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Jan. 13th, 2005 10:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
helsinkibabyThose of you who know skating might already know this, but Angela Nikodinov's mom was killed in a car accident in Portland - those of you who don't know skating; Angela and her parents and her coach flew to Portland from California for the National Championships - on their way from the airport, their taxi collided with a car, overturned and skidded. Her mom was killed instantly, her coach kept in hospital overnight, Angela and her father were treated and released. This was supposed to be her comeback season; she had a great chance of making it to worlds... I'm devastated for her.
I'm posting this before I regret it... it's the started as something but turned into something else WW fic that ended up being way longer than I thought it would be.
Title: Waking a Dream
Fandom: West Wing
Pairing: Josh/Donna, Will/Donna
Rating: PG
Word Count: 4,545
Spoilers: Everything so far in season six to be on the safe side.
Sam told you over a beer once, when you were high over the success of your expedition to North Dakota, when he was at a low over the stunt that Kevin Kahn pulled with a certain opposition ad, that Bruno Gianelli had let him have it in the bullpen. That the other man had reamed him out, told him that if people didn’t start listening to him, they were going to find out what the crappy end of Inauguration Day felt like.
You don’t know whether it was because they listened to Bruno, or the American public just worked it out on their own, but either way, the worst didn’t happen, not then. Jed Bartlet got elected to a second term as President, and you sat and watched him take the Oath of Office with a smile on your face and tears in your eyes and you felt proud.
You’ve never known what the crappy end of Inauguration Day felt like; two election campaigns, two victories, a one hundred percent record. And while you knew that the third campaign wasn’t going to be easy – how could it be, when your candidate was Bob Russell, not a man renowned for his charisma, going up against Arnold Vinick, so good a public speaker that you once turned to Josh and told him that he had a year to talk you out of voting for Vinick. You knew it was going to be hard to beat Vinick in November, everyone on the campaign knew that.
You never in a million years believed that you wouldn’t get the chance to try.
And yet here you are in southern California, Will Bailey by your side, looking every bit as morose as you feel. Four years ago, this place was the site of his greatest victory. Today, it’s the place of his worst defeat, and as you watch Matt Santos give his victory speech in a ballroom across town, you can’t stop a sigh from escaping. A sip of your whiskey sour doesn’t do a thing to make you feel any better, nor does it show the slightest signs of beginning to do so. You glance at Will to see if he heard you, and to your surprise, you see the barest of smiles, certainly the first of the day, playing around his lips.
“You know the worst thing?” he says quietly, so quietly that if you were a centimetre further away from him, you’re not sure you would have been able to hear him. You don’t speak, just tilt your head curiously, and he turns to look right at you. You can just about make out your reflection in his glasses, until your gaze is drawn to the bitter smile that twists his lips, and something twists in your stomach, because you’ve never seen Will look like that before. “If I was doing any other job… I’d probably be supporting Santos too.”
You know Will Bailey, know the effort it took him to admit that, and you let out another sigh, finding the ice in your glass very interesting all of a sudden. “Yeah,” you admit softly. “Me too.” Because you might have been on the other side of this very close run Democratic contest, but damn, Josh ran a good campaign, and while it kills you to admit it, just as it killed Will, Santos deserves the nomination that he will now almost certainly get.
Except that there’s still a part of you – the hopeless romantic part, the part of you that Josh always liked to make fun of – that wants to believe it’s not over yet, that Russell can still come from behind, even if his speech of an hour ago more or less conceded the race. You open your mouth to say as much to Will, but he cuts you off, shakes his head. “Don’t say it Donna,” he says, giving a sigh of his own for good measure. “It’s over.”
You take another sip – a very large sip – of your drink, not looking at him, instead looking at the party. Your candidate’s political career, and yours with it, might be dead and buried, but all around you, people are having a hell of a time at the wake. You can’t begrudge them either; after all, these people have had the thankless task of marshalling the Russell vote when all the polls done lately had most of the constituents voting for Vinick, and a very thin majority of those that were voting Democrat going for Santos. These are the people that were chiefly responsible for the vote tonight being as close as it was, and you can’t begrudge them their opportunity to let their hair down, let off some steam.
You’d be joining them if you weren’t so depressed.
You take another deep breath, looking over at Will. “So, what happens now?” you ask, and he turns to you, eyebrows rising over the rims of his glasses.
“You mean, where do we go from here?” he asks, and when you nod, he looks like he’s about to say something before a third voice, a very familiar voice, enters the conversation.
“I have an idea about that.”
Your head whips around in the direction of that voice, and you know you must look ridiculous, staring open-mouthed at Josh while he just stands there, bouncing on the balls of his feet, with, God help you, dimples showing. You know after studying him for only a second that he’s at his most impossibly smug, that somewhere earlier on he was boasting about needing the finest muffins and bagels in all the land. You never used to know how to take him when he was in this kind of mood, finding it by turns endearing or unbearable; right now, it’s the latter.
Then you look towards the television screen, see that Santos is still talking, see that the little legend in the corner of the screen still reads “Live.” Which means that, in the middle of one of the greatest moments of his political career, Josh Lyman did not stay to sample the spoils of victory. No, on the contrary; Josh Lyman came all the way across town to find you.
You’re not sure whether to feel elated or pissed off by that.
You’re not sure, but Will evidently is, because he makes a noise that sounds very much like disgust. Josh didn’t hear it, because his expression doesn’t change, but you look around to Will, and you see a facial expression that matches the sound exactly. “I’ll be… somewhere else,” he mutters, not wasting any time in moving away, and you can only stare after him, because it’s not like Will to be so rude.
Then you look back and Josh, see him looking after Will with an expression that’s partly confused, partly amused, and you really can’t blame him for leaving. You feel very tired all of a sudden, drained, and you know it shows in your voice. “What do you want, Josh?”
His expression never wavers. “You,” he says simply, and your heart skips a beat, literally, before starting up double time. Your mouth goes dry, your hand tightening on your drink, and you’d raise it to your lips, knock it back in one gulp and go to the bar for more, if you could only get your arms and legs to work.
“What?” you manage to ask, and Josh’s grin gets wider, which you would have said wasn’t possible.
“How would you like to come and work for the next President of the United States?” he asks, words that make your heart-rate return to something approaching normal and you look down, counting to ten because the last thing you want is for the hurt you’re feeling to show on your face. You knew, after all these years, that Josh wouldn’t show up here for you, would never show up and sweep you off your feet like the hero in some romantic movie. You knew that, you’ve known that for a long time, and that brief second of hope is all the more painful because of it. “I’m serious Donna,” he continues. “What do you say?”
You swallow hard against the lump in your throat, and a sip of Dutch courage makes it that much easier to look him in the eye. “What if I like the job I have?”
You think it almost sounds strong, confident, and you’re supremely affronted when Josh chuckles, looks around him. “Yeah… it looks like it’s working out well for you.” You literally have to bite your tongue at the tone of his voice, and he takes a step towards you, still doing that little bouncing thing. “Donna, Matt Santos is going to be the Democratic nominee… you have to know that. And against Vinick… this campaign… it’s going to be a dogfight. We need good people.” A beat, and by now he’s so close to you that he could reach out and touch you if he wanted to, and that’s just what he does, takes you by the elbows and looks into your eyes. “We need you.”
You remind yourself that you’re a strong, confident, independent woman. You are not the scared girl who walked into a Nashua office eight years ago and talked yourself into a job. You’ve grown, you’ve matured, and you know that Joshua Lyman did not hang the moon and the stars.
You know all that, and you know that one of the main reasons why you left your job at the White House, why you left him, was that he didn’t see that. It’s not, as some people insisted, because you were in love with him and got tired of waiting for him to notice you, or because you were in love with him and left to clear the way for romance. That had nothing to do with it, although you admit that your feelings for Josh have for a long time been beyond strictly platonic. You know people talked about the two of you, know what they think about you, but you don’t care, because you know the truth. That you could do more, and you wanted to prove it, and he was never going to give you that chance.
Except he’s here now, and he’s offering you that chance, and if it’s not everything you’ve ever dreamed about, it’s damn close. You feel yourself starting to smile, feel your posture relaxing, and his smile widens, one of his hands sliding down so that his fingers close around yours. He sees you weakening, squeezes your hand. “I mean it Donna… come and work for me again… just like old times.”
And just like that, with one preposition, the bloom starts to fall from the rose; the ensuing words kill it completely. Your hand falls from his, and this time, you give into the impulse to knock back a very large gulp of your drink. The bitter tang brings you fully to your senses, allows you to step back from him, to see his face finally register that this is not the offer of your dreams. “What if I don’t want old times, Josh?” you ask him. You neither sound nor feel bitter, you note with surprise, nor are you angry.
You’re just sad, because after all this time, all these years spent at his side, you’re realising that he doesn’t really know you at all.
Josh blinks, smug grin faltering. “Come on Donna,” he says, and you recognise that tone. That’s his “Congress are idiots who should be horsewhipped and why the hell won’t people do as I tell them” voice, and you know he’s about an inch away from saying something that you’re not going to like. You want to tell him to stop, but he doesn’t let you get a word in. “Your candidate just lost the California primary… and a host of others… this campaign is dead in the water… why the hell would you pass up an offer like this?”
His voice is rising, attracting people’s attention, but you don’t look at them, only at Josh. “I don’t want to go back to the way things were, Josh,” you tell him quietly. “I don’t want to be just your assistant anymore… I’m better than that.”
Josh is looking at you like you’re speaking a different language, his smile fixed in that rictus like grin he wears when he’s saying something that he doesn’t really believe. “So you won’t just be my assistant,” he says, and when he talks, his lips don’t move, horrendous fake smile plastered in place. “We’ll find you something else…”
You shake your head, because you know things would never be that simple. Things between you and Josh could never be that simple. “But every time you dealt with me… that’s how you’d treat me.” He shakes his head, as if to deny it, but this time, you don’t let him speak. “You don’t see me as an equal, Josh… you never have.”
“Of course I-” he begins, but it doesn’t ring anywhere close to true, and you cut him off by holding up your hand. It’s the first time you’ve ever been able to do that, but it’s a decidedly hollow victory.
“Josh…” You let his name out on a long breath, laying down your glass on a table beside you. Your now free hand goes to his chest, rests over his heart, and you think about the scar under the shirt, remember those terrible hours in a hospital waiting room when you didn’t know whether he would live or die. You remember those nights and days in his apartment, enforcing The Rules, remember what it felt like for your world to revolve around this man.
You miss that closeness, regret what never happened between you, but you don’t regret the woman you’ve become.
Just like you know that you can’t go back, and you don’t want to.
Because your natural impulse would always be to lose yourself in this man, and his natural impulse would always be to let you. You can’t live like that, and you don’t want to. Not any more.
“Donna…” His voice is a ragged whisper, his pupils dilated as they stare down at your hand over his heart, his lips parted, and you’re sure that he’s going to kiss you.
Which is why you lean forward and brush your lips over his.
Then you step away from him, letting your hand drop.
His face falls then, all smugness disappearing, and when he says your name, he sounds like nothing so much as a little boy lost. “Donna?” he asks, and tears rise up in your throat, because even if this is right, that doesn’t make it easy.
“I owe you so much,” you tell him. “You took a chance on me when you had no reason to… you put your trust in me… I can never repay you for that.”
Josh grins, but it’s only a ghost of his usual cocksure smirk. “You already have,” he tells you, and damn the man, why does he have to pick this moment to be sweet and sincere? It’s playing havoc with your already fraying composure. “And hiring you? Best move I ever made.”
Your smile feels shaky, as shaky as your legs when you step away from him, but you can hold your head up high, because you know this is the right thing to do. “You’re going to run a great campaign Josh,” you tell him. “And I hope you win… and I don’t know what I’m going to do next… but I think I need to find out for myself… you know?”
He gives a little shrug. “You know… if it doesn’t work out…”
He lets his voice trail off, and you nod, throat aching with unshed tears. You couldn’t speak, even if you wanted to; in fact, all you can do is turn around and walk away from him.
You have to be the one who walks away. Josh never would, and your only hope is that he doesn’t call after you, doesn’t beg you one more time, because strong as you are, you don’t know that you’re strong enough to withstand that.
The bar is still doing a roaring trade, but you order water. You’re not usually a weepy drunk, but this is a night of firsts, and that’s not one you especially want to deal with. Making your way through the crowd of dancing revellers, you do a full pass of the room before you realise that you’re looking out for Will. You don’t see him anywhere though, which makes you frown, and just in case you missed him, you make another sweep, just to confirm what you already know – Will Bailey is nowhere to be found at this party.
You wonder where he is, and without conscious thought, you find yourself making your way out of the ballroom, heading to the elevator where you get off at your floor, walk down the corridor to your room. You walk past your door though, going to the next door over, Will’s door, and you knock carefully on it, tilting your head so that you can listen for any movement inside. There’s no reply at first, and for a moment, you consider that maybe he’s not there, maybe he’s gone somewhere else, but then you hear footsteps approaching, and you take a step back before the door opens.
When the door does open, you smile, but, unusually for Will, there is no answering smile in return. Instead, his face is dark, almost hostile, his jaw set in a hard line. “Hey,” you say, forcing a smile to your face, because it’s not easy to smile at such an angry countenance.
“Hey,” he says, and his voice, if anything, is even more hostile than you might have expected. “Come to hand in your notice?”
You blink in surprise. “My notice?” you echo. “Why would you think that?”
“What else am I supposed to think?” he demands, and you look up and down the corridor, because that was kinda loud.
“Can we… can we not do this in the hallway?” you ask, and he sighs, but he steps back to let you in. He just doesn’t look happy about it. Once in, you turn to look at him, taking in his appearance from head to toe. His jacket is long gone, had been even in the party downstairs, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, top button open and tie gone. His arms are crossed over his chest, his shoulders squared, a man geared for a fight, and you can’t understand how you went from commiserating at the party to this.
He doesn’t speak, and when it registers that he’s waiting for you to speak, the only thing that comes to mind is to address his question. “Josh did offer me a job,” you tell him quietly. “But I don’t know why…”
“I’m acting like this?” He interrupts you, and that, as much as the anger in his voice, the fact that he’s shouting, shocks you into silence. “How about because I’ve spent the last few months waiting for you to drop everything the second that Josh Lyman waltzes in and asks you to come back? Waiting for you to realise that your backup job isn’t good enough any more, that this isn’t where you want to be?”
“Will…” you begin, but once again, you’ve met a man who doesn’t seem to be willing to let you get a word in edgewise.
“Let me guess… he offered you your old job back.” It’s a statement that demands a response, and you nod slowly, the gesture making him laugh. “I knew it.” That’s more him talking to himself than talking to you though, and you find yourself backing away from him, until the small of your back impacts against the writing desk and there’s nowhere else for you to go. He’s not looking at you though, is reaching up to pinch his nose, the action disrupting his glasses, and he’s still chuckling humourlessly. Then he looks up at you, and he’s deadly serious, and something about the way his eyes gleam behind his glasses makes you wish you had that drink in your hand again. “Donna, you are wasted as his assistant,” he tells you flatly, and you’re glad that the desk is at your back; it might just be the only thing keep you upright. “You are committed and you are passionate and brilliant… and you don’t even realise it.” He runs a hand through his hair, rests the other on his hip. “Do you know how many people came up to me over the last couple of weeks, asking about you? Powerful men, Donna, men who would sell their soul to have you working for them… and then to watch you go back to him… when he doesn’t have a clue how amazing you are… or how lucky he is to have you. When he-”
Whatever else Will was going to say is lost among the mists of time, because all of a sudden, you’re not across the room from him, leaning against the desk and hoping like hell your legs will continue to hold you up. Now you’re in front of him, and when he realises that, he stops talking abruptly. Or maybe it’s not your proximity that does that, but the fact that your lips are on his, and, unlike the kiss that you gave Josh earlier, there’s nothing brief or light or chaste about it. Oh no, this is a full-on kiss, mouths open, tongues tangling, and while it’s as much as a surprise to you as it is to him, you end up pressing your body closer to his, winding your fingers through his hair, even moaning, because where the hell did Will Bailey learn to kiss like this?
You don’t know how long you kiss him, but when you pull back, you’re breathing hard, a thousand emotions dancing through you, and regret is not one of them. He’s staring at you as if you’re a puzzle that he’s trying to work out, and you look into his wide eyes, take in the dilated pupils, the dazed expression, and you smile. “I didn’t take the job,” you tell him quietly.
You’re expecting some kind of response, but you’re taken aback – and, it must be said, equal parts amused and pleased – when he simply blinks. “Job?” he asks. “What job?”
You chuckle, and he smiles, a lopsided half smile that’s very familiar to you, thanks to who knows how many late night conversations, strategy discussions, dinners in a hundred different greasy spoons in as many different cities. You look at him and you think of all the time you’ve spent together, you think of what he’s just said, and you’re struck by the fact that he meant every word. He’s proved as much, by treating you as an equal, by respecting you, enough to tell you his opinion, even if he thought you were going to disagree with him, especially when he thought you were making the biggest mistake of your life.
His hands flex on your hips, and your body reacts automatically, grinding against him. His eyelids flutter shut, his Adam’s apple moving up and down as he swallows hard, and his fight for control is visible. When his eyes finally meet yours again, it’s your turn to tell him a few home truths. “I told Josh that I didn’t want to work for him again,” you say. “And it wasn’t because of you, and it wasn’t because of this…” Which, you understand might be hard for him to believe, but when he looks down, you know it’s an acknowledgement. “It was for me… because whatever’s in store for me now… I want to move forward… not back.” You tilt your head to one side, wrinkling your nose as you realise how flaky that sounds. “Does that make sense?” you ask and his shoulders rise and fall in a deep breath.
“Perfect sense,” he says, his hands falling from your body as he takes a step away from you.
Your hand, acting independently of your brain, reaches out, grabbing his wrist, pulling him back into your arms, your lips once again finding his. The kiss isn’t as furiously passionate as the last, but it lasts longer, and you only pull away when you’re finding it hard to remember where his body ends and yours begins.
“OK…” he breathes. “I’m getting mixed messages here…”
And you smile, because for the first time in your life, what you want is clear as crystal in your mind, and part of it is standing right in front of you. “I don’t know what’s next,” you tell him. “All I know… is that I like this. Us. Whatever us is. And I think I’d like to find out.”
“But with better grammar, right?” His smile is ear to ear and slightly goofy but he’s still managing to tease you, still managing to make you laugh. You swat at him with one hand, which he catches in midair, bringing your fingers to his lips. “I’d like that too,” he says, right before he draws you closer to him, kisses you again.
You lose track of time, and when you next focus on his face, you know that the grin you see there is matched on your own face. “So,” he asks you, “What happens now?”
It can’t be more than an hour ago that you asked him that very question, something that makes your head spin, because you knew, though you’d forgotten, that the world can change just that quickly. “I think I’d like a date for the party downstairs,” you tell him. “There’s dancing…”
Will shakes his head, purses his lips. “I don’t dance,” he tells you, and you lift an eyebrow, because you’re not going to take that for an answer. Not that he needs to know that, not yet anyway.
So you shrug. “Then you can watch me dance,” you tell him. “We’ll join the rest of them… tell war stories and close down the bar… I figure that by then, the sun’s going to be coming up…”
Your voice is light, but his eyes are very serious, and when his fingers knead the small of your back, he seems almost nervous. “And what happens then?” he wonders, and you realise with a start that he doesn’t trust this; not entirely. He still doesn’t believe that this is really happening.
Your hand finds his, fingers entwining and squeezing, and you give him your best smile, your most sincere smile. “Then?” Words fail you momentarily, and when they come back, you can only hope that they’re enough. “We’ll see what the morning brings.”
Wonder of wonders, he smiles at that, nods, and walks with you out of the hotel room, back to the ballroom, where you talk the night away. And in the morning, when the sun rises over the Pacific, and he kisses you as the wind tangles in your hair, you know that neither one of you are looking back.
You’ve got all you need in one another’s arms.
I'm posting this before I regret it... it's the started as something but turned into something else WW fic that ended up being way longer than I thought it would be.
Title: Waking a Dream
Fandom: West Wing
Pairing: Josh/Donna, Will/Donna
Rating: PG
Word Count: 4,545
Spoilers: Everything so far in season six to be on the safe side.
Sam told you over a beer once, when you were high over the success of your expedition to North Dakota, when he was at a low over the stunt that Kevin Kahn pulled with a certain opposition ad, that Bruno Gianelli had let him have it in the bullpen. That the other man had reamed him out, told him that if people didn’t start listening to him, they were going to find out what the crappy end of Inauguration Day felt like.
You don’t know whether it was because they listened to Bruno, or the American public just worked it out on their own, but either way, the worst didn’t happen, not then. Jed Bartlet got elected to a second term as President, and you sat and watched him take the Oath of Office with a smile on your face and tears in your eyes and you felt proud.
You’ve never known what the crappy end of Inauguration Day felt like; two election campaigns, two victories, a one hundred percent record. And while you knew that the third campaign wasn’t going to be easy – how could it be, when your candidate was Bob Russell, not a man renowned for his charisma, going up against Arnold Vinick, so good a public speaker that you once turned to Josh and told him that he had a year to talk you out of voting for Vinick. You knew it was going to be hard to beat Vinick in November, everyone on the campaign knew that.
You never in a million years believed that you wouldn’t get the chance to try.
And yet here you are in southern California, Will Bailey by your side, looking every bit as morose as you feel. Four years ago, this place was the site of his greatest victory. Today, it’s the place of his worst defeat, and as you watch Matt Santos give his victory speech in a ballroom across town, you can’t stop a sigh from escaping. A sip of your whiskey sour doesn’t do a thing to make you feel any better, nor does it show the slightest signs of beginning to do so. You glance at Will to see if he heard you, and to your surprise, you see the barest of smiles, certainly the first of the day, playing around his lips.
“You know the worst thing?” he says quietly, so quietly that if you were a centimetre further away from him, you’re not sure you would have been able to hear him. You don’t speak, just tilt your head curiously, and he turns to look right at you. You can just about make out your reflection in his glasses, until your gaze is drawn to the bitter smile that twists his lips, and something twists in your stomach, because you’ve never seen Will look like that before. “If I was doing any other job… I’d probably be supporting Santos too.”
You know Will Bailey, know the effort it took him to admit that, and you let out another sigh, finding the ice in your glass very interesting all of a sudden. “Yeah,” you admit softly. “Me too.” Because you might have been on the other side of this very close run Democratic contest, but damn, Josh ran a good campaign, and while it kills you to admit it, just as it killed Will, Santos deserves the nomination that he will now almost certainly get.
Except that there’s still a part of you – the hopeless romantic part, the part of you that Josh always liked to make fun of – that wants to believe it’s not over yet, that Russell can still come from behind, even if his speech of an hour ago more or less conceded the race. You open your mouth to say as much to Will, but he cuts you off, shakes his head. “Don’t say it Donna,” he says, giving a sigh of his own for good measure. “It’s over.”
You take another sip – a very large sip – of your drink, not looking at him, instead looking at the party. Your candidate’s political career, and yours with it, might be dead and buried, but all around you, people are having a hell of a time at the wake. You can’t begrudge them either; after all, these people have had the thankless task of marshalling the Russell vote when all the polls done lately had most of the constituents voting for Vinick, and a very thin majority of those that were voting Democrat going for Santos. These are the people that were chiefly responsible for the vote tonight being as close as it was, and you can’t begrudge them their opportunity to let their hair down, let off some steam.
You’d be joining them if you weren’t so depressed.
You take another deep breath, looking over at Will. “So, what happens now?” you ask, and he turns to you, eyebrows rising over the rims of his glasses.
“You mean, where do we go from here?” he asks, and when you nod, he looks like he’s about to say something before a third voice, a very familiar voice, enters the conversation.
“I have an idea about that.”
Your head whips around in the direction of that voice, and you know you must look ridiculous, staring open-mouthed at Josh while he just stands there, bouncing on the balls of his feet, with, God help you, dimples showing. You know after studying him for only a second that he’s at his most impossibly smug, that somewhere earlier on he was boasting about needing the finest muffins and bagels in all the land. You never used to know how to take him when he was in this kind of mood, finding it by turns endearing or unbearable; right now, it’s the latter.
Then you look towards the television screen, see that Santos is still talking, see that the little legend in the corner of the screen still reads “Live.” Which means that, in the middle of one of the greatest moments of his political career, Josh Lyman did not stay to sample the spoils of victory. No, on the contrary; Josh Lyman came all the way across town to find you.
You’re not sure whether to feel elated or pissed off by that.
You’re not sure, but Will evidently is, because he makes a noise that sounds very much like disgust. Josh didn’t hear it, because his expression doesn’t change, but you look around to Will, and you see a facial expression that matches the sound exactly. “I’ll be… somewhere else,” he mutters, not wasting any time in moving away, and you can only stare after him, because it’s not like Will to be so rude.
Then you look back and Josh, see him looking after Will with an expression that’s partly confused, partly amused, and you really can’t blame him for leaving. You feel very tired all of a sudden, drained, and you know it shows in your voice. “What do you want, Josh?”
His expression never wavers. “You,” he says simply, and your heart skips a beat, literally, before starting up double time. Your mouth goes dry, your hand tightening on your drink, and you’d raise it to your lips, knock it back in one gulp and go to the bar for more, if you could only get your arms and legs to work.
“What?” you manage to ask, and Josh’s grin gets wider, which you would have said wasn’t possible.
“How would you like to come and work for the next President of the United States?” he asks, words that make your heart-rate return to something approaching normal and you look down, counting to ten because the last thing you want is for the hurt you’re feeling to show on your face. You knew, after all these years, that Josh wouldn’t show up here for you, would never show up and sweep you off your feet like the hero in some romantic movie. You knew that, you’ve known that for a long time, and that brief second of hope is all the more painful because of it. “I’m serious Donna,” he continues. “What do you say?”
You swallow hard against the lump in your throat, and a sip of Dutch courage makes it that much easier to look him in the eye. “What if I like the job I have?”
You think it almost sounds strong, confident, and you’re supremely affronted when Josh chuckles, looks around him. “Yeah… it looks like it’s working out well for you.” You literally have to bite your tongue at the tone of his voice, and he takes a step towards you, still doing that little bouncing thing. “Donna, Matt Santos is going to be the Democratic nominee… you have to know that. And against Vinick… this campaign… it’s going to be a dogfight. We need good people.” A beat, and by now he’s so close to you that he could reach out and touch you if he wanted to, and that’s just what he does, takes you by the elbows and looks into your eyes. “We need you.”
You remind yourself that you’re a strong, confident, independent woman. You are not the scared girl who walked into a Nashua office eight years ago and talked yourself into a job. You’ve grown, you’ve matured, and you know that Joshua Lyman did not hang the moon and the stars.
You know all that, and you know that one of the main reasons why you left your job at the White House, why you left him, was that he didn’t see that. It’s not, as some people insisted, because you were in love with him and got tired of waiting for him to notice you, or because you were in love with him and left to clear the way for romance. That had nothing to do with it, although you admit that your feelings for Josh have for a long time been beyond strictly platonic. You know people talked about the two of you, know what they think about you, but you don’t care, because you know the truth. That you could do more, and you wanted to prove it, and he was never going to give you that chance.
Except he’s here now, and he’s offering you that chance, and if it’s not everything you’ve ever dreamed about, it’s damn close. You feel yourself starting to smile, feel your posture relaxing, and his smile widens, one of his hands sliding down so that his fingers close around yours. He sees you weakening, squeezes your hand. “I mean it Donna… come and work for me again… just like old times.”
And just like that, with one preposition, the bloom starts to fall from the rose; the ensuing words kill it completely. Your hand falls from his, and this time, you give into the impulse to knock back a very large gulp of your drink. The bitter tang brings you fully to your senses, allows you to step back from him, to see his face finally register that this is not the offer of your dreams. “What if I don’t want old times, Josh?” you ask him. You neither sound nor feel bitter, you note with surprise, nor are you angry.
You’re just sad, because after all this time, all these years spent at his side, you’re realising that he doesn’t really know you at all.
Josh blinks, smug grin faltering. “Come on Donna,” he says, and you recognise that tone. That’s his “Congress are idiots who should be horsewhipped and why the hell won’t people do as I tell them” voice, and you know he’s about an inch away from saying something that you’re not going to like. You want to tell him to stop, but he doesn’t let you get a word in. “Your candidate just lost the California primary… and a host of others… this campaign is dead in the water… why the hell would you pass up an offer like this?”
His voice is rising, attracting people’s attention, but you don’t look at them, only at Josh. “I don’t want to go back to the way things were, Josh,” you tell him quietly. “I don’t want to be just your assistant anymore… I’m better than that.”
Josh is looking at you like you’re speaking a different language, his smile fixed in that rictus like grin he wears when he’s saying something that he doesn’t really believe. “So you won’t just be my assistant,” he says, and when he talks, his lips don’t move, horrendous fake smile plastered in place. “We’ll find you something else…”
You shake your head, because you know things would never be that simple. Things between you and Josh could never be that simple. “But every time you dealt with me… that’s how you’d treat me.” He shakes his head, as if to deny it, but this time, you don’t let him speak. “You don’t see me as an equal, Josh… you never have.”
“Of course I-” he begins, but it doesn’t ring anywhere close to true, and you cut him off by holding up your hand. It’s the first time you’ve ever been able to do that, but it’s a decidedly hollow victory.
“Josh…” You let his name out on a long breath, laying down your glass on a table beside you. Your now free hand goes to his chest, rests over his heart, and you think about the scar under the shirt, remember those terrible hours in a hospital waiting room when you didn’t know whether he would live or die. You remember those nights and days in his apartment, enforcing The Rules, remember what it felt like for your world to revolve around this man.
You miss that closeness, regret what never happened between you, but you don’t regret the woman you’ve become.
Just like you know that you can’t go back, and you don’t want to.
Because your natural impulse would always be to lose yourself in this man, and his natural impulse would always be to let you. You can’t live like that, and you don’t want to. Not any more.
“Donna…” His voice is a ragged whisper, his pupils dilated as they stare down at your hand over his heart, his lips parted, and you’re sure that he’s going to kiss you.
Which is why you lean forward and brush your lips over his.
Then you step away from him, letting your hand drop.
His face falls then, all smugness disappearing, and when he says your name, he sounds like nothing so much as a little boy lost. “Donna?” he asks, and tears rise up in your throat, because even if this is right, that doesn’t make it easy.
“I owe you so much,” you tell him. “You took a chance on me when you had no reason to… you put your trust in me… I can never repay you for that.”
Josh grins, but it’s only a ghost of his usual cocksure smirk. “You already have,” he tells you, and damn the man, why does he have to pick this moment to be sweet and sincere? It’s playing havoc with your already fraying composure. “And hiring you? Best move I ever made.”
Your smile feels shaky, as shaky as your legs when you step away from him, but you can hold your head up high, because you know this is the right thing to do. “You’re going to run a great campaign Josh,” you tell him. “And I hope you win… and I don’t know what I’m going to do next… but I think I need to find out for myself… you know?”
He gives a little shrug. “You know… if it doesn’t work out…”
He lets his voice trail off, and you nod, throat aching with unshed tears. You couldn’t speak, even if you wanted to; in fact, all you can do is turn around and walk away from him.
You have to be the one who walks away. Josh never would, and your only hope is that he doesn’t call after you, doesn’t beg you one more time, because strong as you are, you don’t know that you’re strong enough to withstand that.
The bar is still doing a roaring trade, but you order water. You’re not usually a weepy drunk, but this is a night of firsts, and that’s not one you especially want to deal with. Making your way through the crowd of dancing revellers, you do a full pass of the room before you realise that you’re looking out for Will. You don’t see him anywhere though, which makes you frown, and just in case you missed him, you make another sweep, just to confirm what you already know – Will Bailey is nowhere to be found at this party.
You wonder where he is, and without conscious thought, you find yourself making your way out of the ballroom, heading to the elevator where you get off at your floor, walk down the corridor to your room. You walk past your door though, going to the next door over, Will’s door, and you knock carefully on it, tilting your head so that you can listen for any movement inside. There’s no reply at first, and for a moment, you consider that maybe he’s not there, maybe he’s gone somewhere else, but then you hear footsteps approaching, and you take a step back before the door opens.
When the door does open, you smile, but, unusually for Will, there is no answering smile in return. Instead, his face is dark, almost hostile, his jaw set in a hard line. “Hey,” you say, forcing a smile to your face, because it’s not easy to smile at such an angry countenance.
“Hey,” he says, and his voice, if anything, is even more hostile than you might have expected. “Come to hand in your notice?”
You blink in surprise. “My notice?” you echo. “Why would you think that?”
“What else am I supposed to think?” he demands, and you look up and down the corridor, because that was kinda loud.
“Can we… can we not do this in the hallway?” you ask, and he sighs, but he steps back to let you in. He just doesn’t look happy about it. Once in, you turn to look at him, taking in his appearance from head to toe. His jacket is long gone, had been even in the party downstairs, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, top button open and tie gone. His arms are crossed over his chest, his shoulders squared, a man geared for a fight, and you can’t understand how you went from commiserating at the party to this.
He doesn’t speak, and when it registers that he’s waiting for you to speak, the only thing that comes to mind is to address his question. “Josh did offer me a job,” you tell him quietly. “But I don’t know why…”
“I’m acting like this?” He interrupts you, and that, as much as the anger in his voice, the fact that he’s shouting, shocks you into silence. “How about because I’ve spent the last few months waiting for you to drop everything the second that Josh Lyman waltzes in and asks you to come back? Waiting for you to realise that your backup job isn’t good enough any more, that this isn’t where you want to be?”
“Will…” you begin, but once again, you’ve met a man who doesn’t seem to be willing to let you get a word in edgewise.
“Let me guess… he offered you your old job back.” It’s a statement that demands a response, and you nod slowly, the gesture making him laugh. “I knew it.” That’s more him talking to himself than talking to you though, and you find yourself backing away from him, until the small of your back impacts against the writing desk and there’s nowhere else for you to go. He’s not looking at you though, is reaching up to pinch his nose, the action disrupting his glasses, and he’s still chuckling humourlessly. Then he looks up at you, and he’s deadly serious, and something about the way his eyes gleam behind his glasses makes you wish you had that drink in your hand again. “Donna, you are wasted as his assistant,” he tells you flatly, and you’re glad that the desk is at your back; it might just be the only thing keep you upright. “You are committed and you are passionate and brilliant… and you don’t even realise it.” He runs a hand through his hair, rests the other on his hip. “Do you know how many people came up to me over the last couple of weeks, asking about you? Powerful men, Donna, men who would sell their soul to have you working for them… and then to watch you go back to him… when he doesn’t have a clue how amazing you are… or how lucky he is to have you. When he-”
Whatever else Will was going to say is lost among the mists of time, because all of a sudden, you’re not across the room from him, leaning against the desk and hoping like hell your legs will continue to hold you up. Now you’re in front of him, and when he realises that, he stops talking abruptly. Or maybe it’s not your proximity that does that, but the fact that your lips are on his, and, unlike the kiss that you gave Josh earlier, there’s nothing brief or light or chaste about it. Oh no, this is a full-on kiss, mouths open, tongues tangling, and while it’s as much as a surprise to you as it is to him, you end up pressing your body closer to his, winding your fingers through his hair, even moaning, because where the hell did Will Bailey learn to kiss like this?
You don’t know how long you kiss him, but when you pull back, you’re breathing hard, a thousand emotions dancing through you, and regret is not one of them. He’s staring at you as if you’re a puzzle that he’s trying to work out, and you look into his wide eyes, take in the dilated pupils, the dazed expression, and you smile. “I didn’t take the job,” you tell him quietly.
You’re expecting some kind of response, but you’re taken aback – and, it must be said, equal parts amused and pleased – when he simply blinks. “Job?” he asks. “What job?”
You chuckle, and he smiles, a lopsided half smile that’s very familiar to you, thanks to who knows how many late night conversations, strategy discussions, dinners in a hundred different greasy spoons in as many different cities. You look at him and you think of all the time you’ve spent together, you think of what he’s just said, and you’re struck by the fact that he meant every word. He’s proved as much, by treating you as an equal, by respecting you, enough to tell you his opinion, even if he thought you were going to disagree with him, especially when he thought you were making the biggest mistake of your life.
His hands flex on your hips, and your body reacts automatically, grinding against him. His eyelids flutter shut, his Adam’s apple moving up and down as he swallows hard, and his fight for control is visible. When his eyes finally meet yours again, it’s your turn to tell him a few home truths. “I told Josh that I didn’t want to work for him again,” you say. “And it wasn’t because of you, and it wasn’t because of this…” Which, you understand might be hard for him to believe, but when he looks down, you know it’s an acknowledgement. “It was for me… because whatever’s in store for me now… I want to move forward… not back.” You tilt your head to one side, wrinkling your nose as you realise how flaky that sounds. “Does that make sense?” you ask and his shoulders rise and fall in a deep breath.
“Perfect sense,” he says, his hands falling from your body as he takes a step away from you.
Your hand, acting independently of your brain, reaches out, grabbing his wrist, pulling him back into your arms, your lips once again finding his. The kiss isn’t as furiously passionate as the last, but it lasts longer, and you only pull away when you’re finding it hard to remember where his body ends and yours begins.
“OK…” he breathes. “I’m getting mixed messages here…”
And you smile, because for the first time in your life, what you want is clear as crystal in your mind, and part of it is standing right in front of you. “I don’t know what’s next,” you tell him. “All I know… is that I like this. Us. Whatever us is. And I think I’d like to find out.”
“But with better grammar, right?” His smile is ear to ear and slightly goofy but he’s still managing to tease you, still managing to make you laugh. You swat at him with one hand, which he catches in midair, bringing your fingers to his lips. “I’d like that too,” he says, right before he draws you closer to him, kisses you again.
You lose track of time, and when you next focus on his face, you know that the grin you see there is matched on your own face. “So,” he asks you, “What happens now?”
It can’t be more than an hour ago that you asked him that very question, something that makes your head spin, because you knew, though you’d forgotten, that the world can change just that quickly. “I think I’d like a date for the party downstairs,” you tell him. “There’s dancing…”
Will shakes his head, purses his lips. “I don’t dance,” he tells you, and you lift an eyebrow, because you’re not going to take that for an answer. Not that he needs to know that, not yet anyway.
So you shrug. “Then you can watch me dance,” you tell him. “We’ll join the rest of them… tell war stories and close down the bar… I figure that by then, the sun’s going to be coming up…”
Your voice is light, but his eyes are very serious, and when his fingers knead the small of your back, he seems almost nervous. “And what happens then?” he wonders, and you realise with a start that he doesn’t trust this; not entirely. He still doesn’t believe that this is really happening.
Your hand finds his, fingers entwining and squeezing, and you give him your best smile, your most sincere smile. “Then?” Words fail you momentarily, and when they come back, you can only hope that they’re enough. “We’ll see what the morning brings.”
Wonder of wonders, he smiles at that, nods, and walks with you out of the hotel room, back to the ballroom, where you talk the night away. And in the morning, when the sun rises over the Pacific, and he kisses you as the wind tangles in your hair, you know that neither one of you are looking back.
You’ve got all you need in one another’s arms.
