Awareness
"Watching Josh might be essential to my job, but it isn't doing my health any favors, and it's certainly wreaking some havoc on my heart." Josh/Donna, The West Wing
Title - Awareness: Watching Josh
Summary: So, Donna has this habit. Introspection with a hint of Josh/Donna. My first foray into Sorkin fic.
Disclaimer -- Not mine, Sorkin's (and Wells', I suppose)
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I have this annoying habit. It's not something I do intentionally; in fact, I'd love to be able to stop. But day after day it creeps up on me.
It can't possibly be that bad, you're thinking. And you're right. It's not a debilitating drug habit, not like I could afford the good stuff anyway. I don't bite my nails—again, because manicures are expensive and I’m a girl on a budget.
I watch him. Josh. I watch Josh a lot.
It doesn't really matter what I'm doing, whether I'm chatting with Carol or typing a memo on my computer, or arguing with my mother over the phone. No matter what, or where, or when, I am instantly aware of the moment Josh walks into the building. Call it a sixth sense, call it an unhealthy obsession, but there it is. Something in my brain sends up a red flag--Josh is here--and inevitably, my eyes stray in the direction of the Northwest lobby. My breath catches, just a little bit, not enough to alert anyone else, and I mentally prepare myself to be professional. To be Donnatella Moss, the ever present, always helpful "Deputy Deputy Chief of Staff", when he comes striding into the bullpen ready to take on anything or anyone. Starting with the Republicans, naturally.
God, he's hot when he plays the conquering hero. No wonder I'm in love with him.
No, not love. You are NOT in love with Josh, I remind myself firmly. That would be catastrophic on so many levels, wouldn't it? So I sternly make myself forget everything. Books on Alpine skiing. Fourteen hours of pleading with God in a hospital waiting room. Three months of rehab. That Christmas Eve, when he broke a window and came dangerously close to breaking himself. Coffee. Banter. Snowballs thrown at my apartment window. I can't think about all that, not here, not now. I have to be Donna the assistant, not one half of JoshandDonna.
It's easy enough when he's being a bastard, or, you know, just being himself. But when he turns on the charm, forget about it. I'm jelly. Oh, wait, I probably shouldn't admit that, should I? Right. Professionalism.
So he comes in every morning, and I pretend that I didn't know the moment he walked in the door. I pretend that I hate his morning request for the finest muffins and bagels in all the land. Banter banter banter, flirt flirt flirt. No, Josh, I will not bring you coffee. Yes, Josh, the file is on your desk. Good luck finding it. It's all routine, but all the while I'm discreetly watching him. Gauging his mood. I know, I know. Gauging his mood? But it's really a valid thing. I have to know how Josh is feeling, so I know what kind of day it will be, who to keep him away from, and what level of banter is acceptable.
For example, if he walks in with the big smile (the one with the dimples) lighting up his face, that tells me this will be a "victory is mine" day. Now here's a secret, one I'll probably never admit to him: I love "victory is mine" days. I love it that in the hellishly demanding life of Josh Lyman, he can still find some things to be triumphant about. I love his incredibly ridiculous victory dance. I love hearing "who da man?" echoing from inside his office. Did I mention my fascination with the conquering hero?
If he drags in with bags under his eyes, I know he's forgotten his delicate system and gotten shit-faced the night before. Drunk after two beers. Really. It's an unexplainable phenomenon; even he can't deny how pathetic he is when he’s drunk. So I roll my eyes, refuse to get him coffee, but kindly walk him to the coffeemaker and straighten his tie while he pours himself a cup.
Those days, I can handle. I just can't take it when he walks by, unusually quiet, his eyes not really focused on anything. This is the drawn face, the one I hate, the one that makes my heart break. I know that means his thoughts are full of fire and sirens and gunshots, of all the people he hasn’t been able to help, of all the ways he feels he's failed. There's really nothing I can do then. I just go back to my desk, hold my breath, and try to work. Eventually he'll yell halfheartedly--"Donnaaa!" "Yes, Josh?" "Get me the thing!"--and though I try to act indignant, secretly I'm relieved. That's my Joshua.
Years ago (nearly six years, to be exact, though I can't quite believe it), I showed up at the Bartlet for America campaign headquarters with nothing but a broken heart and a determination that I would be something more than everyone expected. I stood there in the midst of the chaos and told one of the most powerful political minds of our time that he would find me valuable, if I were only given a chance. I know, without a doubt, that I've proven that statement true ever since. I am damn good at what I do. I may be a girl with no college degree, and my job may consist primarily of typing reports and making phone calls, but you know what? I serve at the pleasure of the President of the United States, and in my own way, I influence the leaders of our country. Not many women can say that, no matter how many degrees they may possess.
My value is not found in how many initials I can put after my name (none), how much money I make (not enough), or how much my decisions truly affect public policy (very little). Josh works for America, and I work for Josh. I make sure he doesn't fall apart at the seams; I remind him that what he does every day makes a difference. I like to think I bring some humanity to all the paperwork and red tape. I'm the voice of the ordinary people, if you will, and that is my value.
Not to mention that I'm the only person save Leo and perhaps the President that can convince Joshua Lyman to do anything when he is otherwise inclined. He's stubborn, but I'm worse, and I know him well enough to get around any protests he might make.
So if you want to get technical, my watching Josh is not obsessive, not really. It should be in the damn job description. And what I said about love, well, that has nothing to do with anything, does it? Because I do not love Josh.
I don't expect you to believe me; I'm having a hell of a time just convincing myself. I know he's not perfect; he's far from it. He can be infuriating, callous, cruel, and just a downright pain in the ass. I know all this, and yet it doesn't change anything. I'm still so aware of his presence; if anything, that has increased with time.
And to be honest, all this watching Josh isn't helping the situation any. Because sometimes, I catch him watching me. He'll lean back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, and glance in my direction with the oddest expression on his face--confused, like he honestly doesn't know what to make of me, and amused as well, like he's having a lot of fun trying to figure me out.
Watching Josh might be essential to my job, but it isn't doing my health any favors, and it's certainly wreaking some havoc on my heart.
Which might matter if I was in love with him.
Which I'm not. Really.
Posted by Carrie on 12:34 PM