Disclaimer: Not for lack of trying, but they still aren't mine.
Author's Notes: Fourth part is here!!! In less than two weeks!!! Well, that has to be some kind of miracle or something. Thanks again for all the nice reviews. I really do read every single one and I appreciate your support immensely! Hope you all like the next chapter.
It's late.
Sitting alone in my office, I can hear a vacuum cleaner whirring somewhere down the hall and I know without looking that most of my staff has gone home for the night. I should be getting ready to do the same. Should be, but I'm not. Instead, I have been sitting at my desk for the better part of an hour staring blankly at my computer screen and trying not to think.
Someone knocks on the door, snapping me out of my stupor. Because it's bordering on midnight and because I know that I'm one of very few people still left in the building, I should be surprised, but I'm not.
"Donna, why the Hell haven't you gone home?" I say, sounding more irritated than I actually mean to.
My assistant raises one eyebrow incredulously and leans on the door jam, "Yes, because you're one to talk." She says. When I don't respond she shrugs, "I had stuff to finish up,"
"What stuff?" I ask, "We finished everything over an hour ago."
"Margaret took the day off to visit her sister and Leo asked me to pull some files for tomorrow morning." Donna says, taking a few steps into the room, "But yes, since you mention it, you and I have been done since ten thirty. Which leads me to wonder why you're still here."
She has me there. I begin to make a rebuttal but think better of it. Donna knows perfectly well that I have absolutely nothing to do, no pressing matters to attend to and if I try to make something up she'll see through me like I was made of water vapour. Better to just shrug noncommittally and shut up.
Donna crosses her arms and looks me over. Her eyes come to rest on the cluttered mess that covers the surface of my desk and she chews her lower lip a moment before absently beginning to tidy things up. The salad she brought me at lunch is sitting untouched on top of a pile of folders and discarded paper. Picking up the plastic container, she waves it in my direction, "When did you eat last?"
"Donna, look, could we not..."
"Josh, I mean it." She says dropping the salad into the garbage bin with more force than is strictly necessary, "When did you eat last?"
I make low noise of annoyance in the back of my throat, "I had a bagel."
The eyebrows shoot up skeptically, "When? Three days ago?"
"Donna..."
"Josh." Donna does not look at me with that air of maddening pity that the rest of the White House staffers seem to have unanimously adopted. She is, in fact giving me a glare that would freeze brimstone. I say nothing. "Fine." She says, "forget it."
It's hard to meet her eyes when she's looking at me like that, but I have to give her credit for not acting as though I'm made of glass. "Go home will you?" I say finally.
Donna sighs, "You coming?"
"In a minute."
"I'll wait." Donna says resting her right hip on the top of the desk and re-folding her arms.
I roll my eyes in aggravation, "No, Donna, no, just go home okay? I'll leave when I'm ready to leave. Would you please, for the love of God, please, stop badgering me?"
Donna recoils a little at my tone and her stony visage cracks for a moment letting in an emotion that I can't quite place. "Sorry." She says softly. "I'm sorry. I'll go. See you tomorrow." She makes it to the door before turning around, "Josh..." she says, in an entirely different tone than she was using five minutes ago.
"What?" I snap.
She blinks at me and swallows visibly, "Never mind. Don't stay too late, kay?" With that she's gone shutting the door quietly behind her.
I stare at the closed door for a minute or two before deciding that I am a flaming idiot. Of all the people in the world, the absolute last one I should be getting pissed with is Donna. Donna, who has been the single most dependable aspect of my life through all this, Donna who spent four days helping me call funeral guests, ordering flowers, making arrangements for the place and time, Donna, without whom I would not have survived this week. I make a mental note to apologize to her tomorrow.
I sink as far down in my seat as I can go without falling to the floor and grind the heels of both hands into my eyes. I have to go home. I have to go home or Donna will kill me or I'll collapse and die from exhaustion and then Donna will kill me again.
I have to but I can't.
My apartment looks exactly the way it did last week, when I was still expecting my mother to show up at my door. Still spotless, everything in perfect, unnatural order. The spare bed is still set up, the fridge is still stocked with relatively healthy food, the Goddamn pink mug is still waiting patiently by Goddamn the coffee maker. I can't bring myself to put it away. I guess a part of me still believes Mom might appear at my door, that I might wake up tomorrow and discover that this was all a horrible dream and my mother is really here, safe in my apartment, puttering around my kitchen and yelling at me because my milk's gone sour and I don't have another carton.
I want to be able to forget. Instead, everything around me is another painful reminder, a slap in the face and a taunting voice whispering "you're alone Josh, you've got nothing and no one left. Nothing and No one."
At work it's easier to pretend, easier to cope, easier to forget. So I stay as long as I can. Two days ago, I was home for a total of three hours – long enough to change my clothes and have a shower. Last night, I didn't go home at all. I had a spare shirt and tie hanging in my office to be used incase of emergency, so no one had any idea.
It sounds ridiculous, but I sleep better here. You can't quite call lying with your head on your desk sleeping, more of a doze really, so I don't dream. I'm not asleep enough to dream. That works for me. At home, I dream. At home I close my eyes and there are flames, and screams, and sometimes the crunch of metal on pavement and something the frantic beeping of a fire alarm and sometimes the wail of sirens and I don't know which of my women I'm watching die tonight but I'm powerless to stop it.
So I don't go home.
I get up from my chair and stretch my arms above my head, feeling my vertebrae pop. I'll go tonight. I'll go because I told Donna I would and it's getting harder to lie to her. I'll shower, change, have a bagel and cream cheese and maybe even have a nap on the couch. Maybe.
I stalk the length of the office to where my coat is hanging up behind the door. I start to put it on and stop, one arm in and one out. I look around my office, eyes coming to rest on the cluttered desk that Donna has half-heartedly begun to arrange. I should organize it for her. I'll do that now and then I'll go home. I really, really will.
Just not yet.
Author's Notes: Fourth part is here!!! In less than two weeks!!! Well, that has to be some kind of miracle or something. Thanks again for all the nice reviews. I really do read every single one and I appreciate your support immensely! Hope you all like the next chapter.
It's late.
Sitting alone in my office, I can hear a vacuum cleaner whirring somewhere down the hall and I know without looking that most of my staff has gone home for the night. I should be getting ready to do the same. Should be, but I'm not. Instead, I have been sitting at my desk for the better part of an hour staring blankly at my computer screen and trying not to think.
Someone knocks on the door, snapping me out of my stupor. Because it's bordering on midnight and because I know that I'm one of very few people still left in the building, I should be surprised, but I'm not.
"Donna, why the Hell haven't you gone home?" I say, sounding more irritated than I actually mean to.
My assistant raises one eyebrow incredulously and leans on the door jam, "Yes, because you're one to talk." She says. When I don't respond she shrugs, "I had stuff to finish up,"
"What stuff?" I ask, "We finished everything over an hour ago."
"Margaret took the day off to visit her sister and Leo asked me to pull some files for tomorrow morning." Donna says, taking a few steps into the room, "But yes, since you mention it, you and I have been done since ten thirty. Which leads me to wonder why you're still here."
She has me there. I begin to make a rebuttal but think better of it. Donna knows perfectly well that I have absolutely nothing to do, no pressing matters to attend to and if I try to make something up she'll see through me like I was made of water vapour. Better to just shrug noncommittally and shut up.
Donna crosses her arms and looks me over. Her eyes come to rest on the cluttered mess that covers the surface of my desk and she chews her lower lip a moment before absently beginning to tidy things up. The salad she brought me at lunch is sitting untouched on top of a pile of folders and discarded paper. Picking up the plastic container, she waves it in my direction, "When did you eat last?"
"Donna, look, could we not..."
"Josh, I mean it." She says dropping the salad into the garbage bin with more force than is strictly necessary, "When did you eat last?"
I make low noise of annoyance in the back of my throat, "I had a bagel."
The eyebrows shoot up skeptically, "When? Three days ago?"
"Donna..."
"Josh." Donna does not look at me with that air of maddening pity that the rest of the White House staffers seem to have unanimously adopted. She is, in fact giving me a glare that would freeze brimstone. I say nothing. "Fine." She says, "forget it."
It's hard to meet her eyes when she's looking at me like that, but I have to give her credit for not acting as though I'm made of glass. "Go home will you?" I say finally.
Donna sighs, "You coming?"
"In a minute."
"I'll wait." Donna says resting her right hip on the top of the desk and re-folding her arms.
I roll my eyes in aggravation, "No, Donna, no, just go home okay? I'll leave when I'm ready to leave. Would you please, for the love of God, please, stop badgering me?"
Donna recoils a little at my tone and her stony visage cracks for a moment letting in an emotion that I can't quite place. "Sorry." She says softly. "I'm sorry. I'll go. See you tomorrow." She makes it to the door before turning around, "Josh..." she says, in an entirely different tone than she was using five minutes ago.
"What?" I snap.
She blinks at me and swallows visibly, "Never mind. Don't stay too late, kay?" With that she's gone shutting the door quietly behind her.
I stare at the closed door for a minute or two before deciding that I am a flaming idiot. Of all the people in the world, the absolute last one I should be getting pissed with is Donna. Donna, who has been the single most dependable aspect of my life through all this, Donna who spent four days helping me call funeral guests, ordering flowers, making arrangements for the place and time, Donna, without whom I would not have survived this week. I make a mental note to apologize to her tomorrow.
I sink as far down in my seat as I can go without falling to the floor and grind the heels of both hands into my eyes. I have to go home. I have to go home or Donna will kill me or I'll collapse and die from exhaustion and then Donna will kill me again.
I have to but I can't.
My apartment looks exactly the way it did last week, when I was still expecting my mother to show up at my door. Still spotless, everything in perfect, unnatural order. The spare bed is still set up, the fridge is still stocked with relatively healthy food, the Goddamn pink mug is still waiting patiently by Goddamn the coffee maker. I can't bring myself to put it away. I guess a part of me still believes Mom might appear at my door, that I might wake up tomorrow and discover that this was all a horrible dream and my mother is really here, safe in my apartment, puttering around my kitchen and yelling at me because my milk's gone sour and I don't have another carton.
I want to be able to forget. Instead, everything around me is another painful reminder, a slap in the face and a taunting voice whispering "you're alone Josh, you've got nothing and no one left. Nothing and No one."
At work it's easier to pretend, easier to cope, easier to forget. So I stay as long as I can. Two days ago, I was home for a total of three hours – long enough to change my clothes and have a shower. Last night, I didn't go home at all. I had a spare shirt and tie hanging in my office to be used incase of emergency, so no one had any idea.
It sounds ridiculous, but I sleep better here. You can't quite call lying with your head on your desk sleeping, more of a doze really, so I don't dream. I'm not asleep enough to dream. That works for me. At home, I dream. At home I close my eyes and there are flames, and screams, and sometimes the crunch of metal on pavement and something the frantic beeping of a fire alarm and sometimes the wail of sirens and I don't know which of my women I'm watching die tonight but I'm powerless to stop it.
So I don't go home.
I get up from my chair and stretch my arms above my head, feeling my vertebrae pop. I'll go tonight. I'll go because I told Donna I would and it's getting harder to lie to her. I'll shower, change, have a bagel and cream cheese and maybe even have a nap on the couch. Maybe.
I stalk the length of the office to where my coat is hanging up behind the door. I start to put it on and stop, one arm in and one out. I look around my office, eyes coming to rest on the cluttered desk that Donna has half-heartedly begun to arrange. I should organize it for her. I'll do that now and then I'll go home. I really, really will.
Just not yet.