FIC: The Answers Don't Hurt, TWW, J/D
Title: The Answers Don't Hurt
Fandom/Pairing: The West Wing, Josh/Donna (unresolved/friendship)
Spoilers: Through 2.10, Noel
Rating: PG-13 for violence.
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine. The words belong to me.
He still has nightmares.
Yes, it became clear he had post-traumatic stress disorder. Yes, he slammed his hand through the panes of his window. Yes, he started going to a therapist.
But he still has nightmares.
He doesn’t tell anyone, not even his therapist. He wants to be done with this now. He wants other people to be done with it. He talks to his therapist about it, about everything except the dreams, everything except the ache behind his sternum that doesn’t actually have anything to do with the bullet that ripped through him. He talks and he’ll get over it eventually and the nightmares aren’t that common and they aren’t that bad.
So he doesn’t tell anyone.
Especially not her.
She figured out his PTSD without him telling her anything, and she still watches him with that patient, careful look in her eyes. He’s sure she knows just by looking at him when he comes in in the morning. But she stays quiet about it and rattles off his schedule instead. He never listens to her the first time, and she always rolls her eyes and scolds him and repeats herself. Occasionally he’ll make her do it a third time, just for the heck of it.
But she does it anyway, tries to avoid giving him a look that tells him she’s worried about him, which she fails at every time. He notices she never plays music anymore, and almost never even hums to herself like she used to. He appreciates the sentiment, but kind of misses her humming. She was always a touch off-key and always completely oblivious to the fact that she was doing it. Well, not completely oblivious, he realizes, or she would never have stopped, would she?
On days that are particularly bad, after nights where he woke up once, twice, five times, he makes her repeat his schedule three times and he focuses on those affectionate glances she gives him. He likes that she worries about him. He likes that he has someone watching his back. Those days, during the glances or the third time through the schedule, he thinks about her taking care of him. She did, more than he could ask for.
She never asked him how he was feeling. He cannot remember a single time where she asked if he was okay. Instead, every morning she would say, “On a scale from one to ten.” and he’d give her a number and she’d dole out the Vicodin in proportion. She was in charge of the pain medication, from the beginning. Before he had even left the hospital she had informed the doctors that she would be in charge of all things medical once he was released, and she took notes as they explained everything to her, ever the diligent worker. They even taught her how to change his bandage. That first time, in the hospital with two nurses and Donna, Josh stared hard out the window, face twinged red, so embarrassed to look like this in front of her. But when she changed it at home, she did something.
She made him talk.
She asked him ridiculous questions-questions she either knew the answer to, or didn’t care one way or the other.
“What’s a baulk in baseball? I never really understood that. I mean, sometimes the umpires just point to the next base and the announcers and the pitcher and everyone goes crazy and then they replay it and the announcers go, ‘Oh, clearly a baulk there,’ and I have no idea what they’re talking about.”
He sighed and tried to explain something he didn’t understand himself.
“Why does the winner of the All-Star Game get home field advantage for the World Series? Haven’t your Mets lost that game since like ’96 or something?”
“Donna, one team does not lose an All-Star Game. It’s the best players from throughout the league. It doesn’t have anything to do with a specific team.”
“Exactly,” she said, like she knew that all along. “So why does it decide who gets home field advantage?”
She was really on a baseball kick for a while.
“What’s the infield fly rule?”
That was actually the first question she asked the first time she changed his bandage and he was halfway through the answer when she finished. He was so busy with his explanation he didn’t remember to be embarrassed.
His favorite question of hers has to be, “How does the Electoral College really work?”
“C’mon, Donna, you know that,” he scoffed.
It was a particularly bad day and he was snapping at her for pinching his skin as the old bandage comes off. But she pressed him.
“No really. I mean, why oh why have we not changed it to the popular vote? Why can you win by millions of votes in Rhode Island and lose by one in California and it’s California that matters? Are we just sticking to tradition? Because that’s stupid.”
“You’re saying that to a Jew?” he chuckled before remembering that he was mad.
But by the time he remembered she’d already flashed a smile at him and he could hardly be grumpy after all those snow white teeth.
When he didn’t need a bandage anymore he actually missed her asking him absurd questions. Not that she doesn’t still do it on a regular basis, but it’s not the same. There’s not the same proximity, her hair sometimes tickling the skin on his stomach until he squirms and she throws it into a ponytail in a movement that’s so domestic and feminine he’s rendered speechless for a moment. There’s not the same glance up at him, with a grin instead of a worry, that makes him forget that she’s rebandaging where he got shot in the chest. There’s not the same light touch of her fingers working over him, gently skimming in a way that he’s certain isn’t necessary just for bandage-changing.
Instead she’s asking him absurd questions the day after he’s had a nightmare and four minutes after she’s repeated his schedule three times.
“Donna, we should plan times for this,” he announces suddenly.
She looks at him quizzically. “What?”
“Time for you to ask me ridiculous questions. We used to have time,” his voice wavers slightly, “and we don’t have a specific time anymore. We should have a specific time where you get to ask me one ridiculous question a day and I’ll spend at least five minutes talking just about that.”
Her face lights up at this and he immediately thinks it may be a bad decision. But he still finds himself agreeing that, “Sure, we’ll do it after my three o’clock.”
“Who’s my three o’clock with again?” he asks with a crooked half-smirk.
She lifts her nose. “I’d throw something at you-but nothing is soft enough not to hurt.” She turns and heads to her desk.
“Since when do you throw things at me without intending bodily harm?” he calls after her.
She doesn’t respond but he has to duck the pencil that comes flying through his door.
-
She knocks on the door of his apartment a few nights later and walks in as soon as he opens it.
“Um. Of course. Come in.”
“We didn’t schedule time for my question today,” she says. She throws him a glance over her shoulder. “Also, we lost Collins on the energy vote.”
“What?!” his voice gets all high in that way he hates but she finds endearing. “How’d we lose Collins? This is his thing.”
She sits down and opens the four folders she brought with her, spreading them across his coffee table. She’s so comfortable in his apartment he sometimes forgets she doesn’t live there with him anymore.
“Don’t worry, I know how to get him back. But we have to get this done tonight.”
She goes on to explain how to win back his vote and it’s completely perfect and he wonders for a moment why she’s only his assistant, why she doesn’t have a better job, why she doesn’t have his job-because he definitely wouldn’t have come up with that.
They work for hours, stopping occasionally for Chinese food or a beer-“Only one Joshua, we’re can’t risk your delicate system when there’s work to be done”-and when Donna has to make a wish at 11:11. She sees the clock and gasps, closing her eyes tight and balling her fists.
“Donna, what the hell are you doing?”
“Shut up, I’m making a wish.”
Moments later she opens her eyes and immediately gets back to work. He looks at her, smiling in a way he can only do like this, when they’re working at his apartment or behind closed doors and there’s no one to judge their interaction as too affectionate or breaking the rules. She finally notices him staring.
“What?”
“Whad’ja wish for?”
She sighs and rolls her eyes. “I can’t tell you. Then it doesn’t come true.”
He laughs and runs a hand through his hair and they get back to work.
They didn’t seem to realize making a wish at 11:11 meant it was, well, 11:11 and they should both probably get to sleep soon. When they finally stopped work at 11:50 she yawned and stretched and he ran a hand through his hair again.
“Sorry we didn’t have time for your question today.”
“I’ve still got one,” and he doesn’t trust the gleam in her eyes. “Will you be okay with the couch? Because I’m not driving home and I’m sure as hell not taking the couch.”
He rolls his eyes at her but the expression is lost in a yawn and she laughs.
“Sure, steal my bed. But don’t be mad at me if there are crumbs and things.”
“Joshua, today is Tuesday. You change your sheets Sundays. Could you really make that much of a mess in two days?”
“It’s a little disconcerting that you know when I change my sheets.”
“I also know your social security number, birth date, mother’s maiden name, first pet’s name, credit card number, pin number, and that little verification code on your credit card. I know that you can’t type more than fifty words per minute and you like your hamburgers burnt to a crisp and ketchup on your calamari. I know the name of the first girl you kissed,” she raises her eyebrows at this one. “And of the last girl you kissed for that matter. Is knowing when you change your sheets really what scares you?”
“Well when you put it that way, I suppose not.”
She smiles and yawns again. “Set yourself up a bed okay-don’t just sleep with the arm as a pillow. Promise?”
“Promise.”
She stretches. “Goodnight, Joshua.”
“Goodnight, Donnatella.”
She disappears into his bedroom. He pulls his shirt over his head and kicks off his pants. He sleeps in boxers even in winter. Grabbing a pillow, he heads for the couch.
It’s less than an hour later that he’s shot in the chest.
The police lights are flashing but it’s more like a constant flicker and they’re blinding. C.J. gets a scrape on her neck and blue and red glass shatters into the air. People are screaming and people are crying and Josh thinks for a moment of Donna. She’s safe, he remembers, she’s not with us tonight. And then there’s a screaming pain inside him and he stumbles against the wall. He can taste blood, and he feels it gushing onto his hands. It’s warmer than he expects, warmer than it should be. Warm is comforting, so the blood shouldn’t be warm as it pours out of him and he falls to the ground.
Everything swirls before him, but he can hear Toby calling his name somewhere.
And suddenly there are paramedics and he want to scream he wants to scream he wants to scream but he can’t. He can’t breathe and he can’t even see anymore and the blood is cooling on his hands. The paramedics hands are hard on his chest, harder than they should be, anxious, not careful, and he hears Donna’s voice.
“Josh! Josh!”
She’s in front of him, sitting on the couch, and there’s no more blood anywhere but what’s pounding in his ears. Her eyes are fearful and he thinks that’s probably what he looks like. He suddenly realizes she knows now.
“Oh Josh.”
And he can tell she’s trying not to cry. He grabs her hands that are still on his chest, but he doesn’t know why.
“It’s okay,” why is he the one doing the comforting? “It’s okay. I’m all right. Look I’m all right. I’m fine. Look I’m fine.” He holds her hands to his scar. “No blood.”
She traces his scar and drops her head to his chest, stretching her body next to his on the couch.
Her hair is lightly ticklish, the way it use to be, and he breathes in her shampoo. He still has the coconut whatever that she uses. It’s still in the shower, and she still has clothes in his closets, for nights like tonight when it’s too late to go home and she refuses to get up early to go home and get ready.
He feels her tears spill onto his chest.
“No Donna,” he whispers. “No, I’m fine.”
She fixes him with a determined stare. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He sighs and lets go of one of her hands so he can mess it through his hair. Her breath is loud and he counts time by it.
“Donna,” he can’t even look at her, “I’m sick of being weak. You saw me at my weakest and you caught me again afterward, with the PTSD. I didn’t want you to worry. I didn’t want you to think I was weak. I’m so sick of being weak.”
She lays her head back on his chest. “You’re the strongest person I know.”
He just keeps time by her breath.
They lay in silence for a few minutes until their hearts slow again and he is about to squirm under her hair but she moves suddenly. Her chin on his chest, she looks at him.
“Explain public financing to me again. I still don’t get it.”
Fandom/Pairing: The West Wing, Josh/Donna (unresolved/friendship)
Spoilers: Through 2.10, Noel
Rating: PG-13 for violence.
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine. The words belong to me.
He still has nightmares.
Yes, it became clear he had post-traumatic stress disorder. Yes, he slammed his hand through the panes of his window. Yes, he started going to a therapist.
But he still has nightmares.
He doesn’t tell anyone, not even his therapist. He wants to be done with this now. He wants other people to be done with it. He talks to his therapist about it, about everything except the dreams, everything except the ache behind his sternum that doesn’t actually have anything to do with the bullet that ripped through him. He talks and he’ll get over it eventually and the nightmares aren’t that common and they aren’t that bad.
So he doesn’t tell anyone.
Especially not her.
She figured out his PTSD without him telling her anything, and she still watches him with that patient, careful look in her eyes. He’s sure she knows just by looking at him when he comes in in the morning. But she stays quiet about it and rattles off his schedule instead. He never listens to her the first time, and she always rolls her eyes and scolds him and repeats herself. Occasionally he’ll make her do it a third time, just for the heck of it.
But she does it anyway, tries to avoid giving him a look that tells him she’s worried about him, which she fails at every time. He notices she never plays music anymore, and almost never even hums to herself like she used to. He appreciates the sentiment, but kind of misses her humming. She was always a touch off-key and always completely oblivious to the fact that she was doing it. Well, not completely oblivious, he realizes, or she would never have stopped, would she?
On days that are particularly bad, after nights where he woke up once, twice, five times, he makes her repeat his schedule three times and he focuses on those affectionate glances she gives him. He likes that she worries about him. He likes that he has someone watching his back. Those days, during the glances or the third time through the schedule, he thinks about her taking care of him. She did, more than he could ask for.
She never asked him how he was feeling. He cannot remember a single time where she asked if he was okay. Instead, every morning she would say, “On a scale from one to ten.” and he’d give her a number and she’d dole out the Vicodin in proportion. She was in charge of the pain medication, from the beginning. Before he had even left the hospital she had informed the doctors that she would be in charge of all things medical once he was released, and she took notes as they explained everything to her, ever the diligent worker. They even taught her how to change his bandage. That first time, in the hospital with two nurses and Donna, Josh stared hard out the window, face twinged red, so embarrassed to look like this in front of her. But when she changed it at home, she did something.
She made him talk.
She asked him ridiculous questions-questions she either knew the answer to, or didn’t care one way or the other.
“What’s a baulk in baseball? I never really understood that. I mean, sometimes the umpires just point to the next base and the announcers and the pitcher and everyone goes crazy and then they replay it and the announcers go, ‘Oh, clearly a baulk there,’ and I have no idea what they’re talking about.”
He sighed and tried to explain something he didn’t understand himself.
“Why does the winner of the All-Star Game get home field advantage for the World Series? Haven’t your Mets lost that game since like ’96 or something?”
“Donna, one team does not lose an All-Star Game. It’s the best players from throughout the league. It doesn’t have anything to do with a specific team.”
“Exactly,” she said, like she knew that all along. “So why does it decide who gets home field advantage?”
She was really on a baseball kick for a while.
“What’s the infield fly rule?”
That was actually the first question she asked the first time she changed his bandage and he was halfway through the answer when she finished. He was so busy with his explanation he didn’t remember to be embarrassed.
His favorite question of hers has to be, “How does the Electoral College really work?”
“C’mon, Donna, you know that,” he scoffed.
It was a particularly bad day and he was snapping at her for pinching his skin as the old bandage comes off. But she pressed him.
“No really. I mean, why oh why have we not changed it to the popular vote? Why can you win by millions of votes in Rhode Island and lose by one in California and it’s California that matters? Are we just sticking to tradition? Because that’s stupid.”
“You’re saying that to a Jew?” he chuckled before remembering that he was mad.
But by the time he remembered she’d already flashed a smile at him and he could hardly be grumpy after all those snow white teeth.
When he didn’t need a bandage anymore he actually missed her asking him absurd questions. Not that she doesn’t still do it on a regular basis, but it’s not the same. There’s not the same proximity, her hair sometimes tickling the skin on his stomach until he squirms and she throws it into a ponytail in a movement that’s so domestic and feminine he’s rendered speechless for a moment. There’s not the same glance up at him, with a grin instead of a worry, that makes him forget that she’s rebandaging where he got shot in the chest. There’s not the same light touch of her fingers working over him, gently skimming in a way that he’s certain isn’t necessary just for bandage-changing.
Instead she’s asking him absurd questions the day after he’s had a nightmare and four minutes after she’s repeated his schedule three times.
“Donna, we should plan times for this,” he announces suddenly.
She looks at him quizzically. “What?”
“Time for you to ask me ridiculous questions. We used to have time,” his voice wavers slightly, “and we don’t have a specific time anymore. We should have a specific time where you get to ask me one ridiculous question a day and I’ll spend at least five minutes talking just about that.”
Her face lights up at this and he immediately thinks it may be a bad decision. But he still finds himself agreeing that, “Sure, we’ll do it after my three o’clock.”
“Who’s my three o’clock with again?” he asks with a crooked half-smirk.
She lifts her nose. “I’d throw something at you-but nothing is soft enough not to hurt.” She turns and heads to her desk.
“Since when do you throw things at me without intending bodily harm?” he calls after her.
She doesn’t respond but he has to duck the pencil that comes flying through his door.
-
She knocks on the door of his apartment a few nights later and walks in as soon as he opens it.
“Um. Of course. Come in.”
“We didn’t schedule time for my question today,” she says. She throws him a glance over her shoulder. “Also, we lost Collins on the energy vote.”
“What?!” his voice gets all high in that way he hates but she finds endearing. “How’d we lose Collins? This is his thing.”
She sits down and opens the four folders she brought with her, spreading them across his coffee table. She’s so comfortable in his apartment he sometimes forgets she doesn’t live there with him anymore.
“Don’t worry, I know how to get him back. But we have to get this done tonight.”
She goes on to explain how to win back his vote and it’s completely perfect and he wonders for a moment why she’s only his assistant, why she doesn’t have a better job, why she doesn’t have his job-because he definitely wouldn’t have come up with that.
They work for hours, stopping occasionally for Chinese food or a beer-“Only one Joshua, we’re can’t risk your delicate system when there’s work to be done”-and when Donna has to make a wish at 11:11. She sees the clock and gasps, closing her eyes tight and balling her fists.
“Donna, what the hell are you doing?”
“Shut up, I’m making a wish.”
Moments later she opens her eyes and immediately gets back to work. He looks at her, smiling in a way he can only do like this, when they’re working at his apartment or behind closed doors and there’s no one to judge their interaction as too affectionate or breaking the rules. She finally notices him staring.
“What?”
“Whad’ja wish for?”
She sighs and rolls her eyes. “I can’t tell you. Then it doesn’t come true.”
He laughs and runs a hand through his hair and they get back to work.
They didn’t seem to realize making a wish at 11:11 meant it was, well, 11:11 and they should both probably get to sleep soon. When they finally stopped work at 11:50 she yawned and stretched and he ran a hand through his hair again.
“Sorry we didn’t have time for your question today.”
“I’ve still got one,” and he doesn’t trust the gleam in her eyes. “Will you be okay with the couch? Because I’m not driving home and I’m sure as hell not taking the couch.”
He rolls his eyes at her but the expression is lost in a yawn and she laughs.
“Sure, steal my bed. But don’t be mad at me if there are crumbs and things.”
“Joshua, today is Tuesday. You change your sheets Sundays. Could you really make that much of a mess in two days?”
“It’s a little disconcerting that you know when I change my sheets.”
“I also know your social security number, birth date, mother’s maiden name, first pet’s name, credit card number, pin number, and that little verification code on your credit card. I know that you can’t type more than fifty words per minute and you like your hamburgers burnt to a crisp and ketchup on your calamari. I know the name of the first girl you kissed,” she raises her eyebrows at this one. “And of the last girl you kissed for that matter. Is knowing when you change your sheets really what scares you?”
“Well when you put it that way, I suppose not.”
She smiles and yawns again. “Set yourself up a bed okay-don’t just sleep with the arm as a pillow. Promise?”
“Promise.”
She stretches. “Goodnight, Joshua.”
“Goodnight, Donnatella.”
She disappears into his bedroom. He pulls his shirt over his head and kicks off his pants. He sleeps in boxers even in winter. Grabbing a pillow, he heads for the couch.
It’s less than an hour later that he’s shot in the chest.
The police lights are flashing but it’s more like a constant flicker and they’re blinding. C.J. gets a scrape on her neck and blue and red glass shatters into the air. People are screaming and people are crying and Josh thinks for a moment of Donna. She’s safe, he remembers, she’s not with us tonight. And then there’s a screaming pain inside him and he stumbles against the wall. He can taste blood, and he feels it gushing onto his hands. It’s warmer than he expects, warmer than it should be. Warm is comforting, so the blood shouldn’t be warm as it pours out of him and he falls to the ground.
Everything swirls before him, but he can hear Toby calling his name somewhere.
And suddenly there are paramedics and he want to scream he wants to scream he wants to scream but he can’t. He can’t breathe and he can’t even see anymore and the blood is cooling on his hands. The paramedics hands are hard on his chest, harder than they should be, anxious, not careful, and he hears Donna’s voice.
“Josh! Josh!”
She’s in front of him, sitting on the couch, and there’s no more blood anywhere but what’s pounding in his ears. Her eyes are fearful and he thinks that’s probably what he looks like. He suddenly realizes she knows now.
“Oh Josh.”
And he can tell she’s trying not to cry. He grabs her hands that are still on his chest, but he doesn’t know why.
“It’s okay,” why is he the one doing the comforting? “It’s okay. I’m all right. Look I’m all right. I’m fine. Look I’m fine.” He holds her hands to his scar. “No blood.”
She traces his scar and drops her head to his chest, stretching her body next to his on the couch.
Her hair is lightly ticklish, the way it use to be, and he breathes in her shampoo. He still has the coconut whatever that she uses. It’s still in the shower, and she still has clothes in his closets, for nights like tonight when it’s too late to go home and she refuses to get up early to go home and get ready.
He feels her tears spill onto his chest.
“No Donna,” he whispers. “No, I’m fine.”
She fixes him with a determined stare. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He sighs and lets go of one of her hands so he can mess it through his hair. Her breath is loud and he counts time by it.
“Donna,” he can’t even look at her, “I’m sick of being weak. You saw me at my weakest and you caught me again afterward, with the PTSD. I didn’t want you to worry. I didn’t want you to think I was weak. I’m so sick of being weak.”
She lays her head back on his chest. “You’re the strongest person I know.”
He just keeps time by her breath.
They lay in silence for a few minutes until their hearts slow again and he is about to squirm under her hair but she moves suddenly. Her chin on his chest, she looks at him.
“Explain public financing to me again. I still don’t get it.”