Author's Notes: You know, there's beta-cheating, and then there's whoring yourself to the whoever is online.
I am the latter.
Opalish, even though I am no longer working for you, you are still amazing-ul. And fantastmical. And everyone needs to go read her Alias fics because they're brilliant.
…Come to think of it, people need to read my West Wing fics.
Anyhoo, here's another little piece of Josh/Donna. All of these are from Season 2 because it's the only season I have on DVD at the moment, so I can't really write from anywhere else. So, enjoy.
And then review. Because getting one review a pop, from my BETA, is an ultimate sort of pathetic that I'm just not ready to stoop to.
In The Rough
I got into a car accident.
A strange feeling sloshes in your stomach at this. You feel nauseous, angry, at the mental picture of Donna lying in a hospital bed, tubes protruding from her, eyelids fluttering, and her face – pale, so pale – resting on the blue pillows.
It wasn't a big deal.
You nod at this, because fender-benders happen, but the sudden urge to rush her to the hospital, just to be sure, suddenly sweeps through your whole person and the only thing keeping you from doing just that is the fact that you're pretty sure you're about to hear confidential information, and sitting so close to Donna is sort of like heaven.
He stopped for a beer, so I left him.
Indignation. It's more fierce than you've ever felt it, and anger; anger that overrides any sensible thought and for a moment all you can do is picture yourself strangling what's-his-face with your bare hands. Because this is Donna, and she deserves better, she deserves the best, she deserves someone who would run red lights and stop signs and get out of the car to maneuver on foot through traffic, just to buy her chocolate on her birthday.
He bought a beer, and she was in the hospital. You can only stare at her uncomprehendingly as you process this information. And once you have, you resist the urge to wrap your arms around her shoulders and just – just –
But usually you break off your thoughts here, because you can't ever just. Images of a simple hug evolve into more, and there's nothing so distracting as legs and sheets and clothing strewn across the floor.
Yes, Josh, you're better than my ex-boyfriend.
You watch her retreating form and rest against the door jam. The flowers are beautiful, she calls over her shoulder and you grin, broadly, because you know that she knows that next February there will be a bouquet on her desk and, come April, you won't say a word.
She left him, after all. She left him to come back to you, and that seems to be the only thing that matters.