Oct. 4th and 5th--Help?
I started this weeks ago and had the idea even before that. Unlike "Mind's Eye" where I had no idea where it was going but the words just came, I knew where I wanted it to go, but actually writing it was excruciating. There was no blood going to it. I don't understand because I'm in love with the idea. I'm still not totally happy with it, but part of me wants very much to be done with it and chalk it up in the less than great category. Another part of me wants to make it good because I love the subject and the episode so much. SO, any and all feedback is extremely appreciated--what works, what doesn't work, why, what could be better instead. I may be barking up the wrong tree here because looking at my flist, not too many J/D people. But some excellent writers, so maybe someone will have something to inspire me to revisions. Otherwise, I'm sorry Joshua, I failed you a bit on this one.
Title: October 4th and 5th
Subject: Josh/Donna
Rating: PG-13
Timeframe: War Crimes
He knew he shouldn’t read it. Josh looked from the briefing in front of him again to the pages he’d set aside, set aside casually, as if they were unimportant and as if he didn’t care about them enough to tuck them away properly, as if the briefing was anything more than a poor attempt at distraction. Alone in his mostly darkened office, he wondered if she knew such things were all a front.
He shouldn’t read it. But, wouldn’t she expect him to? Didn’t she know him well enough by now, and wouldn’t she, if the situation were reversed-not that the situation ever would be reversed. If she expected him to, and if he was already guilty in her mind, he might as well live up to the expectation. Maybe she even wanted him too. Maybe somehow this was her twisted way of making him jealous. Well, of trying to make him jealous. He wasn’t jealous. Why would he be jealous? She thought he was pissed at her. He wasn’t pissed. But it was stupid.
He wished he hadn’t yelled at her, hadn’t been so harsh. He hurt her, he knew her hurt, why was he always hurting her. And why was she so easily hurt by this? She was the one who messed up, who messed up huge. Of course he yelled at her. She made things worse for the President, for Leo, for everyone. You don’t do that, you just don’t do that. Not that he was perfect, entirely. Not that he never messed up. But when he did, he didn’t give Leo those looks for yelling at him. He kept it to himself how much that killed him inside. God, did his yelling kill her that much?
He yelled because he loved her. No, not love. He yelled because he cared, because she was important to him, professionally. And personally, of course, that was nothing unusual, but he didn’t love her. He did love her, but he wasn’t in love with her.
He yelled because she slept with that guy.
The diary pages were in his hands, he wasn’t sure for how long, and he stared at the words without taking them in. Did they contain details? The thought of details about their escapades made him feel ill. And intrigued him. And turned him on. Details. That was the kind of thing women wrote in their diaries, wasn’t it?
He probably should read it. After all, he needed to know what these pages contained in case he needed to use them. He was just protecting her, protecting all of them. It was his duty to read whatever she had said, even if there were details.
And there were, many. There were details about meeting him and the things he said, about testing taxis and dinner the second night. But the sex, the sex she practically glossed over. He knew exactly the wrong amount, not enough to envision her, just her, her reactions, whether she tosses her head back when she comes, all blonde and tousled, or if she digs in with her fingernails; does she moan or whimper or cry out? Instead, he was left only with images of Cliff on top of her, thrashing into her.
Title: October 4th and 5th
Subject: Josh/Donna
Rating: PG-13
Timeframe: War Crimes
He knew he shouldn’t read it. Josh looked from the briefing in front of him again to the pages he’d set aside, set aside casually, as if they were unimportant and as if he didn’t care about them enough to tuck them away properly, as if the briefing was anything more than a poor attempt at distraction. Alone in his mostly darkened office, he wondered if she knew such things were all a front.
He shouldn’t read it. But, wouldn’t she expect him to? Didn’t she know him well enough by now, and wouldn’t she, if the situation were reversed-not that the situation ever would be reversed. If she expected him to, and if he was already guilty in her mind, he might as well live up to the expectation. Maybe she even wanted him too. Maybe somehow this was her twisted way of making him jealous. Well, of trying to make him jealous. He wasn’t jealous. Why would he be jealous? She thought he was pissed at her. He wasn’t pissed. But it was stupid.
He wished he hadn’t yelled at her, hadn’t been so harsh. He hurt her, he knew her hurt, why was he always hurting her. And why was she so easily hurt by this? She was the one who messed up, who messed up huge. Of course he yelled at her. She made things worse for the President, for Leo, for everyone. You don’t do that, you just don’t do that. Not that he was perfect, entirely. Not that he never messed up. But when he did, he didn’t give Leo those looks for yelling at him. He kept it to himself how much that killed him inside. God, did his yelling kill her that much?
He yelled because he loved her. No, not love. He yelled because he cared, because she was important to him, professionally. And personally, of course, that was nothing unusual, but he didn’t love her. He did love her, but he wasn’t in love with her.
He yelled because she slept with that guy.
The diary pages were in his hands, he wasn’t sure for how long, and he stared at the words without taking them in. Did they contain details? The thought of details about their escapades made him feel ill. And intrigued him. And turned him on. Details. That was the kind of thing women wrote in their diaries, wasn’t it?
He probably should read it. After all, he needed to know what these pages contained in case he needed to use them. He was just protecting her, protecting all of them. It was his duty to read whatever she had said, even if there were details.
And there were, many. There were details about meeting him and the things he said, about testing taxis and dinner the second night. But the sex, the sex she practically glossed over. He knew exactly the wrong amount, not enough to envision her, just her, her reactions, whether she tosses her head back when she comes, all blonde and tousled, or if she digs in with her fingernails; does she moan or whimper or cry out? Instead, he was left only with images of Cliff on top of her, thrashing into her.