(no subject)
Title: Worse
Character/Pairing: Donna centric, Josh/Donna
Rating: There's much angst, much pain, much drinking... Adult themes throughout, though no smut. It's like, the antithesis of smut.
Disclaimer: Not mine, alas. I think any one of us fanfic writers could beat John Wells at his own game.
Wordcount: 3,000
It’s getting worse. Definitely worse. It’s harder to look him in the eye today than it was yesterday, and it’ll be harder again tomorrow. He wouldn’t understand.
They say that time is a healer. Time heals all manner of wounds. The gritty wash of time leaves a bitter taste in her mouth as she realises it’s been four years and not one ounce of healing has occurred. It tastes like blood and tears, cold tears that she shouldn’t cry. So she doesn’t. She hands him the file and then leaves him alone. Returns to work, returns to her desk, returns to her thoughts.
And then another day is over. It’s dark, and he’s already left. She picks up her coat and vanishes, listening only to the sound of her heart and her feet, keeping time, keeping pace to the steady rhythm of the rotation of her thoughts. She jumps in her car and drives home, fumbling through the door because it’s dark inside, but she doesn’t turn on the light. She can’t. Light would mean she’d see what she was doing, and this was something she’d never been able to watch, never been able to see herself do. There’s a street lamp outside her kitchen window, and that hollow yellow is enough, because the knife catches the light so simply. It glints as she slides it from the drawer. She realises that this time she hasn’t even removed her coat. The door is still open behind her.
It’s getting worse. She drops the knife on the table. It clangs and clatters, echoing through the empty rooms around her. Pulling off her coat she stares at it. He wouldn’t understand. She closes the door and leans against it, feeling the cold of lacquered wood through her shirt. She kicks off her shoes, flinging them across the room, loving the way they hit the wall with such force. It’s therapeutic, but it’s not enough. If throwing things helped the way that blade did, she’d leave nothing intact tonight.
She starts to unbutton her blouse, letting it hang open as she walks across to the refrigerator. Opening the freezer compartment, she pulls out a half-consumed bottle of vodka. The soft glow of the refrigerator light seems to her garish, for it illuminates the alabaster skin on her stomach, highlights all the ethereal scars etched into it. It makes her angry, because it feels like it’s pointing out all the times she’s gone wrong, the exact moment she fell off the tracks. She slams the door in disgust, and returns herself to the cloak of darkness. She unscrews the cap of the bottle and lets it drop to the floor, idly forgetting its purpose. She swigs, and the taste doesn’t make her gag like it used to. The alcohol hits her system like a baseball bat, because she hasn’t eaten anything in a while. She never has the appetite.
Four years. Four fucking years. The campaign had been the best time in her life, she knew that now, she’d known it then. Those days with the people that she had grown to adore and respect too much.
Those wonderful, glorious nights with him moving within her, making her so blissfully happy. Making her glow with love for him. Her skin was blank back then. No scars.
And then they’d won. Everything had changed that night.
She’d like to blame him, but she can’t. Because when he’d said “No more”, she’d agreed.
She laughs a harsh, mirthless laugh, hand deathly cold around the bottle. She’d said “I understand’, and there was nothing else. Four years on, he’s forgotten. Four years on, she’s still broken.
Another swig, and another. Her head fills with fluid, the thoughts start to drown. She can’t remember how she’s gotten so bad, how everything has gotten so fucked up.
The sound of ringing fades into her ears, slowly. She’s not sure how long she’s been sitting down, lost in her own head, but there’s hardly any vodka left in the bottle in front of her. At first, she can’t place where the sound is coming from, then through her stupor she vaguely recognises it as a telephone.
Her cell phone.
Her first thought is to leave it. She doesn’t want to talk to anyone. But then…
It could be an emergency.
It could be her parents.
It could be Josh.
She stands unsteadily, pads over to her purse and fumbles inside till her cell is in her hand. Sure enough, the ID says ‘Josh’. She can feel the tears burning behind her eyes already. She hits the ‘receive’ button.
“Yeah?” She tries to steady her voice, but ultimately it comes out raspy and hollow. All she can do is hope he doesn’t notice. She leans against the wall to stop herself falling over.
Donna?
He says her name with concern, though she can’t tell if it’s for her, or for something else.
Donna… CJ called me.
She inhales slowly. Please, please, please let it not be work. She can’t go into the office now, tonight. Just let it be anything but work. She finds her words very deliberately - any slight slur could give her away…
“What do you need?” Matter of fact, direct, to the point. This phone call needed to be over.
Donna… She’s worried about you.
Shit. She thought she’d gotten good at hiding it. But CJ… What could she have noticed? What did she see?
“I’m fine, Josh…” A waver catches in her throat, and it takes everything to hide it.
…Can I come in? Josh’s voice is pleading with her.
“What?”
There’s a knock at the door, and Donna almost loses her grip on the cell phone. No. No, he can’t come in. He can’t see her like this, see her losing her grip, unfurling so very sadly, alone.
Donna?
There he is again.
She’s shaking her head, even though he can’t see her. No way is he coming through that door. “No, Josh. No…” She can’t remember locking the door…
It’s cold.
“No, I-“
I’m worried about you.
He pauses slightly, taking a deep breath that to Donna seems laboured.
I lied before. CJ didn’t call. I’m here because I’m worried about you.
Donna’s head is swimming once more, and she doesn’t quite follow Josh’s blindsiding statement. The bile starts to rise in her throat, and she can’t tell if it’s from the alcohol - In seconds the cell phone is on the floor and her head is in the sink. And then a hand is on her back, and another is supporting her head, gently holding her hair away from her face. She barely notices either as another wave of nausea hits the back of her throat and splashes into the sink.
She’s coughing, mumbling simple apologies to him, and the tears are falling from her cheeks. She can barely stand, the weakness finally consuming her - For now, it doesn’t matter, because Josh is holding her on her feet. She’s partially aware that she’s vomited all over her hands, down her front, on her bare skin where her blouse is still unbuttoned - She apologises again. Josh is telling her it’s okay, that he’s here now, he’s got her, and she sobs harder, crying because she’s been discovered, crying because she’s finally in his arms again, crying because the last of her self respect has just splashed away down the drain. He’s wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her against him as she retches again, less violently than before - There’s nothing left for her to bring up except small amounts of bile.
Josh asks her if she thinks she can move. His voice is soft and far away, as if he’s submerged in the Potomac. She mumbles something in response, but he can’t make it out. Regardless, he takes one of her arms and places it over his shoulder, and starts to turn her towards the bathroom. Instantly she starts to stumble, even with his support. Swiftly he sweeps up her legs, telling her to hold onto his neck, but she’s unresponsive and limp in his arms. Slowly he carries her to the bathroom and props her up against the wall next to her toilet, legs out straight in front of her. Slowly and gently he starts to clean her up, wiping off her face and hands with a damp towel. He’s whispering to her, telling her how he’ll make everything okay again. How he misses her so much he can’t bear it. How he’s so in love with her that every day his heart breaks. She’s not answering - her eyes are closed and damp, and her breathing is so shallow he can barely see the rise and fall of her chest. He’s scared - there’s no movement in her, the lights are all out in her face. He calls out to her, touching her face with the palm of his hand, asking her to stay with him, pleading with her to open her eyes and look at him.
She doesn’t. She’s just slumped there, colourless and still. Josh moves to sit beside her, close but not touching. He’s watching her, studying the smooth rise and fall of her chest, and not simply to make sure she is still breathing. He studies those curves he used to know so well, and fights the feeling of perversion rising up from his stomach. His eyes travel down the bare expanse of skin exposed, all the way to the dark waistband of her skirt. He swallows hard, biting his lip. He reaches out to trace the line of the darkest mark with a shaking finger, but stops short of letting himself touch her. He inhales softly, and a single tear falls from his chin and makes a dark circle on his shirt. This skin used to be his wonderland. This skin used to be the reason he lived, the reason he went on living. To make her happy, to make her proud, that used to be the reason he did everything. Looking at her now, he realises something. She’s not his anymore. He doesn’t even know her. There’s a glorious, beautifully broken girl slumped next to him on the floor, and he’s amazed he still knows her name.
“Donna.”
He slides his hand inside hers. It’s cold and clammy, and he notices a shiver run through her body. He lifts her heavy hand to his lips and kisses it, then lays it across her body. He lifts the other one to join it, then slides his arms under her slight frame, and carries her through to her bedroom. Her bed is neatly made, covers turned down. He lays her down, gently turning her onto her side- the shivering in her body becoming more and more pronounced.
He doesn’t undress her, just covers her over with the duvet and throw. She doesn’t react - she’s out cold. He moves around the bed to the other side, and sits down. Silently, he takes off his shoes and lies down next to her on top of the covers, carefully making sure there’s distance enough between them. After staring up at the ceiling for a few minutes, catching both his breath and his thoughts, he turns on his side and stares at the back of her head. He stays like that till the sunlight starts to seep through the heavy curtains of her bedroom. She doesn’t stir once.
At around six he slips off of the bed and starts to walk out into her kitchen. He has to pause in the doorway for a moment, the sight of the bottle and knife lying on the table makes him feel sick inside - guilty. Swallowing hard, he steps forward, rubbing his face roughly with his palms. He wants to tidy them away, hide them from her, but he decides it’s not his place. She has to face it herself. He flicks the switch on her percolator, and moves to lean against the bare wall next to the doorway. Everything is silent, except for the steady bubble of the coffee machine, and the small but steady flow of early morning traffic.
He’s going to have to call work soon. He’s going to have to call Leo, not that he knows what to say to him. ‘Look. Donna and I can’t come in today because I’ve fucked her up so much she’s losing her mind, and I have to try and fix it, but I’ve no idea how.’ He lets out a mirthless laugh. That’s the truth, though he’s not sure he can say it out loud. So he’ll make up something inconspicuous - the specifics don’t matter right now - and he’ll lie through his teeth.
There’s a stumbling of footsteps behind him, and he turns just in time to see Donna tumble into the bathroom and kneel in front of the toilet. He reaches her side just as she heaves. His hand making small circles on her back is the first moment she realises she isn’t alone in her home - she startles at his touch. She turns to look at him with her bloodshot eyes, and it takes her a moment to remember why he’s here.
“Oh god…” Her voice is tiny, and she turns away from him to rest her head on her arm. ‘I’m so sorry.’ she mumbles. ‘This… This isn’t me.’ He doesn’t reply. He wants to hold her, tell her that he’ll make it all better, that she doesn’t have to worry any more… But the words won’t come. ‘Donna…’ He leans over and kisses her softly on the top of her head. ‘It’s okay.’ He then stands up, and holds out his hands to help her up. For a moment, she looks at them - the smooth, well-kept fingers she knows as intimately as her own. She can’t get over the symbolism in the air around them. She needs help, and with this gesture he’s offering it. Then she looks up at his face - there’s a soft, sad smile on his lips that he’s hoping is reassuring, but his eyes meet hers with sadness and guilt. She slips her hands inside his, and he pulls her up into a tight embrace. Slowly, she slides her arms around his waist, and the smell of him fills her head, and the memories it invokes are almost overwhelming.
She’s murmuring into his chest, so low he can’t make out her words, but he can feel the warmth of her breath through the light fabric of his shirt.
“You and me, we’ll make this okay.” He can feel the pinpricks of tears as she pulls back a little and looks up at him. “I promise.” There’s distrust in those hollow blue eyes - he’s promised things before… He feels the shift within her even before she speaks.
“Don’t promise me anything. It’ll just hurt more when you find it’s too hard, and you’ll throw me away again - stop loving me again.”
She lets him go, and walks through into the kitchen, doing up the buttons of her shirt as she walks. Before Josh enters the room behind her, she’s cleared her debris from the tabletop. When he speaks she’s pouring the coffee he made into two mugs.
“Don’t presume things, Donna. I never stopped loving you.” Her hand tightens around the handle of the coffee pot.
He waits for a response, but when one doesn’t come, he moves to sit at her table, opposite the seat she had sat in last night. Still, she keeps her back to him, leaning on the work-surface.
“We… You and I, we never had a chance.” Just then, his cell-phone starts to ring.
Leo calling…
He flicks it open, cursing inside his head. “What’s up?”
Where are you? Senior staff is starting and you’re AWOL.
“I won’t be there. Emergency.”
What? What’s happened? Donna’s not here either… Is that anything to do with you? If you’re playing hookey with your-
“She’s here, but it’s not what you think. I am going to have to ask for a favour, though. Later.”
You’ve got to be kidding! Are you trying to make your life more difficult than it already is?! Screwing your-
“Trust me, Leo. That’s not what this is. Just… give me some time. I’ll see you later.”
Josh snaps his phone shut. Donna places his coffee on the table in front of him, and walks out towards her bathroom. The door closes behind her, and moments later Josh hears the sound of running water.
He takes his coffee through to her lounge and sits down on her modest but comfortable couch.
Inside the bathroom, Donna’s clothes sit in untidy piles on the floor. She steps gingerly into the scalding hot water; the high-pressure jets making her skin tingle. For a moment she just acclimatises. She’s using the shower as an excuse to get away from Josh - there’s so much going on in her head.
I never stopped loving you. In a way, she’s always known his feelings - the way he looked at her sometimes, the way his hand would brush against hers seemingly accidentally - it just showed.
The fact that he loves her, however, just makes the situation more painful. How could he have treated her so badly and still expect forgiveness? Despairingly, she realises that she’d forgive him in a heartbeat if he wanted her. If he needed her once again.
She absently washes her hair, not really thinking about what she’s doing. She shampoos it twice. She’s hung-over, groggy. This really isn’t the time to be talking about this. She makes a decision.
When she reaches Josh in the living room, fully dressed, concealed behind her makeup, he’s sound asleep, cold coffee on the table in front of him.
As she slips out the door and heads to work, he’s covered lightly in a blanket, and a note is resting against his mug.
Gone to work.
Will explain to Leo - about everything.
Talk…soon.
Donnatella
x