Empress (1/1)
Summary: Words have power. Even if they are few. Especially if they come from his lips.
Post-Ep to "The Ticket." NOT a part of the "Stress" series. A lighter take on Donna's reaction to her meeting with Josh.
Author's Notes: The West Wing belongs to Sorkin, Wells, et al. I own nothing.
An hour and a half later she's standing in front of her bedroom mirror trying to work out how she'd gone from clothed to naked in the space of a sentence.
Not even a sentence, really. Just a fragment. A half formed idea and she was wearing emperor's clothes.
She'd chosen her suit with care that morning. The flowered top that hugged her torso was soft enough, but the suit was all business. The lines were clean and tailored, the color unassuming yet competent. Even her shoes and bag belonged to a woman who had seamlessly incorporated the delicate and the powerful. They told the tale of a woman who could cajole when necessary and demand when needed. A woman who could handle the impossible and make it seem easy.
Quite simply, she'd dressed with her desired job in mind.
Years ago she would have dressed for the man.
It was funny in a sad sort of way that for all of those times she'd dressed up with Josh in her thoughts, the idea of him removing her clothing layer by layer, busy hands slowing to torment her heated skin, it would take the one time when she hadn't dressed for him to lay her bare.
"And if you think I don't miss you every day…"
Those ten little words hadn't slipped her jacket from her shoulders or seductively rolled her stockings down her trembling thighs. They'd wrenched the full priced garment from her limbs, seams tearing, buttons popping, till all she was left with was a pile of rags and the blazing pink scars that slashed across her knees.
It had been tempting as she sat there, cold and shivering against the visitor's chair, to accept his offer of help for a future job. But pride could be its own sort of virtue and she'd left with her head held high, never mind the slight wobble in her voice when she'd thanked him for his time. She'd walked out of his office bare to all the world.
From the front doors of Santos Headquarters, to the Metro, to the front door of the apartment she'd barely seen in months, she'd shown off her suit from an invisible skein, proud even in her distress.
And now as she stands in front of the mirror, she starts to recognize the weave of her linen jacket and the pull of the cotton top against her skin. She reforms them bit by bit until once again she's clothed. Because it doesn't matter that he still can affect her more than any other, that he can render her unprotected with just a few words.
She's learned to weave with her own loom now and will never be naked again.