20 Hours in LA: the journey home

Out of the corner of her eye she watches him. Watches him doze. She knows he’s not sleeping; he breathes differently when he’s asleep. Not that she sees him asleep that often, not as often as she should, not as often as she –

Anyway.

She doesn’t know, now, if she did the right thing. She was sure at the time, but then it made no sense to her that anyone would ever say no to Josh, even with a million other options, even in a tricky situation. She’d never contemplated the possibility of Joey sending him back to her looking wounded and sad and rejected and defeated and so in need of a hug that she’d given in, against her better judgement, held him and not said any of the things that came to mind because none of them seemed like the appropriate thing to say to your boss in that kind of situation, even with the lingering tipsiness and sleep deprivation.

And now he is dozing, and reliving it, she knows, and there is nothing she can do to stop his mind whirring. She knows full well it never stops anyway, like the engine of this airplane that they don’t hear anymore, that they’ll only hear when it is switched off back in DC. Like, she supposes, the background hum of her deep, deep love for him that has been ever-present for so long that she only notices it on those rare occasions when she wakes up and her first thought isn’t of him. (Of course, if the first thing she heard in the morning wasn’t his voice on the telephone, there might be some chance of that happening more.)

“I’m sorry, Josh,” she whispers, squeezing his hand imperceptibly. Sorry for what, she couldn’t tell him, doesn’t know it herself. Sorry for encouraging him to be proactive in relationships? Not exactly. Sorry it didn’t work out with Joey? Not completely. She knows she should want him to be happy, and she does, she really does, but. You know.

That must be it, then: she’s sorry to see him so hurt.

Sorry, so sorry, that she can’t do more to take the pain away.

He squeezes her hand back, gently; doesn’t seem to want to let it go.

“Mmmm,” he says, and she knows he wants her to think he is asleep. She knows that when his head lulls forward and find itself on her shoulder, he wants her to think it just sort of happened all by itself – that he tumbled sideways into her.

She wants to whisper to him to go to sleep; she wants to put her arm around him; she wants to ruffle his beautiful hair. She wants to –

But anyway.

For now she goes on playing the game: the boss-and-assistant-game, the best-friends game. The game where he won’t admit his need for her, for her closeness, where she will send him into the arms of other women to protect her own heart and both of their jobs, all the time praying that he will not quite find happiness there, not the kind of happiness that she knows is in store for the two of them, just for the taking, if only.

Where?

Three non-anniversaries had come and gone, unremarkable save for the carefully chosen flowers that would appear on her desk and the coffee - cream and three sugars - on his, with the note that said “The flowers are beautiful; thanks for taking me back.” (If anyone knew how to use semi-colons properly, it was Donna.) That’s what he hoped the note said, anyway. “Don’t forget your briefing memo for senior staff” was a distinct possibility too, what with the distinctive penmanship thing.

Three non-anniversaries since she’d last left him standing like this, bewildered, uncharacteristically speechless, and catching himself wondering, "what did you mean when you said -", praying she wouldn’t play him at his own game. It was just something I said...

She’d done it again.

“So,” she’d said, leaning on his doorframe, which somehow never looked complete unless she adorned it with her radiant beauty. Wo, he’d tell himself, when he caught a ridiculous thought like that flying through his brain. Enough with the adjectives already. What are you, writing a teenage romance novel?

“I’ve had this letter.”

This couldn’t be good; these crusades never ended well, at least not for him. “Uh-oh.”

“There’s this guy – “ she glanced down at the page. “He wants to propose to his girlfriend outside the Oval Office on a White House tour.”

Was it unspooling time again? That had come round quick. “Is this the start of a joke? Because I’ve got quite a lot of work...”

“No. It’s a real – thing.” She said, fixing him with her blue eyes. Those blue eyes ... Focus, he told himself, she’s still speaking.

“So is it okay to give permission?”

“Why does he want to propose in the White House anyway?” He was really trying here. Was she noticing how - well, how not him - he was being?

“They met during the...” His heart somersaulted when he realised she was looking down at her shoes, unable to hold eye contact for the final word - “campaign” . Had she practised this a million times, practised saying it looking straight at him so it wouldn’t seem like a big deal, like she wasn’t hinting?

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” he said, absent-mindedly, because his mind was absent; it had raced ahead. He wished it wouldn’t do that, but it did, more often than he’d like anyone to know, and further than he’d ever admit, except maybe to her on their wedding night... Damn it. He’d done it again. “Is that what you would want?”

“Well,” she said, more steadily now, “it would depend on who was asking.”

“If it was one of your Republican friends?”

“Well, then, definitely not. It would feel like some kind of betrayal.”

“Of me?”

Who was he kidding. Like he had any rights like that over her. All these years and not one date. The yearly flowers didn’t really count. Did they?

She shook her head, smiled kindly as you might at a first grader who had just put all of his effort into working out that two plus two equalled five. “Of my ideals, Josh. And the idea of marriage as partnership...”

“A beach in Hawaii would work well, though,” she continued, her eyes sparkling like the diamond ring he’d seen at Tiffany in Chevy Chase and so often imagined on her finger.

“But if it was – someone who –“ He swallowed hard. He didn’t know where he was going with this, but he wanted to prolong this moment, prolong the pretence of the alternative universe in which he could sweep her up in his arms and kiss her till neither of them could breathe... Anyway. Knew too that she had the power to smash this dream with just a couple of words or a scathing look. “You know, someone you had a White House history with?”

“Josh,” she said softly, and this time her head was held high, her eyes plunged in his. “If it was you, it wouldn’t matter where you asked me.”

And then she was gone, back to her desk, with her golden hair and her ocean blue eyes and her smile – that smile - and there he was, speechless, bewildered and (what the heck) in love.

Thanks to @politiKitz, aka Katie in Kansas, for pointing me to the story of Franco Ripple and Ashley Ligas, which was the inspiration for this ficlet, as reported by politico.com - http://www.politico.com/click/stories/1001/obamaholics_engaged_at_w_h_gates.html.

On the plane to Hawaii...

The kiss was deep, hungry, passionate, as all their kisses were, as they were bound to be after all those years of buried yearning.

“Marry me,” said Josh, pausing for breath somewhere over an ocean.

“Okay.”

In her response he recognised the Donna he’d fallen for so long ago, the Donna whose beautiful smile and half-amused eyes had suggested such tenderness and a hint of pleasure when he’d suggested putting her on a stamp, the Donna who humoured him because sometimes – always - that was easiest.

“Okay?” He smiled back, perplexed and amused himself. This was her response?

“Josh,” she said, suddenly serious, and that slightly scolding tone he recognised too.

“Of course I’ll marry you. Tomorrow on a beach in Hawaii, if you like.”

He leant in; she pulled away.

“Of course I’ll marry you if you ask me again. But I want you to have a chance to really think about it. It’s all happened so fast... “

“Nine years is what you call fast?”

“You’re not really going to try to suggest I was the one taking my time, are you?”

"No," he said, appropiately repentant, he hoped.

“Josh.” Not repentant enough, apparently. She’d pulled away again. “I want you to think about it long and hard first.”

“You think it’s not crossed my mind in the last nine years?”

“Has it?”

“Of course. Hell, we were practically married anyway.”

“Except for the good part.” She was grinning like a schoolgirl; couldn’t help it. Words like good and nice were hardly up to the task.

“Yeah. And that is, to be fair, a very important part.”

“Keep talking.”

“Donna...”

“Or, you know, not talking. The other thing is good too.”

Then he was the one who pulled away, just slightly, whispered into her ear. “I’ll get you an amazing ring, I promise... and we can have lots of curly-haired, dimpled children. I know how you love the dimples.”

“Okay,” she said again, wondering if she hadn't tripped over something and stumbled into some kind of freaky alternative universe where all her daydreams actually did come true.

“Okay, you’ll marry me?”

“You think it hasn’t cross my mind in the last nine years?”

This time neither of them pulled away.

The Wedding (Ellie Bartlet's - nobody get excited!!)

There’s a seat free next to me. Now, how about that for a coincidence? I don’t know who saved the seat. Was it me? Oh. I think it was me. It’s the champagne. We’ll blame the champagne.

I really saved a seat for Josh? Like we’re a couple or something? Like sitting next to him at a wedding is the most natural thing in the world? Which of course it is. It is, isn’t it? Me and him. Him and me.

Okay, we’ll definitely blame the champagne. Get a g r i p, girl.

Still, it’s very fortunate that there is a free seat next to me. It’s fortunate too that he sees it, that he slides in next to me, just in time to watch the entrance of the bride.

I squeeze his hand. I want him to know, I’m here Josh, I love you, I don’t know what’s going on with this electoral math, I don’t know what it means for you personally on a professional level (do you have another level?), but I’m here. Drink some champagne with me. Let’s forget about the election, just for one night. That’s a song, isn’t it – we could be heroes, forever and ever, we could be heroes, just for one day... Well, that part is kind of a bit about the election. So let’s not use that song.

He squeezes my hand back. He’s registered. Registered that I’m here for him. Registered, let us hope, that I am an attractive woman in need of entertainment.

But no. No, that’s not what this is about. (I mean, maybe it is a little bit. Maybe it was the boredom that drove me to sampling perhaps a little too much of that delicious champagne. Did I mention the champagne?) But I’m not going to make demands on him right now. I’m going to be here for him, because he needs me.

I’m always going to be here for him. He knows that, right? That’s what the hand squeezing really means. I’m here for you now because I’ll always be here for you.

But after this election is over, there had better be some entertainment.

He’s still holding my hand.

He’s not looking at me, though. It’s as if he can’t allow himself to admit to feeling what he’s feeling, he can’t deal with it right now (will he deal with it ever?). But right now he doesn’t have the energy to fight this.

Doesn’t have the energy to fight his need of me.

Too much champagne. Definitely too much champagne.

But I’m damned if I’m letting go of this hand. I’ll never let go, says Rose in Titanic... I’m the king of the world, they say together earlier. That’s how we’ll feel together when we win, right? Him and me at the helm of a ship with hopefully a happier fate than that one... You’re the king of my world, Josh...

He’s looking at me now, though. Looking at me in the same tone that he would use to say “Donna?” when he thought I was about to unspool. I didn’t say any of that out loud, did I? Please tell me I didn’t. There’ll be plenty of time for that later. I mean, a lot later. Like after the election. Maybe. I’m hoping. A girl can always hope. Is it hot in here? Why is the room spinning?

Why are we standing up? Oh, the vows. Josh is holding me up. Josh is holding me up! I should be holding him up. I’m meant to be looking after him. That’s what the hand squeezing was about. The hand holding. That is what it was about, isn’t it? Oh, I’m so confused.

But he’s holding me up and his eyes are locked on me again and above the humming in my ears I can hear “in sickness and in health...” and then he’s whispering in my ear “and even when you’re drunk...”. What? I’m not drunk. What are you implying?

Wait up, though. Are you saying that you want to add that to our wedding vows?

No. I don’t think that’s what he’s saying.

Is that what he’s saying?

He has such beautiful eyes. Usually I’m too distracted by his dimples. But he has beautiful eyes. I want to dive into them. I want to -

We’re sitting down again. We missed our moment. That was our moment right there. Why is CJ looking at me funny? Maybe I should take my head off his shoulder. But it fits so nicely there...

“Donna.” This time he is actually speaking, incredibly softly, and it’s not just in my head. At least I don’t think so. I should mind a lot more that he’s ruining my hair by running his hand through it. I really should. (It took me so long to put it up just right.) I don’t though. Not one bit.

“It’s not like I’m not enjoying this. But...” I love the way his whispering tickles my ear.

“But what?” I’m doing the big wide innocent eyes thing. I do that well.

“People will... talk.”

Serioulsy –that whole Bambi thing. I’m brilliant. “About what?”

“You know... Us,” He can't quite meet my gaze for that one syllable.

“So let ‘em.”

“Yeah.” Is it submission? Is he humoring me? In any case I love the way that he at least tries make eye contact when he says it.

It’s worked. My secwet plan to fight electowal math. He’s not thinking about that now. He’s thinking about me and what people might be thinking about him and me. I can tell, because a smile twitches on his lips from time to time as the service continues.

“If I promise to dance with you,” he whispers, still holding me up, as the wedding party files out, “do you promise to drink a lot of water very quickly?”

“For you, Josh, anything.”

Oh no. I really, really did say that out loud. Oh ground swallow me up. N o w. Please?

He raises an eyebrow. “Anything?”

I squeeze his hand in return. If only he knew.

A tale of two Christmases, part 1 (post ep to Holy Night)

Donna, having dropped her bag and coat back at her bullpen, stands in Josh's doorway.

DONNA:So, did you get the roof fixed?
JOSH: (looking up, plesantly suprised) Hey. Aren’t you meant to be at the Inn?
DONNA: The helicopter went without me.
JOSH: No room at the Inn for you then.
DONNA: I guess not. Did you get the roof fixed?
JOSH: Getting there. Wanna give it another hour, and then we’ll head to the Hawk and Dove?
DONNA: Sounds good. (pause) Once you’ve had enough mulled wine will you tell me what you meant?
JOSH: Huh?
DONNA: “It’s not what it looks like.” What did you mean?
JOSH: I just didn’t – it doesn’t matter, Donna. Forget about it.
DONNA: Okay.

A little later (after we've seen shots of them working together on the roof thing, with Norah Jones' "what am I to you?"in the background)

JOSH: Right. Time to go.
DONNA: We’re giving up?
JOSH: Not giving up as such, no. I don’t give up. Just, you know, taking an extended break.
DONNA: Okay.
JOSH: You know, looking on the bright side of you having missed that helicopter...
DONNA: I didn’t.
JOSH: ... you get your present this way. What do you mean, you didn’t?
DONNA: Did you say present?
JOSH: Don’t I always get you a present?
DONNA: Yes.
JOSH (opens his desk drawer, pulls out a small, neatly wrapped box) Happy Christmas, Donnatella.
DONNA: Thank you. (she opens it; it’s a beautiful necklace with a tiny solitaire diamond) Wow.
JOSH: You like it?
DONNA: It’s lovely. It must have –
JOSH: Don’t worry about that. It’s really my pleasure. It’s the only time I get to properly thank you for everything you do. For... holding me together.
DONNA: Thank you, Josh. (She kisses him on the cheek.)
JOSH: You’re not going to put it on?
DONNA: It wouldn’t go with this sweater.
JOSH: I don’t get to see it on you?
DONNA: If you insist.
JOSH: I really do.
DONNA: Hang on... (She takes her sweater off and underneath has a turquoise, v-necked top. She fiddles with the necklace, struggles to do it up.)
JOSH: You want a hand with that?
DONNA: Maybe, yes.
JOSH (stands behind her, doing up her necklace, but taking longer about it than he should. He traces the outline of her neck with his finger. Then whispers into her ear, still from behind) Beautiful.
DONNA (looking down at the necklace) It is.
JOSH: I didn’t mean the necklace.
DONNA (looks deep into his eyes. For a good few moments, they are close enough to kiss.) Thank you.

Josh takes a few steps away from Donna, to look at her with the necklace on.

JOSH: You didn’t miss the helicopter?
DONNA: No.
JOSH: That doesn’t make any sense.
DONNA: I know. (pause) Neither does you keeping me here on purpose.
JOSH: I know that too.
DONNA: Josh –
JOSH: C’mon, get your coat. Let’s go get us some mulled wine and start this holiday in style.
DONNA: (moving towards the door) Okay.
JOSH: Donna? (Donna turns round and looks at him) It looks fantastic on you. And some day someone will buy you the earrings to match.
DONNA: Someone?
JOSH: The right guy. Someone who deserves you.
DONNA: (smiling) I’ll get my coat.

In the cupboard...

Pure fluff. I'm sorry, it's late Sunday night and I've been thoroughly depressed by the mid series 6 Josh/Donna angst, after it was all so promising right at the beginning of the series. Thank goodness it's my second time through.

Donna drags Josh into a cupboard to tell him something about Senator Rafferty and the water thing I struggled to fully get a grip on. Her excuse is that she needs to tell him something where there are no people.

JOSH: Is our relationship about to change?
DONNA: (turning the light on) Have you seen these briefing papers on this water thing?
JOSH: No smile for my cute line?
DONNA: You know I've always ignored those. Our relationship hasn't changed that much.
JOSH: Just wanted to make you smile, that's all. I ... don't seem to be able to do that anymore. Aha! That was a smile. I saw a smile. I'm happy. So this water thing then?
DONNA: You want to talk about our relationship? Let's talk about our relationship.
JOSH: Who said anything about talking?

He leans in to kiss her, and the nation holds it breath. Well, nations plural, really.

Donna's just too sensible, though, or too confused, or too hurt, or something, so it's the briefest of kisses. Sigh. (if you want AU fan fic you need to look elsewhere!)

DONNA: (pulling away) Josh...What's this about?
JOSH: I miss you, Donna. You should be with me.
DONNA: You said that already. But... you've been acting like you hate me. I don't -
JOSH: I hate you for making it hurt so much.
DONNA: Making what hurt?
JOSH: (takes her hand and presses it against his chest, above his heart) Everything. It's all wrong without you. It's no fun. (he locks her fingers with his)
DONNA: It's not been a lot of fun for me either. There'll be time for fun when this is over.
JOSH: Really?
DONNA: Only if you lose that squeaky voice effect.
JOSH: Sorry. That happens sometimes when I ... get excited. (they both laugh quietly, mindful that being discovered in a cupboard together may not do either of their campaigns any huge favours)
DONNA: Just to clarify... by fun, I obviously mean Scrabble and Monopoly.
JOSH: Obviously. Twister, maybe?
DONNA: Don't push your luck.
JOSH: (dimples out in full force) Okay.
DONNA: We still need to talk, though.
JOSH: Okay.
DONNA: And let's not fight anymore.

They hug. We'd hoped for more, but this will soothe some of the angst, at least.

JOSH: Only if you don't fight my chickens anymore.
DONNA: Deal. (pulling away) Now, about this water thing...

Stranger than fiction... (sometime pre-Amy, pre-Inauguration, and definitely pre-Gaza)

Rosemary, this is just for you, and inspired by our earlier conversation on our Facebook group's wall! (http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=119668758613&ref=ts if anyone cares!)

Apologies to everyone else - I think I may have lost it slightly!!

Josh has no idea about such trivial matters as what the date is, particularly given his severe sleep deprivation. He's been working round the clock for days with Toby on a Very Important Bill.

DONNA: (enters Josh's office, looking serious. Closes the door behind her.) Joshua. The time has come.
JOSH: (looking up from his desk, where he's fallen asleep with his head in a file) Huh?
DONNA: I've been doing a bit of reading and...
JOSH: (groaning) Donna. What have I told you about that? And when could you possible have the time to...
DONNA: (wry smile) Sometimes at weekends there's like an hour in between when I get up and when you call me in for work.
JOSH: (sheepish) Yeah. Sorry about that.
DONNA: You're not, though, are you?
JOSH: Sorry?
DONNA: Yeah.
JOSH: No. (in a sudden moment of lucidity) You're not through, are you?
DONNA: No. I discovered something slightly worrying.
JOSH: About Democratic party policy?
DONNA: No, Josh. About us. (Pauses dramatically.) It turns out that we're not real.
JOSH: We're not?
DONNA: No. We're fictional characters in a TV drama.
JOSH: Don't be ridiculous. Who'd watch a TV drama about the White House?
DONNA: That's the ridiculous part?
JOSH: No. The us being fictional is ridiculous. But seriously, who'd watch that?
DONNA: You'd watch it.
JOSH: You know the sad thing is, I would...
DONNA: Geeks, then.
JOSH: Hey!
DONNA: It's okay. Geeks can be attractive. Also, since I'm in it, lots of hot men with crushes on me. Although since those people usually turn out to be Republicans, I guess there are a lot of broken TVs out there...
JOSH: Okay. That's it. You've unspooled. Go home and get some sleep. That's an order. I've got to go and see Toby about the thing. Do you know where the file...
DONNNA: (interrupting him) What do you think the viewers are thinking?
JOSH: Are we still talking about this?
DONNA: Until you answer me, yes.
JOSH: (sighs) I think the viewers find me strangely attractive. Something about the dimples. I dunno. (Shrugs.) It's beyond me.
DONNA: Maybe it's the power thing. (she moves closer to him, straightens his tie, moves away slightly.)
JOSH: (distracted by her closeness) Mmmm.
DONNA: But that's not what I meant. What do you think they are thinking about, you know, us? (she gently brushes imaginary dust off his shoulders)
JOSH: I am way, way past the point of even caring that I long ago stopped understanding what ...
DONNA: Handsome, powerful, slighlty vulnerable boss; beautiful, lovable assistant; lots of chemistry. Not for nothing, but don't you think the viewers would want us to have kissed by now? That's all I'm saying.
JOSH: (trying to cover up his panic and end the conversation as quickly as possible.) Close the door on your way out. And please, oh please, stick to Newsweek from now on.
DONNA: Okay. (She picks up Newsweek from his desk) This today's? (She points at the date: April 1st)
JOSH: (smiles in blissful relief) You're unbelievable.
DONNA: I know. (She smiles, leaves, closes the door behind her.)