Disclaimers: I own nothing. I profit from nothing. I hold a strong dislike for lawsuits. All characters are creations and/or property of Aaron Sorkin, John Wells, NBC and Warner Bros.
Pairing/Category: Josh/Donna; low to mid level angst, I guess.
Spoilers: The Al Smith Dinner.
Rating: PG
A/N: There is a lot of S7 fic out there – some of it excellent – that has Josh and Donna confronting each other (to various degrees) and the resulting fighting/talking/smut/etc. And I do enjoy reading those stories but the way I figure it, they were on that campaign trail for months and there must have been a lot of ‘familiar situations that are now uncomfortable’ along the way - as well as little, tiny, baby steps back toward… well, each other. So, this is meant to be one of those baby steps. If you’re looking for RST, this isn’t it.
Also, being that this is my first foray into the world of fan fiction, constructive criticism would be much appreciated.
A/N 2: Thanks very, very much to Caz (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
caz963) for the beta and all the subsequent prompts, prods and urging to ‘do better’.
Breaking the Stalemate
She hasn’t seen him all day, not once, but that’s not particularly strange. He’s incredibly busy running this campaign – micromanaging really, even with both Lou and the Congressman constantly telling him to delegate – and it’s a wonder that he’s ever in a room long enough to accomplish anything before he’s gone again. The fact that Donna’s own responsibilities often take her out of the office – time spent liaising with media outlets, negotiating with sponsors, and organizing events – only serves to make it less and less likely that she and Josh will be in the same place at the same time.
No, it’s not his physical absence that bothers her; it’s the phone calls – or rather, the lack thereof. She’s left him at least six messages today and he hasn’t answered a single one. Getting Josh’s voicemail is a common enough occurrence, but he’s usually pretty good about responding, even if it’s just a quick email or text message. But today, she hasn’t heard from him at all, and try as she might, she just can’t dispel the tight ball of worry that’s taken up residence in her stomach.
It frustrates her, this inability to banish him from her mind, and she finally gives up on the memo that she’s looked over twice but has yet to comprehend. Donna reaches for her cell and dials his number, all the while chastising herself for needing reassurance. It’s not her job to worry about him anymore, not like this; and maybe it never was. She knows, logically, that he’s fine, but the phrase ‘dead in a ditch’ runs through her mind anyway, making her groan quietly at her own silliness, hoping to God that it’s an isolated incident and she’s not actually becoming her mother. So Josh hasn’t returned a few phone calls – so what? Nothing about this situation warrants anything more than mild curiosity and maybe annoyance; certainly, fretting over his whereabouts is uncalled for. It’s ridiculous, actually, but it seems that where Josh is concerned, her emotions are always heightened beyond what’s strictly reasonable.
Listening to the ringing-tone in her ear, she squeezes her eyes shut for half a second, unnoticed by everyone in a hotel suite crawling with Santos’ staffers determined to make a difference on what is, for most of them, their first campaign. Half a second and she’s under control again, mentally listing the reasons he’s too busy to answer every phone call, admonishing herself for wondering if he would have answered if she’d called from someone else’s cell.
“Josh Lyman… leave a message.”
She doesn’t. Her feet are moving toward the door even as she tells herself to give it five minutes and try back. She hits redial as she reaches the elevator, her thumb traveling unconsciously to her teeth after it leaves the ‘up’ button. Three rings and the voicemail is about to…
“Yeah?”
Donna relaxes for the first time in hours and lets out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
“Hey. It’s me.”
He doesn’t answer and for a dizzying second she thinks maybe he doesn’t know who ‘me’ is, anymore and feels her stomach lurch at the notion.
There was a time when he’d answer the phone without so much as an acknowledgment, already two sentences into the conversation he wanted to have with her because he’d known it was her calling before he even picked up. The big things - the tension that hangs in the air between them like thunderclouds; the way they work along side each other but never really with each other; the miserable, stolen glances cut short as soon as eye contact is made - these things have a clear point of origin in her mind. But when, exactly, had the little things, things like eating at the same table and talking on the phone, become so foreign? So unfamiliar? It was earlier, she knows – somewhere in the midst of a CODEL, a China trip and missed promotions – but it happened so insidiously that it remains surprising even after all this time, in spite of the recognized distance between them.
“Josh?” she prompts. Maybe she should come right out and identify herself but she can’t quite get her own name to pass through her lips.
“Yeah. Um… yeah. What’s going on, Donna?” He sounds off, distant. Distant is the new normal for them, of course, stilted exchanges having replaced their formerly effortless repartée, but this isn’t him keeping her at arms’ length. It’s more like… confusion? Her concern for him is back in a flood, and she forgets her promise to herself to keep things professional.
“Are you okay?” she asks, the worry obvious in her voice.
“I’m… yeah, I’m fine. You need something?”
“Where are you?”
“Still in my room. Was there… hang on…” He must have moved the phone away from his ear or maybe put it down, because he sounds far away, but she can still hear him. He's taking long, slow breaths, and her concern increases. Josh doesn’t do slow. He breathes, moves, thinks and lives at speed and the concept of him purposely slowing himself down sits uneasily in her mind. It’s unlike him. It’s disconcerting. It’s just wrong.
The elevator has arrived, but Donna is too worked up to stand still. She turns and pushes through the door to the stairwell, walking quickly up the two flights, phone pressed to her ear.
“Josh? Tell me what’s wrong.”
His breathing is closer again and has regained some semblance of normalcy, but his voice sounds shaky as he replies, “Nothing.”
Donna purses her lips as she reaches his room, only slightly frustrated in the face of his predictable obstinacy. “Open your door, Josh,” she says in a no-nonsense voice, knocking insistently.
“You’re at my door?” he asks, sounding embarrassed of all things.
“Yes. Open it.”
She’s worried that something is really wrong, something serious, and she wonders how fast she could get someone up here to let her in if he doesn’t do it. But after a few anxious seconds, she hears him shuffling around and then the chain sliding in the lock. When he opens the door, pale, shivering and wrapped in a blanket, she breathes a sigh of relief. He’s okay. Well, not okay, obviously sick with something, but he’s not… bleeding.
She flinches and pushes that thought away as Josh turns from her and wanders back over to the bed, sitting down gingerly. As she enters the room, closing the door behind her, he speaks quietly, almost under his breath.
"You're ready to go."
Her confusion must be obvious because he gestures vaguely at her body. She's dressed for tonight’s dinner, one more stop in a long line of campaign events.
She used to love dressing up; it was a thrill to rub elbows with statesmen and kings. And of course, there was Josh in his tux. Those nights in the White House were all laughing and smiling and champagne toasts. She and Josh would talk a little too freely and dance a little too frequently, her relishing the warmth of his body radiating through his suit, the firm presence of his hands on her back, her hips.
Now though, the dinners are cold. Conversation is polite and work-related, always in a group, a fact that she finds nearly unendurable. After eight years, they've been reduced to discussing the weather in the next state and polling numbers and neither of them seems to be able to break the pattern – though in Josh’s case, she fears it may be a matter of will rather than ability.
They never dance. She tells herself it’sthe awkwardness of conversation that stops her, but it’s really the fear of silence. That after all this time, it might turn out that they have nothing left to say.
Every dinner, every fundraiser, every rally seems to be the same. The stump speech is read and the guests clap and mingle. The Congressman is charming, his wife stunning. The staff rides back in Town Cars or Suburbans to a nameless hotel with track lighting and worn carpets. She and Josh part in the lobby with no discernable warmth, and Donna closes herself into her room, feeling just as alone as she had when she'd woken up that morning. No more, no less, and maybe that’s the worst part of this rift between them – the static nature of it.
Oh, there are variations, sure. Donna will occasionally read something that Josh would find amusing in the wires or the local paper, her hand automatically circling the article a split-second before she realizes she’ll never show it to him. Or, if she rides in a Suburban instead of a Town Car, she might wake somewhere in the grey light of pre-dawn, sitting bolt upright in bed, gripping fistfuls of bed sheets with white knuckles, his name on her lips. But really, these are only little things, things that change the day as much as having tea with breakfast instead of coffee and the next morning they'll head to a new state and do it all over again. It's been said that hell is other people, but it isn't, not for Donna. For her, hell is this new life, this polite and detached repetition.
Josh watches her from his perch on the bed, wondering when it was that she became so confident and poised in formal wear. He remembers how she looked the night of President Bartlet’s first Inauguration, nervous and excited in a pale green gown. Tonight, Donna is dressed in a smart black dress and pumps. He hates to see her in black; she rarely wore it before. She should be in color, vibrant - but he can't say so. He won't. His eyes don't linger on her form – he's schooled himself away from that over the years, knows when her attention is on him and when it's safe to look. He doesn't meet her gaze either though, not tonight. His head is throbbing and the rest of him aches like he just went twelve rounds with George Foreman, and it's too much, too draining to try to keep up his guard. He's too tired to fake nonchalance; he knows that she'd be able to see the truth in his eyes and he can't let that happen. He's not really all that scared of her seeing how much he misses her. Hell, he's told her at least once, though he hadn't meant to say it at the time.
... if you think I don’t miss you every day...
What terrifies him is that, having seen it, her face will stay the same. That his feelings aren't reciprocated. That she doesn't need him anymore, not professionally, not personally. That her concern for him is born from nothing more than nostalgia and pity.
So, he merely waves a hand at her dress and lets his eyes fall, running them along the carpet between them. "For the thing... you're ready to go."
She nods as she crosses the room to him, placing her hand on his forehead once she reaches the bed. The temperature difference is startling and he leans into her, relishing the coolness of her palm. His body feels like he’s neck deep in ice water, but his face is flushed and her hand feels like heaven. It’s not just the fever, though… Donna’s touch has always felt like home to him.
"Well, you're hot -”
"Flattery will get you everywhere."
“- but not scary hot. Where does it hurt?"
"Head, mostly." She takes her hand away and he feels a second of mourning for the lost touch. There it goes... he thinks, his mind a little fuzzy with fever and pain and fatigue. He drops his head, cradling it in his hands, trying to replace her touch with his own, but his hands feel hot and dry. They do nothing to soothe him.
He closes his eyes as Donna rattles off questions, probing for information. Nausea? Not really, no. Vomiting? No. Dizziness? Yes. Muscle aches? Definitely yes.
"A couple of the volunteers were sick with this in New York,” she says, her voice sympathetic. “It's viral, so there's not much we can give you to make you better, but it shouldn't last more than a few days. How badly does your head hurt?"
He looks up at her, finally meeting her gaze, and sees the worry there, the concern that hasn't quite been banished. Damn it. He shouldn't have stopped talking on the phone no matter how dizzy he had been. It would have scared him to death if she’d done that. He probably would have broken down the door. He tries on a small smile to try to reassure her and sighs. "It hurts, but I'm okay. Really. I just need some industrial strength aspirin and I'll be good to go."
Continued in Part 2
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