A/N: West Wing doesn't belong to me. This pretty much came out of a challenge that Leslie gave me. Props to her for betaing it, and the Red Sox comment is in there for her. With that being said, read, enjoy. Review.

Joshua Lyman had never been a religious man, but he did attend services and ceremonies. These were more out of a perfunctory respect to his family than the act of following his own beliefs. However, he wanted to know the exact acts he had committed against God to make Him hate him so much. There was nothing like having your heart ripped out of your chest, precariously placed back, and having it smashed to pieces again. It had started with his idea of a celebratory gesture. He wanted to take Leo out to a respectable lounge area. Someplace where they could order a nice cup of coffee and watch the Red Sox. It had turned out to be a horrific display of dramatic irony.

She had been sitting at a table, enjoying a drink with Will. It had been an exploratory gesture on her part. He had wanted to explore the depths of their relationship, wanted to see if it was possible for them to indulge in a romantic relationship. She had gone along, more starved for companionship than actual belief in the eventual "them." She had needed a nice, cold drink. Vodka, maybe. Or something stronger. She had needed that fallacy to push her up to her feet again. To propel her from despair.

At first, she had been reluctant. He had goaded her. "Come on, Donna. Our guy is up for the Republicans." She had smiled a thin smile, and shook her head, unrelenting. "It's just a drink. It doesn't have to be a date if you don't want it to be. It can just be a nice celebration between friends." He had smiled, and she had returned it, finally agreeing. She would never have agreed if any of the fates had told her who else was going to be there.

She had ordered a beer, the beverage muting her body's cry for stronger nepenthes. She needed it. But she was demure, and polite, and told her body what to do. And not the other way around. Will followed suit, and they sat, coddling their bottles between their hands. Feeling brave, Will leaned in and gave her a soft kiss. She accepted it, but did nothing to convey her emotions. His lips only drew more attention to him. She knew she couldn't think about him anymore. It wasn't right. Yet, her brain couldn't help but wander. What would his lips feel against hers? Would they be gentle and tender? Or would they be rough, abrasive, and demanding?

When she opened her eyes, and looked up again, she saw him. A gasp involuntarily escaped. Her gaze filtered back down to the table, to her beer, to her hands. She had a funny feeling that Will knew. "It's him, isn't it?" It was amazing how after all their closeness, their camaraderie, she couldn't even refer to him by his name anymore. He had just become a pronoun now. She nodded.

Josh ordered a coffee, black, and immediately sipped at it upon its arrival. Leo looked at him strangely, as if expecting him to yelp with pain. He didn't. He embraced the feeling of his singed taste buds. He needed that feeling, needed to know that he was alive, that he was awake, that he was conscious. She was there, like a fallen angel, sitting across from him. There they were, former White House senior staffers, positioned at two different tables, all eyeing each other with awkwardness. His brain told him that logically the awkwardness shouldn't exist. Logically, they were too familiar with each other to have that. His heart told him that the awkwardness was his damn fault. There were too many chances, too many opportunities that he could have seized, but instead, let go. He took her for granted, and she had left, and all because he had been too fucking cowardly to tell her how he felt about her. If it wasn't love, it was pretty damn close.

He took another sip of the scalding liquid, and embraced the scream his laryngeal cords almost released. Leo looked at him with…an emotion. He couldn't detect it. Was it sympathy? Pity? He couldn't tell. And honestly, he really didn't care anymore. The older man seemed to have a sense of telepathy. He took a sip of his own tepid coffee, and remarked, as casually as he could manage, "Donna?" Josh could only shake his head. "You know, Josh, the election isn't everything. You can talk to her."

Josh quickly downed the rest of his coffee, and indulged in a wince. Leo slowly drank the remainder of his coffee. Josh stood, and quickly fished out the amount needed, and threw it on the table casually. "You ready to go, Leo?" So much for a celebration. Josh quickly tried to repair the situation. "We can always just have…pie…or something at my apartment and watch sports movies."

"When the hell do you have time to buy pie?"

"Uh…now?"

Leo shook his head. "As much as I would love to sit around the apartment you're never in and watch Caddyshack with you, eating store-bought pie, I really should get home." Josh released a breath, and nodded slowly. "Josh, talking to her isn't going to kill you." It just might. With that, Leo gave him a tip of the head as an acknowledged greeting, and headed out.

He observed them for a while. And as they stood, he began to walk slowly. His hand brushed hers for the slightest of a moment as he jostled her, and his breath hitched in his throat. Her purse fell to the floor. He picked it up, and handed it to her. She smiled, a rarity due to recent happenings, and took it. He tried to ignore how his pulse quickened when her fingers caressed his hand.

And suddenly, he doesn't know how he got here, or why, but he doesn't care. They're outside her apartment, she pressed against the wall, and he pressed against her. He didn't think he was going to need her so much. His kisses, bruising and rough and demanding, are more like ways to convince himself that she's there, that she exists, that this isn't a figment of his imagination.

They clumsily stumble into her apartment. Her hands are at his tie, and his hands are at her blouse. It's frenzied, and rushed, but they manage. And he can't help but be caught in the rush, in the desire, as her hands claw at his back to get closer. They collapse, and sleep, and he can't remember being this happy in a long time.

It's four a.m. He's too used to hearing the familiar, shrill beeps of his pager at the odd hours of the night. His sleep cycle readjusted. He rises, and begins collecting his clothing. He dresses, as well as he can possibly manage without waking her. She stirs in her sleep, and mumbles sleepily. "Josh?" He kisses her forehead.

"Go back to sleep, Donna." It's the first time he allowed himself to say her name in what feels like centuries. He tiptoes out of her room, out of her apartment, out of the building, without saying anything or leaving anything. He loves her. Honest to God, he loves her with everything he has, but he can't afford this. There's too much complication, too many details. They've both gone through too much to be sunk by love.