More (unofficial) West Wing

The unbearable lightness of flirting

2011-10-31T15:05:00.000-07:00

Someone is flirting with you.

You've almost forgotten what this feels like, and what it feels like is, well, good. It feels like you are not invisible. Not out of bounds. It feels like your life extends beyond your office, beyond the confines of those four walls and of the demanding boss, demanding not only because of his own expectations but also - especially - because of what you expect of yourself in your service to him. Sometimes it feels as if those four walls are caving in; sometimes it feels as if you can't breathe. The pressure is too much. The demands are too much. He - he is too much. Takes up too much space in your brain, your heart, your life.

And so it feels good that someone is flirting with you. It feels good to drink the chilled white wine and have him flirt with you, not knowing the background, not knowing the - the complications. Sure, you will have complications of your own, the two of you, if he - if you - move beyond the flirting. But they will be new complications. You imagine, somehow, that it will more fun, less tiresome, to unpick these complications - these new complications - than to endlessly go over and over the old ones.

You are thinking about all this as he flirts with you. You are thinking about all this, but you are also there, in the moment, enjoying him. You are laughing at his jokes, not in an over eager way or out of obligation but because they are funny. You are wanting to give him the benefit of the doubt: maybe Republicans aren't necessarily bad guys, maybe not all of them, maybe not this one. This one is funny. This one is cute. And he has kind eyes. Eyes that seem incapable of looking down on the needy. Eyes that seem incapable of anything but compassion.

And then there's the Jewish thing. Jewish guys are hot. You have to admit that. You don't know why you think that. Maybe it's because all the Jewish guys you know are smart. And funny. Maybe that it's. You like that option. You like to think it has nothing to do with one particular Jewish guy, the one you have been in love with for as long as you can remember. You shake your head to rid yourself of thoughts of him.

"Something bothering you?" asks the guy who is flirting with you. Attentive. His hand on your shoulder. "You cold?"

"No. I -"

"Nervous twitch, then?"

"Yeah. I get nervous when J - when hot guys flirt with me."

The two of you laugh and he orders more drinks. But you cringe inside. Cringe to have used the word "hot" like you did back in high school, back when you assumed you would have all this completely figured out by the time you were whatever age you were now. You cringe to have almost said the other thing. You hope he didn't notice, though you know it's a lost cause. It doesn't seem to have bothered him, though, or stopped him flirting. He is good at it. He is not heavy handed, but neither is he so subtle that you cannot quite tell whether he's into you. You are enjoying yourself. Really. You only wish it weren't so much effort to swat away thoughts of the other guy. The other guy who flirts with you but seems not to have any intention of following it through.

The other guy, who is not so subtle with the flirting, but who is so unsubtle that it must be a double bluff, unless it's a triple bluff, and here we go again with the complications, and wouldn't it be nice if the two of you could sit here, flirting, if you could force yourself to laugh at the terrible jokes which normally have you rolling your eyes and know it was all leading somewhere, wherever that somewhere might be, that the flirting was not just flirting.

They told me it would be like this.

2011-10-15T13:17:00.000-07:00

They told me it would be like this.

They didn't have to tell me. I lived it. For nine years I lived it with him, this life of his. But for some reason, they felt they had to remind me.

You won't see him, they said. You'll come to miss being his assistant, when you were just feet away from him all day, every day. And there are times when I catch myself thinking they were right. It's easy for the hindsight to acquire a rose tint. Yes, there was the banter. The flirting. The thrill of unresolved sexual tension.

Except it is not thrilling.

Maybe on a TV show it's thrilling. It keeps you watching, keeps you wondering. But this wasn't TV; this wasn't one hour a week. This was unremitting, daily real life. My body aching for him every day; my soul, too.

And sure, there are days when I feel it again. There are weeks, there are months, when I'm reminded of that ache. I miss him. Even now that we are married I miss him. I fall asleep wishing he were beside me; I often wake alone. The children cry for him and he can't hear them.

They told me it would be like this, and I never doubted it. Do I wish it didn't have to be? Maybe. But it's the path we have chosen. This life is what made Josh Josh, and Josh is who my body aches for. There is no pretending anymore, and maybe the thrill, such as it was, has gone. But the thrill is over-rated. I'll take the security any day: knowing I belong to him and he to me, no longer having to work out whether what I see in his eyes is what I hope it is or whether his anger is motivated by jealousy.

They told me it would be like this. I believed them. I was right to believe them. And still without hesitation I choose this life: occasional stolen moments with Josh rather than the constant presence of any lesser man.

I'll take you shoe shopping

2011-09-25T12:40:00.000-07:00

It was meant only for her to hear. "When it's over I'll buy you shoes."

Only she was meant to hear it, and she wasn't meant to take it seriously. But CJ had heard it too, and on Monday when Donna had said, "he was kidding about the shoes", CJ was apparently not impressed.

"Josh," she said, standing in the doorway to his office with her hands on her hips. "You promised Donna shoes."

He took another sip from his lukewarm coffee while he considered what the appropriate response might be.

"Huh?"

"You said that if she went to the thing on Saturday, you'd buy her shoes."

"Well, I didn't mean it."

CJ crossed her arms. "Well then, you shouldn't have said it."

It was impeccable logic. He couldn't fault it. He continued to drink his coffee.

"She and Carol had lunch planned. She canceled because you were taking her shoe shopping."

"Oh."

"I just thought I'd better warn you. You know, in case."

"In case what?"

"In case she seems mad."

"She'd be mad about something so trivial?"

"Shoes," said CJ, "are not trivial."

"Got it." Though he really hadn't. Shouldn't he have women figured out by now?

But it was irking him later as he read through his notes in preparation for Senior Staff. He opened his mouth to shout, and then it occurred to him that now might be a good time to learn to use the intercom. He pressed the button.

"Donna?"

No response.

"Donna?" Louder now. How did the damn thing work anyway?

"Donna!"

She pushed open his door.

"Yes?"

She was wearing a skirt that was shorter than the ones to which he was accustomed, and he forgot for a moment why he'd called her in.

"There's an intercom, you know," she said, presumably to fill the silence.

"I know. But I -"

"Don't know how to use it?"

"No."

"Well I guess there are some things they don't teach you at Harvard Law School."

"Yale."

"Whatever."

The snark: so CJ was right. It seemed shoes mattered after all.

"What are you doing at lunch?"

"I'm having lunch with Carol."

"Cancel it," he said, before he'd thought. Damn it, if he could just learn not to do that one of these days.

"You've got to be kidding me." She sounded a little like a moody teenager, but he chose, benevolently, to ignore that.

"I'm taking you shoe shopping."

"That's a little joke right there, isn't it? It's funny."

"It's not a joke. I'm taking you shoe shopping. Really. I'm sorry about Saturday."

She tried to hide her smile but he saw it. He was very observant like that.

"Okay," she said, and smiled some more.

"I'm taking Donna shoe shopping," Josh said over her shoulder to Sam.

"I'm not sure what the proper response is to that."

"That it's a kind and generous yet also a manly thing to do?" His voice had risen worryingly in pitch towards the end of the sentence.

"Right," said Sam, furrowing his brow in what looked liked bewilderment. Or perhaps despair. "I just came by to say the thing's a lunchtime thing now."

"But - "

It worried Josh a little that Donna was still smiling.

"It's okay, Josh. You can take me shoe shopping another day."

Later, much later, she would tell him that the thought was enough. It was enough that he had imagined himself to be free enough in the middle of a Monday to take her shopping. It was enough that he was willing to stand in line for an age, watch her walk up and down, tell her the black ones looked nice and the red ones didn't seem like they would be very practical. Of course, it was entirely possible that he hadn't thought about any of it, that he had not thought further than her smile. And that was okay with her too.

In the dream

2011-08-07T03:46:00.001-07:00

In her dream she was the first to arrive. She stood and watched helplessly, uselessly, as they ran, wheeling him in, as he mumbled something that sounded like her name, like an accusation. She stood, in her dream as she had in reality: speechless, her hand clamped over her mouth.

But in her dream, she was the first one there and as each person arrived she said the words herself. Josh was hit. It's critical. In the dream she said it deadpan, delivered as though it were an inconsequential inconvenience.

Hit. Critical. Critical. Critical...

In the dream, no one hugged her either. In the dream they nodded and went on their way, walking calmly to the room where they would wait, and wait, and wait. In the dream she spoke calmly and her knees did not buckle under her and she asked no ridiculous questions. In the dream a nurse eventually came over to her, when the last of them had walked calmly to the waiting room, and she offered her a glass of water, and inexplicably asked if she was his wife, and that was when Donna began to cry. And the nurse did what none of the others had done; she slipped one arm around Donna's shoulder and led her to a chair.

She didn't know why she wasn't following the others, except that even in her dream she was dimly aware of a sense of betrayal, a sense of injustice. The nurse offered no empty words of meaningless comfort, no he's going to be okay that no-one suspected to be true, but just for a minute or two someone had taken care of her and in the dream for those two minutes she was aware of her shoulders lightening. But she woke up to the sensation of falling, to the familiar nausea tightening her stomach, to her shoulders sighing again under the weight of responsibility, to the sobs convulsing her body, to a haunting loneliness that she knew would never leave her if he didn't live.

The meaning of nothing

2011-08-01T04:14:00.001-07:00

The dress plunges low, low, down to the small of her back and when he puts his hand there to gently guide her toward the dining hall he is surprised to be touching skin.

"Josh, it's okay," she says, and he realizes he has instinctively pulled his hand away.

"I didn't - " he says, and then he stops, because how is he going to finish that sentence? I didn't expect to touch you? I didn't expect your skin to be so soft? Or, worse, I didn't want you to think - careless words that would mean exactly what they both knew them to mean, and before the minute was over they would be stuck in that cycle of theirs, she wanting him to say it, he desperately trying to avoid saying it.

"Didn't what?" She turns her innocent blue eyes toward him. So not saying anything is clearly not going to work either.

"I didn't expect your back to be there," he says, a note of pleading in his voice.

"You thought I was a disembodied dress?"

Sometimes, he thinks, that would make my life simpler. If there were no body.

"Yes, Donna," he says, impressing her, he hopes, with his newfound ability to laugh at himself. "That's exactly what I thought."

"You crack me up," she says, not cracking up, and then adds in a low voice, perhaps a little drunk already, "A little skin to skin contact is going to kills us?"

"It might."

Here we go, he thinks, and sure enough.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing."

She's stopped walking. He turns his head back to her and sees that the front of the dress has one of those ruched necklines. Ruched? Where did he learn that word?

"Why did you stop walking?"

"Because you always do that."

"Always do what?" Though of course he knows. But maybe the Bambi thing will work for him too.

"You always almost say it."

"Say what?"

He is aware of his quickening pulse. If she puts words to it, the game is over. And in the absence of anything beyond the game, he likes the game.

"Nothing," she says, playing too, refusing the risk too. But she looks into his eyes as she says it, as though she were confident that his nothing meant the same as hers, or perhaps as though she were gambling everything on that one word.

He holds out his arm and she takes it, and he seriously considers dancing with her later.

No exit

2011-07-25T02:59:00.000-07:00

They didn't have to say they would never speak of it again. The closeness of the air, the thickness of the silence between them, the haste with which Donna left when they were given the all-clear said it, shouted it, screamed it.

CJ wasn't entirely sure why she had allowed herself and her words to be pulled in this dangerous direction. She was torn between the relief of having voiced the perennially unvoiced and the guilt at Donna shrinking like a wounded animal and the injustice of having been so ill-received when she had, after all, spoken out of concern, affection even, for these two people.

Although, perhaps, thinking about it, affection had not been her chief motivation. Frustration, maybe. Under different circumstances - over coffee on a lazy Sunday, or after a few drinks on a Friday night... But there were no lazy Sundays and when work was finished on Friday nights there was no energy left for anything except the drive home, the removal of clothes and make-up, the closing of eyes and the waiting for sleep, as you wait for an ancient computer to close each program one by one, so that darkness only came - to the screen, to her mind - when patience was almost exhausted.

And perhaps, whatever the circumstances, there were certain things that could never be spoken of, for fear that naming them would call forth their destructive power. And this unspokenness was the air vent that had kept Donna breathing in the hell she had constructed for herself, and with CJ's words the air vent had snapped shut and she was suffocating, and it was at last possible that she might seek escape.

But while she could still breathe Donna would not seek a way out, blind as she was to the desirability or even the possibility of escape. And so hell, to Donna, was other people, one other person, because she had allowed herself to be chained to him at the cost of her freedom.

Hell. No exit. Other people, or another person - always this other person.

Waiting for sleep

2011-06-26T04:42:00.000-07:00

She could hear her heart thumping still, almost feel the caffeine coursing through her veins. What hospital coffee lacked in taste and quality it more than made up for with strength.

They'd sent her home; he'd nodded his agreement.

"Get some sleep," they'd said, all of them.

As if.

She wasn't sure if she was unable to sleep as much as she was plainly unwilling, vaguely superstitious that her staying awake was somehow keeping him alive.

She thought about reading but the words danced meaninglessly in front of her strained, puffy eyes. Sure, there were magazines, with photos and bright colors and no need to focus, but the glossy smell made her faintly nauseous and probably always would, carrying with them the recent memory of furiously flicking from page to page in a hospital waiting room, as though that would make time past faster somehow, bring him back to her sooner.

She flung her arms behind her head and waited for sleep, but waited with her eyes open. Come if you must, but don't expect to be welcomed.

"Get some sleep," he'd said, the way you might say "be careful out there", or "look after yourself". Meant, fully meant, and yet fully meaningless.

She buried her face in her pillow, and wondered if she might cry, but the pain, the anxiety, the loneliness, the fear came from a deeper place than tears do.

"Get some sleep," he'd said, and she thought about that. She thought about the tenderness in his eyes, his concern for her in the midst of her own emergency. The way he had lacked the strength to squeeze her hand. Their story did not feel finished. There had to be more. Had to be.

She thought about -

A button and a distraction

2011-06-18T05:43:00.001-07:00

Her button was undone.

He wished he hadn't noticed, but there it was, he had, and he could not go back and un-notice it.

Just that one button. Just enough so that he could see the little pink bow on her bra, a chaste Midwestern bra, he liked to imagine, because when would she have time to be anything other than chaste? He'd seen to that.

Someone should probably tell her. But how to do it subtly, subtlety not being his strongest suit at the best of times? How to say the words Donna and button without finding himself saying bra and betraying his wandering, iniquitous thoughts?

Through the crack in his door he saw the solution: Carol. Probably coming to pore over the Lemon Lyman website with Donna. He supposed it was an activity best enjoyed with friends.

"Just the person," he said, breezing - hopefully breezing - past the bullpen.

"Hi," said Carol, uncertainly. "Me?"

"Hi." He still didn't know how he was going to word it. "Could you step into my office?"

"Sure." She followed him, then waited. "Was there -"

"Yes. Listen, I know this is going to sound -"

Sitting at his desk, he looked at Carol and then past her: it was a reflex of which he was no longer conscious, this constant glancing towards the bullpen. He noticed, with a little disappointment, that Donna had already, well, rectified the situation.

"Never mind."

"Okay," said Carol, slowly, as if talking to a dim-witted child.

He heard them laughing, her and Donna. He imagined them exchanging rolled eyes. And he felt a little wounded at his thwarted act of gallantry - of selflesness, even, because although the barely open shirt had been a distracting sight it had certainly not been an unpleasant one, just a glimpse of what could be their future, if only, if he only, if circumstances only, the familiar scenarios running through his mind and always the same conclusion, the same defeated conclusion that the little pink bow on the chaste Midwestern bra was a long way out of his reach, years perhaps, forever perhaps, because surely she would get tired of waiting, if she was in fact waiting, waiting for him, and why shouldn't she, he was, after, all the picture of gallantry.

But. Yeah, yeah. He knew the reality of it.

He put his head down on his desk and counted to ten slowly.

Thanks to Judy Reeves for the writing prompt in her Book of Days, "her button was undone".

All her smiles

2011-06-08T13:19:00.000-07:00

He rolled onto his side, propped up his head with his elbow, and took in the sight of her. He had always loved her smile, all the versions of it: flirtatious or deeply contented or even snide. Perhaps his favorite was the one that told him she was humoring him, or perhaps it was the one from that night months ago: no. The no that signalled that do you want another drink was not the right question.

"So," he said now, when he'd watched her for almost longer than was polite. "Where do you want to go?"

"On honeymoon?"

He knew she loved that word, with its promise of sweetness. There's going to be a wedding, he'd said, kissing her neck, and whispering into her ear. And everybody is going to be looking at you and wondering how I ever got you to say yes. She hadn't faltered. They don't know you like I do, she'd replied, and he wondered why he'd allowed something so petty and insignificant as his job to delay this moment; he could have been kissing her like this for nine years.

She always sensed his pensiveness in those moments and pulled back, made him articulate his regrets so that she could reassure him again: We're here now, and that's all that matters. One day she would tell him about the letters she wrote him and then tore into a million pieces, about the enormous tubs of ice cream, about the soggy pillows, but not yet, not until he'd learned she wasn't going anywhere.

"There's a place somewhere called Paris," she said, leaning on her own elbow.

"In Wisconsin, I think."

"There are actually two in Wisconsin."

"Well, you pick one, and that's the one we'll go to."

She punched his arm, not much of a punch, really more of a tickle.

"Oh," he said. "Wait. There's another place called Paris, somewhere, no? Somewhere with a romantic language?"

"And amazing shopping," she said, a little too quickly, he thought.

"We are not going on honeymoon so that you can go shopping," he said.

"Even if I were buying lingerie?" She said it, lingerie, with an almost perfect French accent, as though he weren't enthralled already.

"I guess in that case that might be okay," he said, kissing her nose, her cheek, her hair. Thinking about taking her shopping, thinking about the dresses she would wear, thinking how amazing she would look, thinking about her smile when he would tell her so, realizing that was his favorite one of all.

Thanks to Judy Reeves for her prompt in A writer's book of days: "there's a place somewhere called Paris".

Requiem: post ep

2011-02-12T05:55:00.000-08:00

He wanted Donna.

After a day like that one, he wanted to go home to Donna. He wanted to sit on the couch with her and reminisce. He wanted to have her hold him. He wanted to rest his head on her shoulder, or to cry into her chest. Nothing seemed so bad when she was with him; just being with her took the edge off his pain.

But he hadn’t been quick enough with his offer.

He remembered that day on the campaign trail, that day in New Hampshire when he’d said to her, you should be with me. But he hadn’t been quick enough, then, either, quick enough to call her after she left, or quick enough to see beforehand that she wanted a challenge, that she needed to get out, to get some fresh air.

He didn’t want for the two of them to keep missing out because he wasn’t quick enough.

He wanted her. For the passion, for the fun, that stuff, yes. But most of all, most of all, he wanted to go home to her.

He realised now that was what he had been feeling for eight years. That having her there was reassuring, the way home is, or a favourite pair of slippers, or the way your pillow moulds to your head. Home, horrible cliché that it was, might be where the heart is after all.

He didn’t know if he was ready for the grown up stuff. He didn’t know if he even wanted it. But this he did know: home didn’t feel like home without Donna anymore.

Are you in love with Josh?

2010-11-19T08:53:00.000-08:00

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

2010-10-15T14:32:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-11T08:44:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-09T13:06:00.001-07:00

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...

2010-06-28T21:09:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-07T03:57:00.000-07:00

"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

2010-06-05T16:30:00.000-07:00

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.

Where she likes to sit

2010-05-25T10:10:00.000-07:00

She likes to go there sometimes, to close her eyes and remember that chilly night, the nearness of him, the way he had almost put his arm around her. She listens to the fountain, and it sounds to her like him, like the kind of heroic love that saves you from your own mistakes; almost like a knight in shining armor, were she given to such clichés.

She never takes enough layers of clothing because that would be betraying the memory, she wants the cold to bite her like it did back then, she wants it to be exactly as it was, when she thought things could not be any more difficult or complicated, back then, in what she now knows to be the good old days, haunted as they were by the ghost of what so nearly was, of what she so often hoped for.

Oh, if she'd only known.

She sits, curled up against the cold, chin resting on her knees, arms wrapped around her legs, she sits and she thinks about him and she wonders again if she made the wrong decision. On the list of pros and cons it had all seemed so right, but Christmas and New Year and their non-anniversary had come and gone, and of course Valentine's Day but she'd made a point of not noticing that, and he hadn't called and she was tired of missing him, tired of her whole body aching for him, tired of fighting against herself for feeling those things.

You'll know, she'd told herself, if you leave, you'll know. And if you know, then you can move on. Get on with life. Bury the ghost of non-anniversaries past.

Except, of course, that you can't bury a ghost, can you.

She sighs from deep within and the tears come, unbidden and unwelcome. On those rare occasions when she's honest with herself she knows that this is why she loves this fountain, this fountain which weeps on her behalf, incessantly, with all the energy she wishes she could summon. But tonight the fountain isn't enough; her heart is heavier than usual. No reason, no anniversary, no trigger that she can easily identify. Some days are just like this: they are the days when before she drifts off to fitful, restless sleep she wraps herself in his Harvard sweater, the sweater that smells more of her than him now but if she really concentrates and imagines herself to be back in his office she can still remember: coffee and that aftershave she loves, the one she sometimes, on the bad days, sneaks into the drugstore and squirts just once, to stop herself forgetting.

As if she ever could. Or would. Or wanted to.

She opens her eyes to wipe them and just beyond the weeping fountain there's a blur that looks like him, but all blurs do, she knows that by now, knows that from all those moments like this when she's held her breath and reminded herself that it can't be him. Only this time the shape walks like him and it's wearing the coat he once wrapped around her and then he's close enough that even through the tears and the darkness there's no denying it.

"It's freezing out here," he says, and he takes his coat off, her hero all over again. Drapes it round her shoulders before sitting down next to her.

"What are you doing here?" she says eventually.

"I like this place," he says, and there is tenderness and love and kindness and concern in his eyes, she knows that from his tone of voice, but she can't bring herself to look at him. "I come here to think."

"What about?" She hears herself say, as though she had not lost the right to ask. He doesn't answer. He doesn't answer, and they listen to the fountain, and the tears come again, how she wishes she weren't so powerless to stop them. She forces herself to look at him and she falls in love with his coffee-colored eyes all over again and despite the coat she shivers. "What about, Josh?"

"You," he says, looking straight at her, his eyes holding hers. "You."

And he gently wipes her tears away and he holds her, warm and tight and tender and strong, as she'd longed for him to hold her back then, as she longs for him to hold her always.

Thanks to Sarah Salway at www.sarahsalway.blogspot.com for the "where I like to sit" prompt.

Impact winter: risking everything

2010-05-17T05:10:00.001-07:00

"If you don't risk anything, you risk more." - Erica Jung

She knows the theory; who doesn't. But it's not as if leaving this job is risking anything.

It's risking everything.

Risking her identity. Who is she without this? This is where she rebuilt her life; her foundation. Take the foundation away, and what are you left with?

Exactly.

Risking her self-confidence. She can do this blindfolded and standing on her head and in all the other clichéd ways. Hell, she can even do it on no sleep and unlike the blindfold and the headstand she has actually tried that so she'd know. Any other job: the headaches that come with change and learning something new, the tears of frustration in locked bathroom cubicles when she's not instantly capable of excellence. Been years since she tried it, but she doesn't remember it being much fun.

And then there's risking him. She's risking them, this thing they have, whatever it is, this thing she loves and hates and smiles about before she cries herself to sleep, this thing she keeps coming back to and hopes one day to define, but only if there's a happy ending: there's risk in that too. Risk in everything.

She's risking hurting him, and she wishes more than anything that she didn't have to, but she sees no other way out. No exit. Hell is other people.

He is not hell, of course he's not. He, with his arrogance and his insensitivity, his inability to take initiative in resolving this mess, is not hell, no way. He, with his dimples and his fluffy hair and his passion for justice and his longing to see this nation be all it can be, he, will his vulnerability and his soft heart, is not heaven, she would never say that, because she's too sophisticated and grown up now for that teenage talk, that cheesiness. But.

She's risking losing everything, but she has to risk him, or she loses herself, or loses her love for him, are the two synonymous these days, she can't remember not loving him, she can't remember not dreaming about him, she can 't remember why she didn't do this sooner, this risking everything, because with every day it's become more impossible and she should have done it years ago, shoud've said she couldn't work for him because she loved him and she was sorry but he was going to have to choose, assistant or girlfriend, but she hadn't risked it, not yet, because what if?

But she was risking it now, because she just couldn't not anymore, risking everything to have a chance of gaining him, who was her reason for living, her reason for surviving, her reason for keeping going despite the nightmares that smelled of burning rubber and hospitals and the frustration of not having him kiss her.

She was risking it now, risking her everything, to gain him, her more than everything.

Thanks to creativewritingprompts.com for the, erm, creative writing prompt.

20 Hours in LA: the journey home

2010-03-30T02:13:00.000-07:00

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?

2010-02-06T09:28:00.000-08:00

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...

2010-01-15T11:25:00.000-08:00

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!!)

2009-12-30T17:13:00.000-08:00

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.

Wakeful in Washington...

2009-12-01T13:11:00.000-08:00

I’m slowly and blissfully sinking into much-needed, well-deserved sleep, with Josh’s arms around my waist, as became our custom years ago. The nearness of him never gets old, not even now that we’ve been together longer than we were, well, not.

“Daddy.”

Her first word ever. And since then, ever her first word.

“Daddy.”

Maybe her devotion to him is something she picked up from me, in which case there definitely shouldn’t be that slight pinching feeling around my heart when she always calls for him first. But...

She’s louder, more insistent this time. “Daddy. I can’t sleep.”

Josh untangles himself from me, running his hand down my arm to underline his reluctance at leaving me. That doesn’t get old either. Even in half-asleep states such as this one, I know awide grin is creeping across my face. I smile a lot these days. There’s worry, of course, arguments sometimes, there are sleepless nights not always for the right reasons, and there’s more time apart than I would choose, but there is a lot of smiling.

“Hey, Pumpkin.”

He scoops her up in his arms, and she wraps her arms around him, blonde curls not so much framing her bleary-eyed face as messily crowding around it, as if in her toddlerhood she had missed the edges when coloring herself in.

“You tried naming the States like I taught you?” He’s carrying her to her bedroom, putting her back in bed I guess, sliding her hair behind her ear as he loves to do with both of us.

I can imagine her earnest nodding, her wide blue eyes looking up at the only man who matters to her. (Long may that last.) “But I forgot Wisconsin and I had to look it up on that list you made for me.”

She forgot Wisconsin? How can she forget the place she spends every other Christmas and countless other holidays? I bet she didn’t forget Connecticut.

“So then I did it again and I even remembered all the M states and the New States and even Ohio and stuff, ‘cause that’s where Aunt CJ comes from even though I always forget, and Washington that’s a state even though Washington DC isn’t...”

This little girl will go far.

Or maybe not so far from here. The White House is in her blood. Her father would have the head of any boss who had her there till 1 am, no matter how charming. I shudder to think what he would do to one who bought her flowers and sabotaged her dates. He will have to be kept firmly under control. Still, I have a good few years to think of a workable strategy.

“So then I did them all and I still wasn’t asleep.”

“Did you try listing the Presidents?”

“Yeah. But it only works when we do it together.”

His dimples will be telling her that he loves being the centre of her world. So easily sweet-talked by his darling daughter. There’s a reason we called her Abigail – “father’s joy”. When he held her for the first time, he was transfixed. Imagine that – Josh Lyman, speechless. I recognised the tenderness and the wonder I saw in his eyes in a hospital on a much less happy day, years ago, miles away, when he couldn’t say “I love you”. This time he could, and he did, to both of us.

“How did we make something so beautiful?” He still often asks me that. I smile and remind him it was actually me who did most of the work.

“So I guess it’s kind of fair that she looks so much like you,” he’ll usually conclude, but every time I’m sure I detect just the slightest hint of envy in his tone.

“Not that I mind,” he’ll add, and kiss me. So it’s a conversation I really don’t mind having over and over. Another thing that never gets old. Unlike our daughter, sadly.... I want to keep her at seven forever. She’s her mother’s joy too. I hope that will not change with age.

I imagine he’s lying on her bed next to her now, as he often does, transfixed again by her loveliness and her bright mind as though discovering her for the first time, taking her little hand in his, counting off on her fingers, as they go through their routine. “George Washington, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson...”

Safely wrapped up in her daddy, Abi’s voice is drifting to the happy place of sweet dreams and turning to a whisper. She does make it to the end, though. “Uncle Jed, Uncle Matt, Uncle Sam, and you.”

Even when she’s only half-awake, she’s a pretty stubborn and determined little girl (guess it’s what you could call a dominant gene) and there is no point arguing with her.

But Josh, probably kneeling now and leaning over to brush the hair from her forehead and kiss her goodnight, does always add, “Someone’s gotta be the guy those guys count on. That’s my role.” This may be his way of letting her down gently, but I think perhaps it’s a little subtle for a seven-year-old. Still, at least she won’t be able to claim in later life he didn’t warn her.

“Good night, Princess.”

“Good night, daddy.”

He walks away, probably backwards – yes, definitely backwards, I hear a muffled “ouch” as he bumped into the wall behind him – so he can steal as much of a glance of her as possible. I wonder, did he ever do that with me?

“Daddy?” Her sleepy voice calls him back.

“You’re my favorite President.”

Out, I assume, come the dimples as his smile, his whole self, expand with pride. This isn't part of the routine. This is straight from the heart.

“Hey.” He climbs back into bed, strokes my leg with his foot, treasuring the closeness that never gets old to him either.

“Hey,” I say, as tenderly as I can because there’s something I want to clear up and I don’t want it to sound like a rebuke when I do. “You’re not going to become President just because your daughter asked you to, are you?” I’m hoping my voice doesn’t betray my increased heart rate. This question has actually been wandering around my subconscious for quite a long time now, and not only my subconscious: Helen and I have a lunch planned. You know, just... in case. I want to be ready. You never know, do you?

“There are worse reasons,” he whispers softly in my ear, then nuzzles into my neck, kissing me gently.

I love it when he does this. He knows it, too. “Josh.”

"Mmmm?"

“You’ll always be my favorite President, too.”

That discussion can wait. Come to think of it, so can sleep.

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

2009-11-29T16:17:00.000-08:00

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...

2009-11-22T14:04:00.000-08:00

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...

Iowa: why he didn't knock

2009-11-21T12:18:00.000-08:00

Oh, what you wouldn’t give to be the other side of that door. Holding her.

She looked so tired in that elevator. She looked like she needed a hug. You could do with one yourself. This campaign business... you’d forgotten how much it takes it out of you. And you’re not as young as you were eight years ago.

There she was though, as beautiful as ever, as lovely as ever, but there was this thing, this wall, and you don’t know who put it there, you suspect maybe it was you. Or maybe it was her in reaction to you. Either way it would appear that you are somehow to blame in this.

You want to knock, you want to say you’re sorry, you want to hold her, and hold her, and hold her some more.

You don’t trust yourself to just hold her, though.

You both know why this is so difficult, and if you go in there to kiss and make up, and it doesn’t all go horribly wrong, that’s exactly what will happen. And while that would be amazing... while it would be everything you’ve dreamed of for so long, it’s not the time. It’s not the place. She’s tired and she’s vulnerable and you don’t want to take advantage of her.

And, to be honest, you’re scared. You’ve both been so awkward. Both like bulls in China shops. If one of you says the wrong thing (you, probably), if she rejects you again, if that wall goes back up, that might be it, for good.

In Gaza, you thought she knew. You thought she knew how you felt. And while you can’t bear to think about what happened to put the two of you there, in that situation, the memory of those intimate moments is precious beyond words.

You miss her friendship. You miss her hugs. You miss her smile and the banter and you miss knowing that one day, one day when all this is finally over, you will get to be together. You’ve always known that, really. And now you don't know anymore, and it's killing you.

It’s killing you. This distance, this wall. The absence of her.

And the cold.

Oh, the cold.

You can’t bear to have it confirmed, to have it formalised.

You’ve almost certainly lost her for good, but you don’t want to risk it. Just in case.

It’s killing you but you don’t knock.

For Donna's take see http://donnamoss.blogspot.com/2009/11/iowa.html

Josh and Amy - post ep to "Han", series 5

2009-10-23T12:25:00.000-07:00

(Josh and Amy are watching the concert from just outside the room)

JOSH : So listen, umm, Ryan of all people asked me straight out about our
relationship, and I couldn't have avoided the subject more if I had faked
a stroke.

AMY : Cheeky little brat.

JOSH : That's not the point, even if I'd wanted to answer him I wouldn't have known
what to say. It's like what C.J. said today about the economy; by refusing
to put language to it we're trying to pretend it doesn't exist, but it's
something... even if we don't know what to call it. I just think it's time
to start thinking about a language plan for whatever it is we're doing too.

AMY: Yeah. (pause) A language plan? Not a secret language plan to fight anything though, right?
JOSH: Are you mocking me?
AMY: (smiles) I wouldn’t dare.
JOSH: Especially in my hour of vulnerability, and all...

AMY: (pause) I like not using language. Not talking is a lot of fun, Josh.
JOSH: (smiles) Yeah.
AMY: And you do it better than most.
JOSH: (mock offended) Most?
AMY: Yes, most. Okay, all.
JOSH: There’s a “but” coming though, isn’t there?
AMY: (looks down, then forces herself to look into his eyes.) I walked past when Donna was doing your bow-tie before.
JOSH: Oh?
AMY: Josh... I’m not the love of your life, am I?
JOSH: I... don’t know what you mean.
AMY: I think you do. And I deserve better than that. We both do.
JOSH: What do you... I’m not in love with Donna.
AMY: It’s just a silly phase you’re going through?
JOSH: Was going through. Before you...
AMY: That’s a lovely sentiment, and I wish I could believe it. (Gives him a long, lingering, sexy look, brushes his shoulder, kisses his cheeky and leaves. He looks longingly at her, then Donna comes into view in the background.

Cue:

I'm not in love, no-no
(It's because...)
Ooh, you'll wait a long time for me
Ooh, you'll wait a long time
Ooh, you'll wait a long time for me
Ooh, you'll wait a long time
I'm not in love, so don't forget it...

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

2009-10-13T14:43:00.000-07:00

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.)

Inauguration part II - over there - alternative ending

2009-10-11T07:18:00.000-07:00

I still think I can be forgiven for having initially thought that Josh and Donna were finally getting together in this episode... Ha! Three more series to go... No wonder I started whizzing through my DVDs at breakneck speed at this point.

Brad and Janel, I've said it before and I'll say it again, at least a thousand times - you are amazing. I love you!!!

Anyway, I wanted to prolong the getting-together-ness of this ep, so here goes.

Josh still has that adoring, you-look-amazing look in his eyes throughout this scene and Donna is not even trying to hide how much she is enjoying that... and how much she loves him too.

JOSH: (leaning in to whisper to Donna) I know this is a work night now...
DONNA: (wistfully) Yeah.
JOSH: But just one dance?
DONNA: (smiling radiantly) Okay. But just one.
JOSH: I think any more and we may be in trouble...
DONNA: Yeah. We need to get to work.
JOSH: That’s not what I meant.
DONNA: Okay.

He interlocks her fingers with his. They start dancing.

DONNA: (into his ear) Josh, I –
JOSH: (gently) Shhhh. Not now. Let’s just enjoy this moment.

She leans into him, head on his shoulder, and he wrap his arms around her as they continue to slow dance. We see tenderness in Josh’s eyes. They look to all intents and purposes like a couple very much in love.

Fade out/pan out...

Is Donna there?

2009-09-27T12:49:00.000-07:00

THE MID-TERMS, series 2.

This follows a scene that was sadly cut but is on the bonus DVD that came with my box set, where Donna is at Josh’s during his recovery and CJ calls. She asks if Donna is there and he says no (but then is forced to retract the lie).

DONNA: Why did you lie?
JOSH: What do you mean?
DONNA: Why d’you lie to CJ, about me being here? You said I wasn’t here, and then you pulled that face like you were being naughty.
JOSH: I –
DONNA: Because we’re not being naughty, Josh.
JOSH: (playfully and flirtatiously) Doctor’s orders, Donna, believe me, if I could...
DONNA: (in telling-off mode) Josh!

DONNA: It’s okay that I’m here. They know I’m here a lot. It seemed like you feel guilty about that.
JOSH: Yeah, it’s just...
DONNA: What?
JOSH: (embarrassed) Well, we’re – practically in bed together here.
DONNA: (smiles) You wish.
JOSH: Yeah. And therein lies the problem.

Donna looks at him quizzically, trying to work out if he is being playful or serious this time. The viewers aren’t sure either.
Fade out.

Another Alternative Ending for War Crimes, #307

2009-09-25T13:50:00.000-07:00

NB: for this to make sense, you need to first read Series 2, post ep 10 - Noel - cut scene and possibly also http://donnamoss.blogspot.com/2009/08/noel.html

Josh and Donna are waiting together for Cliff to return with Donna's diary. It's cold. It's tense.

DONNA: (nervously breaking the silence) You didn't, you know...
JOSH: Read it?
DONNA: Yeah.
JOSH: (sad and shocked that she would think that) Donna...
DONNA: (embarrassed, not looking at him) Of course not. Sorry. I shouldn't have asked, it's just...
JOSH: (quietly, after a pause) I've read your diary before.
DONNA: (slightly panicky) When?
JOSH: At the hospital...
DONNA: Oh Josh, that was...
JOSH: What?
DONNA: You know. Heat of the moment stuff.
JOSH (disappointed) Oh. So you didn’t mean it.
DONNA: Well...
JOSH: (smiling triumphantly) Of course you meant it.
DONNA: Josh, we can’t...
JOSH: I know. We can’t go there. Just... maybe... Come here...

He wraps his arms around her.

JOSH: Maybe I could hold you for a while?

She doesn't object, and they sit, embracing, for a while.

DONNA: (breaking the embrace to look at him) Josh?
JOSH: Yeah?
DONNA: The holding each other thing didn’t work out so well in When Harry Met Sally, did it?
JOSH: Well, that depends how you look at it. I think it ended very well.

They look tenderly at each other and smile. Donna rests her head on Josh's shoulder and he puts his arm around her.

Molly Morello's diary (extract...)

2009-09-20T13:24:00.000-07:00

The oddest and most heart-warming thing happened today.

The President of the United States called to wish me a happy retirement. At least, I think it was him. I’m still expecting someone to shout out APRIL FOOL any minute. (Not that it’s April, but I’m struggling to think of a more likely explanation..) We had a fantastic conversation about Twelfth Night and something about James Bond I’m ashamed to say I didn’t quite understand.

But as blown away as I was by that, that isn’t what brought a tear to my eye.

“I’m in the Oval Office with the President of the United States, and it’s because of you.”

What a thing to say! I really don’t think I did very much at all, but it’s a privilege to have been involved in a life like hers.

I love all my students, of course (well, most of them), and my deepest desire has always been that that they would achieve their full potential. But Donnatella was something special. You could see it from the spark in her eyes when she talked about the things she was passionate about, and her unending devotion to those things and reluctance to change the subject before she obtained the result she was looking for.

So I’m not surprised she’s working for a Bigger Cause, and I’d be even less surprised were I to discover that she was doing it with zeal, fervor and a determination and devotion that far outstrip the undoubtedly enormous demands on her.

I always knew she was destined for greatness.

Or is that too easy to say with the benefit of hindsight?

I hope that she is happy.

And I know this isn’t a politically correct thing to say these days (no pun intended), but I hope too that she has a man who is worthy of her; who is aware of the privilege of being entrusted with such a precious life; who will love her, honor her, and help her to become all she can be. She so wanted to be married, to be loved, to be treasured. She looked for it in odd places sometimes. I hope that has changed. There was something in her voice that told me it might have – something of confidence and added maturity.

God, I pray that You would send her this man. That together they may have a nation-changing impact for the good of this country. And that they would be unspeakably happy.

And also that she might write me a bit more often... I miss our correspondance and occasional coffees.

Cautious optimism

2009-09-17T10:47:00.000-07:00

This takes place sometime during the first year in office. I liked drunk Josh so decided to have a little fun with him...

Apologies for any Briticisms - I have no idea whether Americans call pyjamas PJs, and have the sneaky suspicion you might spell them pajamas anyway... I've just about made my peace with "favorite" and "I just saw him", but I'm afraid I am, and will always remain, a (lovable?) Brit. After all, you can take the girl out of England, but...

A drunk Josh knocks on Donna's door in the middle of the night. She opens and he stumbles in, tripping over the cat. He shouts an expletive in its direction.

Donna is exasperated and mostly sarcastic throughout. Josh is, well, drunk.

DONNA: (in a loud whisper) Shhh! It's the middle of the night.
JOSH: We lost the bill.
DONNA: (sighs) I know. I was there.
JOSH: How can we possibly have lost?
DONNA: Cautious optimism, Josh. How many times...? C'mon, let me get you some water.
JOSH: Where's your flatmate?
DONNA: Asleep, as are most normal people at this time.
CAREY: (calls out, exasperated) Not anymore!
JOSH: Oops.
DONNA: Yeah. (calls out) Sorry! (pours him some water)
JOSH: (somewhat whiny) Donna, why did we lose?
DONNA: I probably didn't do enough index cards.
JOSH: It's not your fault...
DONNA: I know. I was kidding. We lost, Joshua, because sometimes in politics we lose. (hands him the water)
JOSH: But it was a good bill. I really wanted it.
DONNA: Sometimes in life we don't get what we want. (She sighs wistfully)
JOSH: Huh?

DONNA: Drink the water.

JOSH: Yes, mom.

DONNA: Okay, you need to lose that. Now. You know, you're drunk and you won't remember this in the morning. So I can tell you I don't always get what I want either.

JOSH: Wo. Short sentences are good, Donna. Short ones.
DONNA: Never mind.
JOSH: You don't get what you want?
DONNA: No, Josh.
JOSH: And what is it that you want?
DONNA: I think the answer to that would be pretty hard to believe under current circumstances.
JOSH: Huh?
DONNA: Never mind. (throws him the sleeping bag.) Here's the sleeping bag. Here are two pints of water. (puts them down next to him) Drink them. I'll wake you in... (looks at clock) three and a half hours.
JOSH: You look cute in your PJs.
DONNA: Why, thank you, Josh. Maybe I'll wear them to work.
JOSH: Yeah... That would be good. Except I wouldn't get any work done.
DONNA: Here's your toothbrush.
JOSH: I have a toothbrush here?
DONNA: It's kind of worrying that that's how often you end up here. Try not to do this again too soon or Carey will have me evicted.
JOSH: She doesn't want an eligible Fulbright scholar in her flat?
DONNA: Not as much as she wants uninterrupted sleep. As do I. Drink the water, Josh. Good night.
JOSH: Good night, Donnatella. I mean it about the PJs.

Donna rolls her eyes, closes the door and smiles to herself.

Somewhere in Germany... (NB spoiler for season 5)

2009-09-12T15:12:00.000-07:00

You wait.

You're not good at waiting, and she knows that. You wait, though, and that's your greatest gift to her right now.

You want to somehow transfer strength to her like she did to you when it was you on a hospital bed. You don't know if you believe in God - and if He's there, you have one or two things to take up with Him - but you tentatively pray for health and strength for her, the way she had for you. It seemed to work, after all. You have difficulty finding your words.

So you sit by her bedside, and you wait. And from time to time you whisper, "Donna, don't leave me. I can't do this without you." And you don't just mean the job. You mean life.

You want to say so much more, but that seems risky. There's a tiny chance she may hear you, and everything will change. And you're not sure you're ready. But if the worst were to happen, you'd want her to know how deeply you loved her.

You're pondering all this when she opens her eyes. You're sure your heart just skipped a beat. You walk over to her, responding to her calling you. You're still here. Of course you're still here. Where else would you be? Governing the country can wait. Everything else can wait. You're useless without her anyway.

She's so beautiful. Even here, looking so ill, so fragile, so damaged, so tired, to you, she's beautiful. You realise this sounds crazy, that this must mean there is no hope for you ever to recover from this... this... what is it? Infatuation? Obsession? No. You sense that this, in fact, is it. This is the love that you have been looking for all of your life. This is the love of two people who make it, who build a life together, who have children and grow old together and never look back. This is the love of soulmates, who know each other inside out and fit each other like a glove.

Some people wait a lifetime for a moment like this.

You've found it, you've found her, and you're not letting her go. Not this time. Not ever again.

You long to kiss her. You longed to do that while she was unconscious, too. You wanted to be the prince in Sleeping Beauty. But life, sadly, is not a fairy tale, and yours is a complicated situation. You're not going to think about that for now, though. For now, she's awake. And your name is the first thing that crossed her lips.

You don't know which of those two things you are happiest about.

New Year's Eve, 1999

2009-09-08T13:25:00.000-07:00

It’s New Year, 1999. A milestone in history is about to be reached, even though Sam claims otherwise. You finger your phone. Right there at the party. You’re drinking to everyone’s health and enjoying yourself but there is only one person you want to be with when the clock strikes. And you’ve just realised it isn’t Joey Lucas.

The countdown starts. You scroll down to D. Excuse yourself. The phone rings off – network down. Of course. Everyone is ringing their lov – I mean, the people they care about the most. And right there in the middle of this party surrounded by many people you are enjoying being with, you realise you desperately want to kiss this amazing woman who is out of reach, out of bounds, off limits. To kiss her till you both can’t breathe anymore. Wo – Josh. Calm down, you tell yourself. This isn’t good for your blood pressure.

Has she read the note? Has she read it over and over like you hoped she would? Has she understood the unspoken? Will things ever be the same between you? And if not, was it foolish of you to risk everything? What if she guesses what you meant? You wanted her to, and yet you are worried. What if she wants to act on it? You know you can’t. You’re so devoted to your job. She’s devoted to hers – or to you. You can’t tell. It’s difficult to analyse which is which. You, your job, her, her job... so inextricably linked. Inextricably. You like that word. You like the sound of it. You like the idea of being inextricably bound up with her. Inextricably so you to can’t tell where you end and she begins. Inextricably, forever, Josh, calm down. You cannot feel like this.

Shove it, it’s New Year’s Eve and you will feel like you want to feel. In the other room they are singing Auld Lang Syne. The twenty-first century has begun and you so wanted to begin it with her at your side. You finger your phone again. Scroll down to D. Network down. Yeah, I knew it. Hang on – it’s ringing. You feel your heart beating faster. Get a grip, you tell yourself. In a couple of days you have to work with this woman. You cannot be catching yourself wondering how soft this alabaster skin feels under that sweater... you cannot be...

“Hello?” She’s at a party too, it’s loud, you can barely hear her.

“Josh! Happy New Year!” You wanted to say it first. But as so often – she’s the initiator.

“Happy New Year to you too, “ you reply, which sounds so lame, so you add what you really want her to know, “I wish you were with me...”

She can’t hear you. It’s loud, she says, she has to step out, but by the time she has the moment has passed and you can’t bring yourself to repeat it. You weren’t sure it was appropriate the first time round. Appropriate? Like what has been going on in your head has been in any way appropriate. But well, there is so much to consider in this relationship, it’s all so complicated. Not that it’s a relationship as such, not the one you want, but..

“Josh?” she sounds concerned. You like it when she sounds concerned for you. You love it when she looks after you. “You still there?”

“Yup. I’m still here.” And you’re not, and I so want you to be, can I come over? You want to add, but you know you can’t.

“I just wanted to say happy new year...”

“You said that already.”

“Well, happy new millennium then.”

You can hear the smile in her voice. “You too.”

“Donna...” you love saying her name. You love the way it feels in your mouth. You want to say it so many times over and over, while you... Wo, brain. Come back to me please. Please try to behave.

“You’ve gone quiet again,” she points out in her own inimitable, organised fashion.

“Sorry. I don’t have that much to say.” Well, it’s not as big a lie as it sounds. You have a lot to say but none of it can be voiced, so that’s the same thing, right? Even you’re not convinced by that argument, though.

“Just, well, Happy New Year. “

“You’re repeating yourself.”

“Donna...” there you go again. Just keep focussed this time...
“Donna, I mean it. I want you to be happy this year.” There. That’s nice, and meaningful. Even if it stops short of saying you want to be the one making her happy.

But you love what she says next. “Josh, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. But thank you.”

Is that because of you? Is that because of what you wrote? You hope so. You so desperately hope so. But maybe it’s nothing to do with you. Maybe it’s actually just that she loves her job. Maybe she’s just met a hot Republican at this party of hers. Maybe she’s just at that point in her life when people...

Whatever.

“I’m glad,” you manage to remember to say, and you add, “let’s keep it that way...”

There’s silence. She doesn’t know what to say. You don’t either. You swallow hard. You probably shouldn't say this, but shove it. It's New Year's, and you can always blame it on the champagne if need be. “Anyway, I just wanted to let you know – I was thinking of you tonight.”

“Me too.” It’s the kind of thing you’re meant to say in these situations, but you can hear in her voice that she means it, that she was looking for an excuse to say it.

You wonder about bringing in your favorite defence mechanism and making a joke about getting her drunk one New Year’s and seeing if you couldn’t make her even happier, but you resist. You don’t want to spoil this moment, which is already being spoilt by so many things. By her physical absence most of all. And by all those unsaid things, unsaid because that’s the way it has to be, for now, for a long time, for many more New Year’s Eves, many more Christmases, until one day you take her to Hawaii and tell her exactly how you feel and what you want from life. Life with her.

But that will have to wait. And so will you. You regretfully put the phone down, go back to the party and grab another drink before that thought can take hold and drive you into insanity and beyond.

Alternative Ending for War Crimes, #307

2009-09-06T05:55:00.000-07:00

JOSH: It's starting to get cold already.

Donna looks at him, says nothing.

JOSH: It's going to be fine.

Donna looks at him again, says nothing.

JOSH: Donna, I -
DONNA: (interrupting) I hate it when you're mad at me.
JOSH: I hate being mad at you.
DONNA: I'm so sorry, Josh. For everything, I don't know what I was thinking. About any of it.
JOSH: Hey, it's okay. It's going be fine. We're going to be fine.

She smiles at him, weakly.

JOSH: It's getting cold already. (Puts his arm around her) C'mere...

Donna her head rests on Josh's shoulder and he holds her.

cut scene from the end of "The Ticket" (#701)

2009-09-06T00:57:00.000-07:00
Sam Seaborn, looking tired but very handsome, is grabbing a rare and much-deserved lunchbreak in his office, munching an apple with his feet on the desk. His mobile rings. He picks it up without thinking or looking.

SAM: Yup.
DONNA: Sam. Hi. It’s Donna.

(Donna is sitting on her sofa, drinking hot chocolate and wearing one of Josh’s old sweaters.)

SAM: (pleasantly surprised) Donna Moss?
DONNA: Yes, Sam, Donna Moss. How many other Donnas do you know with my phone number?
SAM: (smiling) I see you haven’t lost your adorable sense of humor.
DONNA: Mmm. Thanks. How are you?
SAM: Thought you’d never ask. Worked off my feet but happy and engaged.
DONNA: Engaged? (her voice breaks slightly) That’s great news.
SAM: (suddenly concerned) Donna? Are you okay?
DONNA: Yes. No. Sam, I need to talk to you. Well I need to talk to someone and I figured –
SAM: You sound like you need a hug.
DONNA: (smiles) Yeah.
SAM: Donna, what’s going on?
DONNA: I don’t know where to – I mean, I don’t know how to -
SAM: Donna?
DONNA: You see, this is why I could never be a public –
SAM: Donna, is this about Josh?
DONNA: How did you...
SAM: It was bound to happen someday.
DONNA: What was bound to happen?
SAM: Whatever it is you’re about to tell me.

(Donna tells him the story, we don’t hear their conversation - Norah Jones’ “I don’t miss you at all” plays over shots of Sam and Donna talking plus scenes of Josh sitting thinking, and walking alone, ...)

Then fade back in:

SAM: I’m going to kill him.
DONNA: Okay, no. I don’t think that’s the solution.
SAM: Nobody makes you cry and gets away with it. I’m getting on a plane right now.
DONNA: Sam –
SAM: After everything you’ve done for him. After you were so reasonable when he went out with that irritating, shrill Amy woman...
DONNA: (smiles slightly) Sam, he’s done a lot for me too over the years. And let’s not forget that I left him.
SAM: You didn’t leave him, Donna. You left the job. That’s very different.
DONNA: I don’t think he sees it that way. (tears start streaming down her face)
SAM: Donna?
DONNA: Yup.*
SAM: I’m going to ask you this only once and I’m going to believe your answer.
DONNA: (bracing herself) Okay.
SAM: Are you in love with Josh?
DONNA: (pause for what seems like an eternity) Yes.
SAM: Wow. That was a lot easier than I expected. I can’t believe one of you finally admitted it after all this time.
DONNA: One of us?
SAM: Oh, Donna. You can’t possibly have failed to notice...
DONNA: What do you – what do you -
SAM: Donna, he’s been in love with you for years. I’m not sure even he realised it at times but it’s been clear as day to the rest of us. That’s a terrible cliché... Clear as... clear as... oh, never mind. Abundantly clear.
DONNA: Really?
SAM: Yes, of course really. * Listen, I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know the end of the story. I don’t understand why he didn’t take you on. He meant it when he said he missed you. He can’t function without you. This will right itself. I promise.
DONNA: (incredulously) You promise?
SAM: Yes.
DONNA: How can you possibly promise?
SAM: Because, Donna, if it doesn’t I am getting on a plane and knocking some sense into him.
DONNA: (smiling, looking relieved) Okay.
SAM: Hang in there, kid.
DONNA: Okay.
SAM: And come to California for a hug and some sunshine.

They hang up. Donna looks a little shell shocked.

* I'm not sure how realistic/in character parts of this dialogue are - so feel free to cut out the part between the asterixes in your heads...

Alternative Dialog for The Cold

2009-09-04T04:32:00.000-07:00
Okay, so here’s how I would have written that dialog in The Cold, although I have to admit it would not have made such good TV. Though it may have saved a few of us from putting our fists through our screens.

JOSH: I... want to apologize for this morning. I’m sorry. It was inappropriate.
DONNA: Don’t worry about it.
JOSH: Really?
DONNA: Seriously. It was bound to happen sometime.
JOSH: You think?
DONNA: Sure. Don’t worry about it. (She starts to walk away)
JOSH: Why do you think that is?
DONNA: What?
JOSH: That it was bound to happen sometime?

(Donna walks back towards him)

DONNA: You know what my favorite movie is, right?
JOSH: When Harry Met Sally... "a man and a woman can’t be friends because the sex part always gets in the way".
DONNA: (pleasantly surprised) Hey – you’ve remembered something I’ve taught you.
JOSH: You know, sometimes I do listen to you.
DONNA: Not often enough.
JOSH: Yeah. I’m a jackass sometimes.
DONNA: (smiling) Sometimes, yes.
JOSH: So why do you put up with me?
DONNA: It’s because of how handsome you are. And powerful. Remember?
JOSH: Donna, please don’t mess with me. I’m totally lost here.
DONNA: I’m only half messing. You are handsome. You are powerful. You’re also caring and sensitive and talented and passionate and inspiring and a million other things.
JOSH: Donna...
DONNA: So it was bound to happen sometime.
JOSH: You don’t think it’s because we’re meant to be together?
DONNA: Oh, Josh.
JOSH: I’m really asking you here.
DONNA: I don’t know what you want me to say.
JOSH: I want... I want... I want you... to...
DONNA: Josh. Are you really that blind?
JOSH: I’m a man, Donna. I need you to teach me a thing or two about the ways of love, remember?
DONNA: (smiles fondly at the memory) Yes.
JOSH: You want to be wooed. I remembered that too.
DONNA: Yes. So I’ll be expecting flowers and compliments. Especially after all the ones I've just handed you...
JOSH: You want me to woo you?
DONNA: You, or a hot Republican... doesn’t much matter who.
JOSH: Donna, please stop messing with my head.
DONNA: I’m sorry. Years of using humor as a defense mechanism. Years of...
JOSH: Of?
DONNA: Having to hide this.
JOSH: You shouldn’t have hidden it.
DONNA: Because?
JOSH: Because then we could have had a few more years of this... (kisses her tenderly; she puts her arms around him and kisses him back... )

Series 2, post ep 10 - Noel - cut scene

2009-08-28T11:57:00.000-07:00
Josh and Donna are in ER, waiting to see a doctor. He is sitting with his head on her shoulder and she has her arm around him. After all, he is injured, and it is Christmas, so we can allow them a bit of intimacy.

The (youngish, female) Doctor calls Josh in.

DOCTOR: Mr Lyman?
JOSH: (reluctantly sitting up) Yeah.
DOCTOR: Ready to see you now.
JOSH: Okay.
DONNA: (to Josh) She’s an attractive woman. (pauses so there's a chance Josh will think her two sentences are unrelated.) You sure you don’t want me to come with you?
JOSH: (smiles) It’s okay. I know how you feel squeamish at the sight of needles.
DONNA: I think you may be getting me confused with you.
JOSH: Oh, yeah. Easily done, you gotta admit.
DONNA: (unconvinced.) Yeah. It’s the sensitive alabaster skin... So similar, you and I.

Josh disappears with the doctor and Donna get her diary out and starts scribbling. (Best read alongside http://donnamoss.blogspot.com/2009/08/noel.html)

Josh comes back a while later.

JOSH: (tenderly) Hey.
DONNA: She put you back together?
JOSH: Yeah. (waves his newly-bandaged hand) Almost no stitches. Definitely no fainting at the sight of needles. (sees her starting to putting away her diary) Hey, what you writing?
DONNA: Nothing.
JOSH: Well, that’s clearly not true. What is it?
DONNA: Haven’t I warned you before about being too nosy for your own good?
JOSH: I didn’t get where I am without a healthy inquisitiveness.
DONNA: (exasperated) Josh...

Josh reaches down and snatches it. Because of his injured hand it’s difficult for Donna to fight him.

DONNA: (slightly desperately) Josh... I’m warning you.
JOSH: (smiles smugly, aware of the importance of his discovery) This is your diary.
DONNA: Yes.
JOSH: Can I read it?
DONNA: What do you think my answer to that is going to be?
JOSH: Well, that all depends if you are hiding things from me. You wouldn’t hide things from me, right?
DONNA: Of course not. Nothing it was in your interests to know anyway.
JOSH: So I can read it?
DONNA: (flatly) No.
JOSH: Because?
DONNA: A woman’s journal is... (attempts to snatch it back, and there is a healthily flirtatious amount of physical contact. It falls open onto the floor, onto the current page. We see things she has written in big letters - I LOVE HIM, and WHY WAS I NOT THERE?)
JOSH: Donna?
DONNA: (bends down, closes it, picks it up off the floor, refusing to allow herself to look flustered) I have distinctive penmanship, remember. It’s quite possible that what you saw was not what you think you saw.
JOSH: Oh, Donna. (She is now standing up, and he looks at her intensely.) Me too, you know. (she looks at him, questioningly.) I mean it. Me too.

Time stands still. They look deep into each other’s eyes. It’s the perfect opportunity for a kiss. But we have to wait till series 7 for that!

JOSH: Six years is...
DONNA: (interrupting, takes his arm) Come on. We’ll never get you home to your parents’ at this rate.

They walk off into the sunset – erm, sorry, the night...

Scene from Episode #906: New beginnings

2009-08-23T13:53:00.000-07:00
In hospital. Donna is in bed, holidng the baby, and Josh is sitting on the bed, talking to her.

Sam walks in.

DONNA: Hey, Sam (smiling). Come meet your new godson.
SAM: (grinning back) Leo Noah.
JOSH: Yep. Named after the two most influential men in my life.
SAM: And I don’t figure on that list?
JOSH: We’ll name the next one after you.
DONNA: (incredulously) The next one?
JOSH: He’s so amazing. We need to have hundreds more like him.
DONNA: I’m sorry, Josh, were you not in the room last night?
JOSH: Well, erm...
DONNA: Apart from the brief instant when you passed out, obviously.

(Sam laughs, and looks at Josh disbelievingly, if that’s a word.)

JOSH: Point taken. Maybe not another one just yet.
DONNA: You're right, though. I mean, look at him. If it wasn’t for the pain... he’s even got your receeding hairline.
JOSH: (smiles at her) As long as everything else is from you, we’ll be fine.
SAM: (somewhat unsure, but wanting to change the subject before more soppy talk starts up...) Okay, so do I get to hold him then?
DONNA: If you promise to be careful. (pointedly) More careful, say, than you might be with a girl’s heart.
SAM: Hey! You can’t still be mad at me about Mallory.

Donna looks at him in a way that indicates that she most certainly can.

Sam leans over to take baby Leo.

SAM: Erm... Josh, help me out here.

Josh walks over, carefully and lovingly takes baby Leo, gives him to Sam and shows him how to hold him.

JOSH: So you put your arm under his head, like this...
SAM: (to baby Leo) Hey there, little fella. I’m your uncle Sam... (to Josh and Donna)I gotta say, I think I may be getting a bit broody looking at him. You guys have done some good work.
JOSH: (beaming) Thanks.
DONNA: (pointedly) Josh?
JOSH: I mean obviously the work was all Donna’s. My role was, erm, minimal. But isn’t he amazing?
DONNA: (pointedly) Josh?
JOSH: But obviously not as amazing as Donna, who did all this work.
SAM: I see there is effective training going on in the Lyman household.
DONNA: I can still revoke your godfather’s title, you know.
JOSH: (to Sam) Not single-handedly, she can’t.
DONNA: (keen to change the subject) Anyway, Sam – how are you? How are the French lessons?
SAM: Oh, erm.... fine. Yeah, fine.
DONNA: (thinking she has interpreted his answer, and getting ready to scold him)You’ve not been going, have you?
JOSH: Oh yes. He’s been going all right. Even getting a bit of, erm (wry smile), extra tuition.
DONNA: Oh? (punches Josh in the arm) How do I not know about this?
SAM: Well it’s... hot off the press, so to speak.
JOSH: Actually, we’re trying to keep it out of the press as much as possible... Anyway, last night didn’t seem quite the right time to tell you.
DONNA: Might have been a nice distraction. Though I gotta tell you, if it’s distraction you’re after, that gas and air thing...pretty decent.

They laugh, and fade out sound/picture as they talk and laugh.

Epiosde #906

2009-08-22T09:40:00.000-07:00
Josh is sitting by Donna’s hospital bed, holding her hand. He has a large plaster on his forehead and various bruises.

(Pause and breathe a sigh of relief – please tell me you didn’t actually think I was going to kill him off!!)

JOSH: (stroking her forehead) How are you doing?
DONNA: (smiles up at him). Pretty well, considering. What happened to the car, anyway?
JOSH: I left it wrapped around the lamppost and got a taxi. I wasn’t going to faff around with that crap while my wife gave birth to our son.
DONNA: (exasperated but too emotional to care that much.) Oh, Joshua. Wait - how do you know it’s a boy?
JOSH: I have a sense about these things...
DONNA: You know it in your heart? (Josh nods) Do you know how many things I’ve been wrong about in my heart?
JOSH: (softly) You weren’t wrong about us.
DONNA: No. But it sure as hell felt like it for a very long time.
JOSH: Are you ever going to let me forget that?
DONNA: Nine years, Josh. That’s all I’m sayin’.

He kisses her forehead.

JOSH: I promise I’ll make it up to you.
DONNA: So you keep saying. Just get me through the next twenty-four hours, that’ll be a good start.
JOSH: I love you so much, you know that?
DONNA: (smiles) Also a good start.

DONNA: Josh?
JOSH: Hmmm?
DONNA: I’m scared.
JOSH : You can do this. I believe in you. You are one amazing woman.
DONNA: I’m not sure distinctive penmanship or colored index cards are going to help me now.

JOSH: Oh Donnatella. There’s so much more to you than that. God, I love you.

Donna winces as a contraction comes and that’s the last we see of that.

Author's note: We are spared the usual, ridiculous, horribly undignified labour and birth scenes. I won’t make Janel Moloney stoop to doing that - it's not like she needs to prove she can act! Someone give that woman an Emmy... she's more than earned it!!

Episode #905 part II - later on

2009-08-21T14:12:00.000-07:00
Josh is in his car, driving to Donna to help her to calm down.

The phone beeps. He picks it up. We see the message on the screen - "My water broke."

Next thing we see is the car swerving, we hear a crash...

... cue theme music.

Episode #905

2009-08-21T14:05:00.000-07:00
(Best read alongside http://tinyurl.com/luumrh -Donna's diary)

Donna is at home, very pregnant and very hormonal, and reading through old diaries.
The phone rings in Josh’s office.

JOSH: (picking up the phone) Yup.
DONNA: Josh. (clearly upset) I was asleep and I had a horrible dream and you were in hospital and I was holding the baby walking up and down the corridors and... (takes a deep breath and sounds as if she might start hyperventilating) I can’t do this without you Josh, I need you, don’t leave me...
JOSH: (softly) Donna?
DONNA: (in a small voice) yes...
JOSH: I’ve got you on speaker phone.

(The camera pans out to Sam and that guy from the campaign who writes the speeches , whose name I can’t remember right now. They all look at each other and walk out of the office to give Josh and Donna space)

JOSH: I’ll be right there, honey. Sit tight. Drink some water. I love you. I’m not going to leave you. I’m not going to die. I’ve always loved you. Always since that first moment you picked up my phone. I’ll be right there, okay?
DONNA: (in an even smaller voice) Okay.

Josh and Donna's French lesson - episode #803

2009-08-19T13:00:00.000-07:00
Best enjoyed with "Facon de Parler 1", pages 176-177 and 179-180
Apologies to a coyple of my students, who may recognise themselves!

Josh and Donna are having a French lesson with Claire, the bilingual Brit who likes lessons to be fun but can get strict when she needs to.

CLAIRE: Okay, firstly a game.
JOSH: A game?
CLAIRE: Yes, Josh. Games are useful for relaxing you, preparing you to learn and helping you access your inner French boy.
JOSH: I sure as hell don’t have one of those.
CLAIRE: We’ll see.
DONNA: Come on Josh, behave yourself. Teacher knows best and all that.
CLAIRE: So, let’s start with “Pass the Bomb”.
JOSH: Bomb?
DONNA: She means “bomb”, Josh. It’s British English.
JOSH: So we’re learning two languages?
DONNA: Josh, what’s up with you? You were really into doing this.
JOSH: Just busy that’s all. Bit stressed.
CLAIRE: Well think of these lessons as part counselling. I can slot that into my job description.
DONNA: Two for the price of one. Nice one. Some people round here could do with a bit of counselling. Hey, Josh?
JOSH: Yeah, yeah
CLAIRE: So, with this game, I give you a vocab card, like this one, that says “beach”, and you have to name as many things as possible that you can find on a beach, and pass the bomb along as you say it. Whoever it explodes on has lost the point.
DONNA: (smug, guessing she is going to win) I like this.
JOSH: How did you even get a “bomb” (mocking her British accent) past security?
CLAIRE: Erm... ‘cause it’s not a real “bomb” (mocking his American accent)?
JOSH: Can we not just name some words without keeping score?
CLAIRE: You don’t like games?
DONNA: He doesn’t like to lose.
JOSH: Which isn’t a problem, because I don’t lose.
DONNA: Oh no. I think we might be heading for another unbearable day.
CLAIRE: No muffins or bagels, I’m afraid. But I do have some coloured stars for the winner.
DONNA: (excitedly) Stars – that’s so cool!
Josh raises his eyebrows.
CLAIRE: And people think gold stars only work on kids...
JOSH: You have gold stars?
CLAIRE: Purple and pink ones too...
DONNA: You;re way cooler than my French teacher at school.
CLAIRE: (smiling) I try my best. Busy people like you, it’s important you enjoy these lessons. Otherwise you won’t learn much, and I figure I’ll get ditched the minute another meeting needs booking in. Plus, I can help you relieve the, erm, tension (looking at Josh) from the rest of the day. Anyway. let’s get started. Things you find in a school...
---
Cut to another scene, then come back later at the end of reading a passage. Josh is weaker on grammar , but speaks with conviction – has a brilliant accent he acquired by mimicking Francophones speaking English, then substituting the English words for French ones. It works by the way – I recommend it! Donna’s understanding and grasp of grammar is however vastly superior, as you might expect.

JOSH: Ils prennent l’appareil photo, les maillots de bain et une serviette.
CLAIRE : Okay, very exciting text I know… Could we have a go at translating it ?
JOSH: So basically they get to the beach, and make out.
CLAIRE: Raises eyebrows Which word in particular is “make out”?
JOSH: Well, look at the picture!
CLAIRE: True. All good language teachers will tell you to use all of the context you can to help you get to your meaning. And they do appear to be unfeasibly close.
DONNA: Unfeasibly close?
CLAIRE: (smiling) I don’t this she’s his assistant, Donna.
JOSH: And then she takes her swimsuit off and he takes photos?
CLAIRE: Okay, keep your fantasies to yourself please...
JOSH: (softly, to Donna, with a playful, tender smile) – memories, not fantasies...
CLAIRE: You are aware that I understand American English?
DONNA: (a little embarrassed) I’m sorry about him.
CLAIRE: (smiles reassuringly , actually quite enjoying herself) It’s okay.
DONNA: In his defence, in the picture she is swinging her swimsuit around and he is holding his camera.
CLAIRE: (looks at picture and laughs) You know, no one’s ever picked up on that before, and it’s a fair point. Okay, next page.
JOSH: Sur la plage, un jeune garçon...
DONNA : (a little more violently than the situation requires) Hey ! It’s my turn to read !
CLAIRE: I think she wants to read...
DONNA: And they say women aren’t clear.
JOSH: Sorry about her. So...
DONNA: ...bossy?
JOSH: Among other things... (cheeky look)
DONNA: I was always indispensible, and you hated that.
CLAIRE: Not that I’m not enjoying being part of this discussion, but could we have a go at reading the text? If it’s not going to cause marital strife...
DONNA: Not yet. There’s a crucial element of that missing yet...
JOSH: Donna...
CLAIRE: (never one to miss such a hint) Oooh, can I come? I’ve never been to a White House wedding!
DONNA: We don’t know yet if it’s going to be a White House wedding.
JOSH: Erm, Donna... we don’t know yet if there’s going to be a wedding. (Donna glares at him. He swallows.) I mean, there is, obviously. But are there any elements in our relationship that we can keep surprising these days?
DONNA: (suggestively) Oh, I think there are.
CLAIRE: (Coughs). Would you like me to leave the room?
JOSH: Sorry. This is all still new to us.
CLAIRE: Was it one of those bound to happen someday things?
DONNA: Very much so. Even if this one had trouble seeing it coming. Or dealing with it when it did come.
JOSH: That's a bit rich, coming from Miss "I don't want to talk I just want to win the election"!
DONNA: Sorry about him.
JOSH: Hey! Would you like me to leave the room so you can carry on discussing me?
DONNA: Yeah, that’d be cool. Thanks, Joshua.
JOSH: No way. I’m here to learn French.
CLAIRE: (to Josh): that's the spirit. (to Donna) Coffee later?
DONNA: Sounds like a plan. You have my email address right?
CLAIRE: Yup. Anyway, Donna, your turn to read...
DONNA: Sur la plage, un jeune garçon vend des glaces. Laurent et Chantal achètent chacun un esquimau.
JOSH : An Eskimo ? They buy an Eskimo?
DONNA: What is it, like buy an Eskimo and set them free day?
JOSH: There’s that freaky sense of humour again.
DONNA: Yeah, and half of it you still don’t get. Even after all this time.
CLAIRE: An Eskimo is a Magnum-like ice cream. I don’t know why. Maybe the French have a freaky sense of humour too.
JOSH: L’après-midi, Chantal prend un bain de soleil. Laurent prend beaucoup de photos de sa petite amie. He takes lots of photos of his... small friend?! Now I really am freaked out.
CLAIRE: You know, British people have never said that out loud. I’m sure they’ve thought it before but... No, small friend just means girlfriend. Bizarre I know.
DONNA: You left out what Chantal says to Laurent... Ca suffit maintenant... What’s that mean?
CLAIRE: It means, that’s enough. A phrase that may come in useful in your relationship, I’m sensing...
JOSH: Hey. I’m feeling like the victim again.
DONNA: I’ll make it up to you later.
CLAIRE: Erm...
DONNA: Sorry. Nine years, you know!
CLAIRE: I don’t think there’s anyone in Washington who doesn’t know. I’m not sure how much French I’ve taught you, but looks like we’re out of time...
JOSH: (unconvincingly) Shame.
DONNA: Don’t listen to him. It’s been fun.
JOSH: Just ‘cause you got the star.
CLAIRE: You wear that star with pride, girl.

Josh and Donna stand up, gather their things and walk to the door. At the door:

CLAIRE: And don’t forget to learn those –re verbs for next time!
JOSH: (walking off) Yeah yeah...
DONNA: He enjoys it really. It's all an "I'm too cool for this" act. Don’t worry, I’ll keep him on track.
CLAIRE: I hear you’re good at that.

They exchange a knowing smile.

At the door, Sam is waiting to go in.

DONNA: Hey, Sam. That was fun. Has set me up for the day more than any muffins or bagels ever could.
SAM: Fun! I don’t have time for that. Do you know how many meetings I had Cathy cancel for this?
CLAIRE: Too busy and important to open your mind up to anything other than American culture? Or to learn the world’s most beautiful language?
SAM: Oh. You speak English.
JOSH: British English, though. Watch out for that... (pats him on the back as they walk out)

Scene from Episode #202 (In the shadow of two gunmen, part 2)

2009-08-17T14:16:00.000-07:00
Somewhere in New Hampshire, Governor Bartlet is finishing off a rousing speech about education and its importance if America is to continue on the path to greatness destined for her by the Founding Fathers. Everyone’s pride is hitting record heights.

SAM: (to Josh) I wrote that.
JOSH: Sam, I know.
SAM: I mean I wrote that.
JOSH: Sam, I know. We’re all very proud of you. (he pats Sam slightly patronisingly but a little proudly on the back. Nods towards the Governor and says to Donna and Sam who are standing against the wall with him) Doing great out there, isn’t he?
DONNA: (far-away , dreamy look on her face) Hmmm?
JOSH: Donnatella? (nudges her)
SAM: Josh, leave her be. She’s in that place.
DONNA: (suddenly interested) What place?
SAM: The place where you pinch yourself wondering how you got to be here and feeling huge pride and deep humility all at the same time.
DONNA: (looks at Sam as though he’s lost his mind.) Nah. Actually I was just wondering what I was going to have for dessert tonight.
JOSH: (chuckles and smiles tenderly) You’re quite something, you know that?
DONNA: (beams back) So I’ve been told a number of times. Most of them by you.
SAM: Honestly, guys, get a room.
DONNA: Huh?
JOSH: (shoots him a look that says, “Sam, I’m warning you...”)
SAM: Do it quick before we’re in office. Less scandalous that way. (goes off to remind CJ that he wrote the speech Bartlet is delivering so rousingly)
DONNA: Josh? What’s he talking about?
JOSH: Hmmm?
DONNA: Josh?
JOSH: He’s under the impression there may be some kind of romantic tension between us.
DONNA: Are you under that impression too?
JOSH: Are you?
DONNA: I asked first.

Governor Bartlet finished his speech and everyone stands to their feet. It’s a moving moment. The conversation is interrupted. Sam hugs CJ and we see him mouthing “I wrote that!”. Josh, without thinking, hugs Donna, breathes her in.

They pull away.

DONNA: Do you think this might be an example of what Sam meant?
JOSH: (smiles) Maybe.
DONNA: Do you think we shouldn’t do that anymore?
JOSH: When we’re in office? Yeah. (Donna looks disappointed.) Well, maybe not.
DONNA: Josh, Sam doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I’m your assistant. Nothing can happen between us. We’re clear on that, right?
JOSH: Of course. Even if both wanted it to. (long lingering look) So it’s all nice and clear.
DONNA: Mmm. Yeah. (To herself) Clear, anyway.

Scene from Episode #803 (where we meet Claire, the French tutor)

2009-08-14T10:04:00.001-07:00
Episode #803, in which we meet Claire, the French tutor from the often-disparaged "Benelux" who turns out to be more of a central character than we might think. She may well be played by me!! Well, a girl can dream...

Sam and Josh are walking down the corridor towards the coffee machine.

SAM: (flatly and slightly incredulously) Twitter.
JOSH: (equally flatly) Yes.
SAM: Twitter?
JOSH: Yes. We’ve moved on from pagers and carrier pigeons since you were last around.
SAM: And you’ve got time to be on Twitter.
JOSH: Have to keep in touch with the fans... After all that Lemon Lyman stuff. Nah, seriously, Donna found her.
SAM: Oh great. So now we’re having French lessons with someone your girlfriend found on Twitter?
JOSH: Can we not call her my girlfriend?

Josh and Sam arrive by the coffee machine, where Donna is pouring herself a cup. She looks pointedly yet smilingly at Josh.

JOSH: (Tenderly) Hey. (Suddenly worried) What are you doing here? I mean, to what do we owe the pleasure...
DONNA: The coffee’s better this end. And I had a message from you. And since the carrier pigeons are on strike...
JOSH: You know what I meant, right?
DONNA: Yes, Josh. I understand that the word “girlfriend” represents a commitment level to which you are not yet accustomed. That’s okay.
JOSH: (looks at her as though she’s lost her mind) No. I’m way past that point. You know that, right? Ready to call you plenty of better things. (Sam raises his eyebrows and Donna looks down and smiles.) I just think it’s important that people remember your intrinsic worth as a person rather than just attaching you to me.
DONNA: That’s very sweet, Joshua, but I was your “assistant” for eight years... I think people are used to the fact I have my own brain despite my association with you.
JOSH: (quizzically, trying to work out if that was an insult) So what was the message anyway?
DONNA: What message?
SAM: (to no one in particular) I knew it. No message. They just can’t keep away from each other. Ugh.
DONNA: First of all, this. (leans over and kisses him.) Although that wasn’t from the First Lady. That was all me.
JOSH: I prefer it that way.
SAM: (Impressed “she’s got you well-trained” kind of smile) Good answer. Though I wish you’d get to the point.
DONNA: She’d like some of her staff to take French lessons too.
SAM: And you couldn't have told us that over email?
JOSH: (Silences Sam with a look) Okay.
SAM: You’re all out of your tiny minds. No one around here has time for language lessons.
DONNA: It’s good for you, Sam. Opens you up to the rest of the world. An hour a week, that’s all.
SAM: Yeah, but I bet she’ll have us doing homework too.
JOSH: It’s for your own good. Might help our reputation with other nations. You know, make us seem less arrogant.
SAM: I’m sorry, are we talking about French lessons for you, or a personality transplant?
JOSH: (wry smile) Send me an email with all the info. Anything else?
DONNA: Nothing that can’t wait till later. (Suggestive look, and grin)
JOSH: (a twinkle in his eye) I’ll look forward to that, then.
SAM: Ugh. You two are unbearable.
DONNA: Two words, Sam. Nine Years.

Disclaimer

2009-08-14T09:58:00.000-07:00
Please note that no copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from this site. The characters and all quotes belong to Aaron Sorkin, Warner Bros, NBC, et al. This blog is a tribute to the wonderfulness of the West Wing, the brilliantly portrated and eminently lovable characters of Josh and Donna, and the breathtaking acting of Bradley Whitford and Janel Moloney. I love you guys. Thanks for the hours of entertainment, laughter, tears and tantalising tension!!