. There's city after city, endless streams of people, endless numbers, endless nights. It makes it easy not to deal with Donna, to let her fade into the whirlwind of anxiety and fatigue that now passes for his life. And he doesn't mind that, either, because this is what he'd dreamed of for so many years, and this is what he wants, and this is what his life should be. Josh Lyman is no good at people, but he's good—he's amazing—at this. When he closes his eyes, he sees record voter turnout. He sees Matt Santos's name on a ballot. He sees the whole damn map lit up blue.
He doesn't see her. He doesn't need to anymore.
Months of campaigning and scraping up support and all the doubt and the close calls, and finally, they do it. They best Russell. They put Leo's name on the ticket. Josh loses ten pounds and probably ten years of his life, but they have the nomination and they're going to win. They have to win.
Donna asks for a job. Josh isn't thinking when he says no, or when he slips—if you think I don't miss you every day—because he doesn't want it to be true. He's just angry: angry that she left, angry that he wants her, angry that she was so good at working for Bingo Bob that it's now impossible for Josh to hire her back. Angry she didn't call months ago. Angry he couldn't bring himself to knock on her hotel room door. Angry, angry, angry, and definitely, absolutely, not goddamn thinking. He isn't thinking about the look on her face long after she leaves, isn't standing in his office at 1 AM wishing he could pick up the phone and tell her that he needs her here and the job is hers, because he doesn't do this anymore. He's getting Matt Santos elected President. That's what he does now.
Josh keeps going, keeps pushing, and he's only getting two or three hours a night, but he'll sleep when his candidate is in the Oval Office. He's not eating much, but there's not time for it anyway. He's screaming a lot more than he used to, but only because nobody seems to hear him if he doesn't. He's firing people, and it isn't bothering him the way it once might have. Nobody on the campaign likes him except the Congressman (who, okay, only likes him occasionally), but what does Josh care? He doesn't need to make any new friends. He needs this. The country needs this.
And then: Lou Thornton hires her. Donna's on TV, holding the campaign's megaphone, blasting Vinick on abortion, and Josh is so furious he has to literally count to ten, has to fucking hit something, because he can't—he can't not think with her around.
He gripes at Lou the first chance he gets; later, he gripes at Donna. Lou's right that Donna is too qualified to be able to cut loose, so Josh has to swallow it and move on. Has to keep moving on. Has to not care how different things are between them, one week, two weeks, three weeks later (she talks to him like he's just her colleague, now).
All at once, they pick up speed. San Andreo happens. The campaign blazes forward, and Josh puts out as many fires as he starts, can no longer remember what feeling rested is like, thinks of his time in the White House as a sort of distant, lovely dream—didn't he used to shave, like, every day? He had clean suits, then, too. He had friends, had structure, had a real office. Had his sanity, most of the time. Had Donna.
Now, the days are long and the nights blink past and the election looms nearer. There isn't time for the things he misses, but Josh gets restless. He's become an expert at not thinking, but every once in awhile (especially in those rare moments in bed), he surrenders for a few moments. He dwells. He wishes. Sometimes, it's just for space, for a minute to breathe; sometimes it's for the President's endless trivia; sometimes it's for C.J.'s affectionate scolding; sometimes it's for the smell of Toby's cigars. Sometimes, it's for Donna's steady voice in his ear. He can usually wrestle it all down and shoulder on through, but one miserably early morning, Josh is lonelier than usual. He's stuck on the latest data out of Ohio, listening to Donna work on spinning the dip in their numbers. She does it perfectly, and when her plan is all laid out and she's waiting for his go-ahead, Josh smiles at her over his breakfast and says he's glad she's here. It's a Wednesday. She's bleary and irritable, but instead of ignoring Josh or biting his head off, she pauses, studies him, cautiously replies: "Me, too."
On a Thursday, Donna laughs at one of his jokes for the first time in what feels like a century. Something uncatches in Josh's chest. They get coffee at midnight on a Saturday. She worries after him a little, asks if he's eating enough, before she remembers to be pissed at him. On a Monday, he apologizes for not hiring her, the words tumbling out all at once in her hotel room, midway through her suggestions for the Congressman's next statement on education. Donna puts her hand on his and says thanks, and Josh wants to curl his fingers up into hers, wants to brush his thumb across her palm, wants to tell her that she was so very right to demand more—but instead, they awkwardly grin at each other, and she quips that he's gotten soft in his old age, and he mutters that he always has this effect on women, and then it's back to the statement, but also, in so many ways, back to normal. And Donna isn't the way she used to be, isn't anticipating his every need, isn't there to yell for because she's too busy wrangling the press, but Josh finds he doesn't even want that. He just wants her to look at him again. He wants her to be his friend, to fall back into that easy banter. He especially wants her to keep kicking ass at her job, because seeing her command everyone's attention the way she's always commanded his...it's weirdly beautiful to watch.
On a Friday, he wakes from one whole uninterrupted hour of sleep to incessant pounding on his door and muffled shouting in the hallway. He stumbles out of bed, throws on yesterday's shirt over his boxers, not entirely sure he isn't sleepwalking. Donna rushes past him into the room, babbling that states-by-states are out, they've pulled ahead, national tracking polls have been released, and they're tied. Tied nationally.
Josh could cry. Josh could kiss her.
So, he does.
He's wanted to kiss her before, more times than he can count on all ten fingers. He's always chalked it up to excitement, the heat of the moment (or tequila). Hell, he usually wants to kiss anyone within arm's reach after a victory; he's laid one on C.J. before, and even once caught Sam on the lips while going for his cheek. When Josh is awake, when he's focusing, he's always stopped himself before aiming for Donna's mouth, reminded himself that he's her boss, that the way he sometimes fantasizes about her isn't okay, that he has to be smarter and stronger and better than his libido.
But not this time. This time, he's got his hands on her face, has pulled her to him in a rush, has his mouth on hers before it occurs to him that this is spectacularly inappropriate. He pulls back, fully intending to pass it off, to apologize—just the exhilaration, totally innocent—but then they're staring at each other, and she's not his assistant anymore; this won't destroy her career. He doesn't have to pretend...
Also: she had been kissing him back.
It's true, Josh realizes, that he hasn't been wanting things the way they used to be. All he's been wanting, maybe since forever, is Donna.
He kisses her again like he's coming up for air, kisses her like he's been trying not to for almost a decade. He kisses her like he can't stop himself, like he has to memorize the taste of her, the shape of her, before she disappears.
The rest—the Congressman bursting in, Josh's lame apology, Donna leaving her room key on the table, Josh not getting to it in time—all flies past, like he's watching a movie of someone else's life. He's been trying not to think for nearly a year now. He's been trying to get his guy into the White House. He's been trying to forget Donna, sure he had lost her for real, for good, only to get her back, and to get her back in a way he had never quite believed could happen. Josh hasn't been thinking, and now he's gone and made-out with Donna Moss while he was basically still asleep (and also basically in his underwear), and she had, impossibly, not seemed to hate it. In fact, Donna seems to know what all of this means, which is more than Josh can say. He's afraid to find out. He's afraid it might break him in half.
He hasn't been thinking. He repeats that to himself so that he doesn't end up at Donna's door and make things worse, repeats it again and again until the night before the election, repeats it through half a glass of $200 scotch as his coworkers couple off and leave him there alone. With her.
He's struggling to breathe evenly, struggling to keep up. Donna's saying no to every question Josh asks, staring at him openly in a way he thinks she usually tries to hide. And then—in the time it takes him to blink—she's sitting next to him, and her legs are a thousand miles long, and he can't stop wanting her, can't stop imagining peeling off her sweater, sliding his hand up under her skirt, and fuck, even though she isn't touching him, isn't even looking at him, Josh can feel every inch of her.
"Do you want another drink?" he asks.
"No," Donna says. He meets her gaze. These days, he usually can't figure out what she expects from him, can never begin to guess what she's thinking. Tonight, though...tonight, she's not screwing around. Tonight, he knows exactly what she wants. Before Josh can think to panic, Donna is up off the sofa and purposefully striding out of the hotel bar. Josh is stupid sometimes, but he's not this stupid. He can't be, not again.
He downs the last of his scotch and wonders how he got here. It's because he hasn't been thinking these past few months, isn't it?
Well. He's sure as hell thinking now.
ooo
They don't talk on the elevator. They don't need to.
Josh stands beside her, close enough that his fingertips brush hers, close enough that he can smell her perfume. They watch the numbers light up together. On the second floor, Donna traces one finger along the side of his hand. On the fourth floor, Josh presses the entire length of his arm against hers. On the sixth floor, Donna is running her thumb along the inside of his wrist.
They get to their floor (seven) and are in the hallway almost as soon as the doors ding open.
"Do you—?" Josh nods in the direction of his room, unable to make himself say the words. He already has his key out, anyway. Donna whips it out of his hand instead of answering, takes one steadying breath, and in less than five seconds, she's tugging him inside. Josh has her by the waist before the door slams shut. He backs her up against the wall, and Donna's arms are around his neck, her fingers in his hair.
He groans when he kisses her this time, mumbles against her mouth: "You're fucking incredible." She laughs, pulls him in closer, and he's got his hands under sweater, slips it over her head; he's kissing her face, her jaw, her shoulder, has his tongue along her collarbone, his teeth against her neck. She gasps, grabs him by the collar, fumbles with his tie and the buttons of his shirt. He's already halfway unzipped her skirt.
"Been wanting to do this since the second I saw you," Josh grinds out. Donna's skirt is off, now, and she's working Josh out of his shirt one arm at a time. "Been wanting you for—"
"Talk later," she says, reaching back to unhook her bra. Josh draws away, just for a moment, just to take her in without the usual guilty lurch in his chest. Every adjective that springs to mind is a cliché, and she's so much more than that. She's beyond his vocabulary.
He kisses her again, hands everywhere, lets her walk him backwards to the bed, lets her strip off his undershirt and undo his belt, and then she's kicking off her shoes and crawling on top of him, and she tastes like scotch and cinnamon, and he thinks the hotel could explode, the Congressman could drop out of the race tomorrow morning, the Republicans could take over the entire world, whatever—Josh wouldn't be able to let go of Donna long enough to care.
He rolls them both so that she's on her back, and then he tends to the business of getting rid of her pantyhose. He rips them instantly. Donna laughs again and wriggles her way out of them; Josh crumples them into a pathetic ball, lobs them across the room.
"Won't be needing those," he says, settling down on top of her and nuzzling against her neck. He mouths his way down to her breasts, her stomach, her panties. "Won't be needing these either." She rolls her hips up and he slides them off for her.
"Come back up here," Donna murmurs, and what can he do but oblige? She tugs meaningfully at his pants, and Josh scrambles out of them without needing to be asked twice. Donna runs her fingers up along his bare chest, his neck, across his face, into his hair. She rests her forehead against his, and then she's reaching down, slipping one hand deftly underneath the waistband of his boxers.
"Mmph." He presses in closer. Could he ever be close enough? "Oh my G—shit. You're gonna kill me."
"What a shame," she says. Josh's boxers are totally off now. "And just when you were about to hit your sexual peak!"
"Well, in that case," Josh says, drawing one of her insanely long legs up over his hip, "I won't go gentle into that good night."
Donna's hands feel so soft, and for the first time in a very long while, Josh is awake. He's not engulfed by the election or strategy or Matt Santos or polls or politics. He isn't trying to control himself. He isn't trying to be anywhere else but here, tangled up in Donna.
"Rage, rage against the dying of the light," Donna whispers, twisting against him. He reaches for her, kisses her until he can't breathe, pulls her on top of him, strokes down her side, her hip, lower, lower, until she moans into his ear: "Josh."
There's not much time for thinking, after that.