Are you in love with Josh?

She opens the diary again, flicks through it with her thumb, snaps it shut, allows no emotion to cross her face.

“No,” she says at last, and when she’s sure she can keep her voice steady she turns and meets the interrogation in Amy’s eyes. “No.”

She feels, oddly, nauseous and ashamed, that she is betraying him through her lack of courage. But she has never heard herself say it, nor has anyone suggested it, not out loud, not with words, not so bluntly, though she knows how to interpret the looks that Carol shoots at her on her way past the bullpen, knows that she and Margaret occasionally gossip, suspects it might in fact be more than occasional. One day, one day, she will say it, very quietly, to herself, and on that day she will have some decisions to make, but that day is not today, and this is not the person, and this is not the place.

“Okay,” says Amy, swigging the very last drops out of a bottle with obviously feigned nonchalance. She shrugs, forces a laugh, as though the question had cost her nothing, as though the barefacedness of the lie did not feel like a punch in the stomach, as though Donna’s very inability to admit so much as a fleeting interest did not confirm every suspicion she has had, every moment when she has felt Josh was less than fully present with her. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what made me ask that.”

“It’s the beer,” says Donna, recovering her I love what you’re wearing tone. “It makes all of us ask all kinds of strange things. Of ourselves and other people.” She feels light-headed now, wants to sit down, to disappear, to be away from all of this, far far away with some ice cream in a dark movie theater maybe, she doesn’t want to think about it and now all of a sudden it’s been forced on her, after all these years of dodging and ducking mostly successfully it’s right there staring at her and she wonders if the color has drained from her face, she wonders how much longer she can sound breezy and unconcerned and not at all jealous.

“I guess you have work to do,” says Amy, and Donna doesn’t argue.

“Yeah. Thanks for letting me know about the Wellingtons.” She watches her go, puts her head down on her desk, and she knows she won’t get any work done tonight, at least not until she can stop feeling as though she is shaking, adrenaline coursing through her, fight and flight both appealing alternatives, appealing and unrealistic, like so much else in her life.

True at first light and a lie by noon

At first light when her eyes prised themselves open to the high-pitched insistence of her alarm clock, her first thought was always this: today. Today she would do it. Today, she would walk into his office, close the door, and go to a place called say it. She’d seen that in a TV show and in the TV show it had worked, although it had taken a few episodes for the guy to talk the girl round.

But at first light she always knew there would be no talking round necessary. That he would not speak, and this would be very, very good, because the reason he would not be speaking is that he would pull her close, right up close, that she would feel his breath on her neck and his hand running through her hair and his lips on hers. Or, it would be very, very bad, because the reason he would not be speaking is that he would be sitting at his desk, head tilted, brow furrowed, speechless, silently pleading a God he did not believe in for the ground to swallow them both whole, for this not to be happening.

And always, at first light, it seemed to her that even this unhappy outcome would, in the end, be very, very good, because at least it would all be out there, in the open, un-take-back-able, but they could both breathe again and enjoy the lightness of the cleared air and agree to never mentioning it again and not allowing it to change anything; and it would be done, it would be behind them, they would have survived the moment of truth, and the heavy sense of imminent dread that it needed to happen someday would be gone, vanquished, at last.

And yet, by noon, she’d remembered: experienced afresh the tiny electric shocks that ran through her when he leaned over her to pass her some important files; the unresolved tension that crackled between them and seemed best left undisturbed; the risk, the enormous risk, the terrifying risk of upsetting the balance of their relationship, and for what, in the end? As she sat in his office making notes for a letter or reeling off facts from index cards, she always knew that the pulling-her-to-himself scenario was the unlikeliest of all, and did she want to have to cower in shame and leave this job which for all its grunt-level servitude she adored, the privilege of serving which she adored, this boss whom she adored more, way more, than any of the rest of it?

And so by noon, she was always thinking this: tomorrow. Tomorrow she would tell him.

After Ernest Hemingway (who would, ahem, be delighted, I'm sure, to know that his words were inspiring girlie fan fiction), "True at first light and a lie by noon", with thanks to Janet Fitch for using it in her Writer's Book of Days.

The Cold

She thinks she saw a smile, just the hint of one at the corners of his mouth, but is that supposed to be some kind of consolation?

Even worse, was it sympathy? I'm sorry you got it so wrong?

But she's been replaying the kiss all day and it did not seem then that she had got it wrong. It was unmistakably desire that she read in his eyes. It was unmistakably desire that she tasted, desire not born of a moment of random lust but the kind that builds and builds over years, a decade almost, desire and tenderness and the sense that this is what everything has been leading to, like the climax on the penultimate page of a novel. Unreasonable sense, misleading sense, deluded sense, not sense at all, she now realizes.

She wonders how she will face him tomorrow.

She left everything out there on the table, everything, not just a key in an envelope. Her heart. Her dreams. Her aspirations, so inexorably bound up in him.

And now - rejection. Shame. Deep, deep embarrassment. She thought she knew what that felt like - but silly incidents with old underwear pale into insignificance now. Because this is not just mortification - this is pain at its sharpest and deepest. She's made herself vulnerable, opened herself up, shown her cards instead of clutching them to her heart like she's attempted to all these years. And the result? Just this sense of being repeatedly kicked in the stomach. And her whole body aching for him.

What lies before me? is what she'd think if she were at all able to be coherent when she p0urs herself the last glass of room-service wine, not quite chilled enough to be pleasant even in the best of circumstances, even if, say, they were drinking it lying together on the bed, afterwards,  laughing at their years of playing cat and mouse. What lies before me? Another day of putting up a front. The mask goes back on. Keep calm and carry on, that's what the British say, but she doesn't see how she can walk this one back. Everything else can be explained away - you look amazing is something you can say to your sister - but not this. This is the first time she has been absolutely clear. And it will be the last.

Unless there's magic...

She's pretty sure the magic came and went today. She drains her glass, buries her face in the pillow, and allows the pain to flood her face.

She shivers.

She's cold. So cold.

Making breakfast for a stranger

She realizes with a start that she doesn't know what he eats for breakfast. Not fruit, obviously, but could be be one of those strange people who eat cereal dry and drink milk on the side? Or pop tarts? Maybe pop tarts? Instant and fast-food-like. That sounds about right. Nothing would surprise her, really, which is odd, because she thought he had stopped surprising her years ago, that she could anticipate not only his every move but his every need, his every... desire. Well, yes. Anyway.

Suddenly open before her is this brave new world of trivial discoveries, the everdayness of being together before the make-up goes on, no masks, no job titles, just two people with their quirks and foibles and she knows there must be plenty of those yet to unearth. Does he put his socks on before or after his pants? Brush his teeth before or after breakfast? (Neither? She shudders.) How many times does he hit snooze before he rolls out of bed?

She knows about the coffee, of course, cream and three sugars, the key to early-onset diabetes. Maybe she could start making it for him after all, gradually reduce the sugar intake. Would he even notice?

She watches as he stumbles out of the shower room, hair still dripping onto his face, blushes with the embarrassment of catching herself thinking girlish thoughts about how hot he is, how she's so glad they finally did it, how all the other girls would be so jealous and my goodness did they have reason to be.

"You made me coffee?" He's incredulous. "You mean all this time all I needed to do to get you to bring me coffee was kiss you?"

She takes a breath, prepares to protest that she seems to remember something more than just kissing, something that may well have gotten them both fired back then. But she does not get a chance to say any of it because his lips are on hers, and she notes approvingly that he does brush his teeth first thing after all.

"I'll make you breakfast too, if you're really lucky."

He shakes his head at her domesticity. "Breakfast is not something you make, Donna. Breakfast is something you grab on the way to the office."

She smiles: she knew this about him all along, of course she did. Perhaps the real surprise is to find that deep down in her reptilian brain stem she has always absolutely known him. The newness of waking up with him, of walking hand in hand through the cold dark DC mornings, rosy-faced and shaking off the snow as they walk into Starbucks for their blueberry muffins: that is extraordinary enough.

Thanks to Sarah Solway for the "Making breakfast for a stranger" prompt...

I don't know what this is...

He sits for a while, stunned and speechless like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar, unable to think about education policy or whatever it was that he was debating when she came into the room, all showered and fresh-smelling and fiddling with her earrings, as though getting dressed in his apartment were something she had been doing for decades.

I don't know what this is, is what she'd said, and part of him, if only he could muster up the energy, wants to run after her and say I know, Donna, this is what that cheesy song is about, you know the one, some people wait a lifetime for a moment like this...

But he has never been so unsure of himself or so unable to think straight through sheer exhaustion and so he sits, stunned, with the dim, unformulated notion that if this were an episode of that sitcom she used to make him watch, the one with Matthew Perry because she thinks he's dreamy, this would be one of those lame, slightly cheating episodes where the character ponders his life while scenes from his past tumble through his mind and across the screen.

He thinks back, in no defined order, memories merging into one another, not about the hospital scenes, not even about Amy or Joey or Cliff or Jack or Colin - okay, perhaps he thinks about them long enough to wonder why there have been so many - but he thinks mainly about those small moments, the everyday acts of intimacy, like sharing popcorn when they watched Dial M for Murder, and the President saying something about him having a daughter, and when he took his place back at Donna's side he caught himself wishing for daughters with sharp minds and long blonde hair and alabaster skin, alabaster is what she calls it, right? Whatever it's called it's beautiful skin, every inch of her beautiful, every inch of her, so beautiful, and Donna, he thinks through the sleepless fog enveloping his brain, Donna I've always known what this was, but I was scared... The thing with guys like me is we scare easily...

She will be half way to work by now and still he sits, stunned and speechless. And still scared. Because he does know. He has always known. He just hasn't always known that he knew.

And now his brain hurts again. All he really does know is he does not want to screw this up. All he really does know is he loves the way it feels... What is with all these cheesy songs all of a sudden? Get a grip, he tells himself, you have a country to run. But the song keeps coming, all I know is it feels like forever... and that does nothing to alleviate his fear.

Forever is with her, he knows that, he has always known that, even if, etcetera, but forever is big and scary and he does not know if he can do it at all and he has a country to run and he has not slept for five months and what has he done with his Blackberry?

The Good Guys

"Honey," he calls as he opens the door, "I'm home."

Every day it makes her smile; who knew they would become this kind of couple, live lives of such convention? Who knew that this is what she craved with him all along?

"You're home early," she says, kissing him. Because she can.

"I thought I'd be home for dinner for once." Later, admittedly, than most people have dinner. But most people are not running the country.

"I was thinking Chinese take out tonight."

He pulls a face. "Isn't home cooked food supposed to be one of the advantages of marriage?"

"I think it depends who you marry, cupcake. If your wife is also a devoted mother and Chief of Staff to the First Lady, then what can you do..." She waves a lettuce at him. "But if you'd prefer salad..."

"I'm good with take out," he says, responding to the threat. She is not at all controlling. "Did you TiVo the Good Guys?"

She wouldn't have dared not to. It's not really her kind of thing, but it's only fair. She made him sit through When Harry Met Sally enough times back in the day, hoping (vainly) that he would get the hint: A man and a woman can't be friends, the sex part always gets in the way...

Besides, the Good Guys is pretty funny, and if she tilts her head and squints the Dan guy looks a little like an older, fatter Josh with bad manners.

"Have I so far ever let you down?"

"Well, there was the whole Indonesian translator thing..."

She sighs. He really needs to let that go, learn to keep in mind all the things she does right. "Besides that one time?"

"Also, you did leave me in the middle of a crisis."

"Okay." Time for the pouting to make a comeback. "If you want me to delete the Good Guys..."

"On the other hand," he says quickly, "agreeing to marry me kind of made up for leaving me."

She snatches the remote back. "Thought so. Kung Po chicken?"

But she's lost him already. He's raising two fingers, pointing out of the window and making shooting noises.

Ladies and gentleman, she thinks, my husband. The biggest political brain in Washington.

"It's not a toy," he thunders, "it's an orange gun!"

She laughs at him. She does that more often than he would like her to. "You need to work on your Southern accent, but other than that, it's almost perfect."

"I'm still lacking a major accessory, though."

She wondered how long it would take before he mentioned this. Every single damn day since the first showing of the preview. Weeks, it feels like. "How many times are you going to insist on having this argument? It's the mustache or me. You choose."

"Well." He smiles, and she thinks what a shame it would be if anything were to hide those dimples. "I would not have to wait nine years for a mustache."

This does not amuse her. Not in the least. She stands with her hands on her hips and waits for a suitable apology. "Excuse me. Who was doing the waiting?"

"You, my love," he says obligingly. He really, really wants to get to watch this TV program. She knows, because she's seen the countdown app on his iPhone. She has long resigned herself to this latest obsession. "You did all the hard work."

He leans in to charm her but she pulls away."You know what I think? I think a mustache would make the whole kissing thing very uncomfortable."

"Well," he says carefully. "That is certainly a consideration." He wraps his arms around her from behind, smells her hair. Because he can.

"I would think so," she smiles, but does not let him get any ideas. This not controlling people thing is more complex than it might at first appear.

He resigns himself to the inevitable. "Okay. No mustache."

"Good. You're still a hero without one," she says, and lets him kiss her, loses herself in the moment, as she always does. Because she can.

"Can't promise you I won't get fat, though," he says when they pull away.

"That's okay. I'd still take you over Dan Stark any day."

Noel

She shuffles in her chair, thinks it's about time someone spoke to someone about getting this carpet cleaned.

"I'm sorry," he says, and she wonders if he will be this gentle with Josh tomorrow. "I know this can seem intrusive. But I have to ask. Get the complete picture."

She looks up at him, remembers what her mother used to tell her about making eye contact, that if you don't it can seem like a lie even if you're telling the truth.

"No," she says.

"Nothing at all?"

She shrugs, hopes it looks sufficiently casual, forgets for a moment that she is not dealing with her second grade teacher. Or the paper boy. "I'd say we're friends, as well as colleagues."

"Just friends?"

Inside her the familiar little ball of frustration makes its presence felt, like a singer clearing her throat before a rendition of Handel's Messiah. She twists her hands, wraps them around each other. "Yes."

"But you were the one who first mentioned to Leo McGarry that Josh should see me?"

"Yes."

He looks at her and waits. He knows there is more. His eyes, more than his qualifications, tell her he is not so easily thrown off course. Do his eyes tell her that? Maybe she just imagines it. Who knows what you can really guess from someone's eyes. Sometimes in Josh's eyes she sees what looks like tenderness for her, sometimes even what looks like love, and she's clearly wrong about that. So, there you go.

But still, she has the distinct impression he is not fooled.

Inside her the ball of frustration threatens to start an avalanche. She takes a sip of water, looks into his eyes again.

"We've worked together closely for a while now. I know him. He's not... well, not himself."

"Okay," he says, and again he waits. She's not used to people waiting for her to speak. In her line of work it's deliver the words now and quickly while walking very fast down a narrow corridor, and if you miss your window, well tough, you gotta be quick in this game.

"I just - "

She takes a deep breath, another sip of water.

"I just worry about him."

"Okay," he says again. "And Rosslyn?"

"Yeah." Carol will know whom to contact about the carpet. Right after this meeting she will ask her.

"You weren't there."

She cradles her face in her hands and bites her lip furiously. She will not cry. If it's the last dignifed thing she ever does she will not cry in this meeting. She has cried enough tears over Rosslyn, over Josh, over the thought of his being all alone when -

"It's okay," he says again, so softly she almost misses it. "Donna," he says, when she doesn't move. "Look at me."

She raises her head. He says the words slowly, so that each one has the chance to register in that sleepless brain of hers.

"Do you think your being there would have changed anything?"

She pours herself more water and does not state the obvious.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to take a bullet for someone else?"

She shakes her head, but it's not an answer to his question, not really. You don't understand, is what she's thinking. It's not a question of hard. It would be instinct.

"Do you have any idea of the guilt he'd be suffering from if you had done?"

"Still. I should have been there," she whispers after drinking the glass slowly, sip by sip. "And at the hospital. I should have been there from the word go."

"It sounds to me like you were an amazing support to him."

"It was nothing," she said. "I was just doing what comes naturally. It's what you do when you..." Damn it, she thinks. He nearly got me.

"Donna," he says. "Look at me."

When she meets his gaze he speaks as if to a deaf child who is just learning to lip read.

"It. Wasn't. Your. Fault."

The constriction in her chest eases and she breathes more deeply that she has in weeks.

"I promise I'll do my best with him," he says. "It might take a while. But he'll get there."

She knows they're done; he closes the file and sits back. When she reaches the door he calls her name.

"There's really nothing else you want to tell me?"

"No," she says again, and forces a smile. She's not ready to hear herself say it. First let's get Josh back on his feet.

One thing at a time.