Author: Coffeeplease
Rating: R (bad words, violent themes)
Category: Angst
Spoiler Info: Everything up to A Good Day is fair
game. “Gaza” especially.
Disclaimer: I have a nine of spades. John Wells, Aaron
Sorkin, WB and NBC have a full house. We all know who
wins.
E-mail address for feedback: jamhandy1@...
Archiving permission: sure just tell me first
Note: Rewatching “Gaza” this week, I was struck by the
thought of how Josh would react of he saw what we saw
in the teaser. This fanfic has probably been written a
hundred times by a thousand-times better writers than
I. All apologies to PBS. I beg you for feedback.
It was eleven at night and he was busy with buttons.
Twenty-thousand sent to Ohio, all saying Santas for
President. Maybe some department store would buy them,
Ronna had said. For the Christmas season. Josh had
banged his head against the table until he was sore
and was in his hotel room, writing an e-mail to the
button people carefully explaining the difference
between “o” and “a.” An e-mail with only eleven
expletives that the spell check didn’t recognize. He
probably shouldn’t have hit send, but he figured there
were many other button manufacturers in America that
would be happy for his business and who also knew
their vowels.
He had PBS on mute and wasn’t paying attention to the
television set. It was in between programming and they
were using this time to advertise other programming.
Fleeting images, Josh saw when he glanced up. A
goldfish jumping into a puddle. An African-American
woman smiling broadly. Peter, Paul and Mary.
Josh had just closed Outlook and was about to get
ready for bed, early for the campaign trail. His eyes
darted to the television set and there she was.
Still pictures, all black and white. She was smiling
in most of them, wearing a large hat. They were
shuffling through them so fast he couldn’t tell where
she was, but then there was a shot of her with her
hand on an SUV door. Her smiling out of the window,
being driven away from the photographer, the landscape
obviously a desert.
Josh’s dinner was inching up his throat and his eyes
were glued to the television, even though there was a
voice inside his head telling him that seeing this was
not at all beneficial for his mental health. Look
away, change the channel, turn the goddamn television
off, it said. Don’t keep watching.
And all of a sudden, like “The Wizard of Oz” there was
color. A kaleidoscope. Twisted black metal, simmering
beige sand, soldier’s uniforms and fire that was
blinding and hot and Josh could feel it all over his
body. He couldn’t hear the shouts in a foreign
language or the sound of the explosion and he was
grateful. The ringing in his ears would do just fine.
He recognized Colin running towards the smoldering
vehicle and for a second, just a nanosecond, he was
grateful that Colin was there, at the explosion. Josh
knew that he himself would have ran faster, wouldn’t
have let the soldiers stop him, would have thrown
himself on the charred beast and ripped away the metal
until she was free of it’s confines. He would have
developed superhuman strength. He would have, he would
have, he would have.
All he could do a year later in the hotel room was
throw up. And even that reflex was stuck somewhere in
his throat. Josh couldn’t run, couldn’t move, couldn’t
blink. Another voice in his head, different from the
first one, kept him sane by repeating the same mantra.
She’s okay now, she’s safe, she’s in the Best Western
across town. She’s okay now, she’s safe, she’s in the
Best Western across town.
The television camera crew, a safe distance away from
the wreckage, recorded Colin as he lifted his camera
and began snapping pictures. Josh’s muscles relented
and he lunged at the television, trying to push his
hands through the screen, wrap them around that Irish
neck. But he stopped mid-flight as Colin’s handiwork
flashed up on screen.
Her face, all black and white and red. Upside-down and
all wrong. She’s not okay now, she’s not safe, she’s
not in the Best Western across town. She’s on the
television and she’s dying. She’s upside-down and her
face is bleeding and Josh’s dinner was all over the
carpet of the Holiday Inn.
In big red block letters, the television showed him no
mercy. Nightmare in Gaza: The Attack On The CODEL. A
Special PBS Report.
He slammed his fist against the off button.
*******************************************************
She was running all kinds of red lights.
He hadn’t been very coherent on the phone. He had
switched rooms, she had gathered, because he had been
sick in his old one. He had asked her to write down
the new room number twice, on two separate pieces of
paper. Just in case she lost one, he had sobbed. She
wouldn’t have to waste time asking at the front desk.
The message she had received loud and clear between
disjointed phrases and cries was that she needed to
get to him, now. She needed to get to him a half-hour
ago. He had pulled himself together enough to explain
that something about the CODEL had been on the
television and he had seen... she hadn’t understood
what he was saying. But she could guess. Icy fear
gripped her.
“I’m coming.... I’m coming” She kept repeating to
herself, gunning the engine through another
yellow-then-red light.
Her hands would be shaking if she wasn’t gripping the
steering wheel so tightly. Hadn’t really bothered to
explain to Will what she needed the campaign’s car
for, just that she needed it, now. Looking back, maybe
she had mumbled something about “family emergency.” It
didn’t really matter.
Donna didn’t think twice about what she was doing.
Professional independence she had needed; the personal
unfortunately was interwoven with the professional and
perhaps she hadn’t really been fully cognizant of it
until it was too late and she was in New Hampshire
wearing a Russell button. Guilt crowded her senses as
she pressed her foot harder on the gas. Neither of
them had healed very well after Gaza. Of course,
neither of them healed very well after Rosslyn,
either.
Her mind’s eye saw a glass shatter and the sweet whine
of cello playing the same few notes over and over
again. She careened into the Holiday Inn parking lot.
*******************************************************
The first words he said to her were, “I’m sorry to
have disturbed you.”
Oh good God, the walls that man could build.
“You didn’t disturb me at all, Josh.”
She couldn’t guess his mood. Somewhere between tepid
rage and utter annoyance. He let her into his new
hotel room and just stood there, his arms hanging limp
by his sides.
“No, I mean, I’m sure you’ve got a lot to do with the
Russell campaign.” He said “Russell campaign” as if he
were saying “fucking fuck fuck.” Donna shivered from
the cold.
She bit off every awful rejoinder that came into her
head. He had been sobbing on the phone. Gasping and
hiccuping, his voice had been five-years-old and he
had needed to see her now, please. Please, he had
begged. She could still see the faint tracks on his
cheeks. If he wanted to pick a fight, he could. He
could pick at every scab she had, she wasn’t about to
show him even more blood than he’d already seen
tonight.
Donna waited for him to speak.
His voice came out softer, but no less hostile. “You
sure know how to pick the gomers, Donna. They give
quotes to the Washington Post and make you cover for
them, they read your diary after you lie to Congress
and, oh yeah, they take pictures of you while you’re
strapped to an SUV dying. They really show their love
for you, don’t they?”
Pick away, Josh, she thought at first, pick away.
Something he said then registered and she shivered
again, not cold. “What do you mean he took pictures?”
Josh sat on the bed and ran his fingers through his
hair, the anger dissipating slightly. “Colin took
pictures, Donna.”
“Took pictures?”
Violently, he stood up again. “Of you! After the
explosion. In the car and you were bleeding and...”
He froze completely and didn’t make a sound.
“Took pictures...” Donna mumbled and quickly sat
herself on the floor before her legs gave out. Concern
for Josh was pushed to the back of her head and a
feeling of betrayal, hot and angry, rose up within
her. She had assumed that Josh had seen the reel
footage of the SUV blowing up, not a close-up shot of
herself... dying. Dying and yet she hadn’t died, she
was right here, alive, in Josh’s room at the Holiday
Inn. Feelings foreign to her came to the surface and
her skin was goose flesh.
For his part, Josh looked like he wanted to either be
sick again or hit something. He was looking at her,
but his eyes were somewhat blank. His skin, though was
very pale. His voice was raspy when he spoke.
“He ran to the car but they wouldn’t let him get near.
So he started taking pictures. They showed him taking
pictures on film and then they showed the pictures. I
guess out of fucking respect for Fitz, DeSantos and
Korb, they didn’t show his pictures of them. Or maybe
he didn’t take any. Maybe he just focused his goddamn
zoom lens on you. It’s.... that’s really sick, Donna.
Really, really sick and I....”
She interrupted him, her voice surprisingly stable.
“You’re a lawyer, Josh.”
He was taken aback by the sudden change in topic.
“Yeah, but you always remind me I’m not a real
lawyer.”
Donna’s eyes were digging holes in the beige carpet.
Counting the fibers, strand by strand. “Could I sue
him?” She asked quietly.
Josh sat back down and again ran his hand though his
hair. His voice quickly lost it’s edge and he sounded
almost timid, matching her frailty at this moment. “I
don’t think so. Since he took the pictures, I believe
he owns all rights to them. I could try and buy them
back from PBS...”
“That would be a lot of money, Josh.”
“Whatever,” he snorted. “I could try and buy them
back. Or, I guess, you could sue him for emotional
damages. But you didn’t see the program...”
“You did,” Donna said. “You.... did.”
“Yeah,” Josh’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I
did.”
Donna felt tears of rage and sadness hit her eyes. She
didn’t want to show Josh how she was feeling, but she
couldn’t keep a reign on something so enormous. He
didn’t look angry, perched on the bed, his hand
grasping his neck and his eyes down. Beaten, he looked
very beaten.
“I...” Josh sat up and folded his hands in front of
him. “I’m sorry for disturbing you so late, Donna.”
“I’m glad you did,” she rasped. Even quieter still,
she muttered, “What an ass-hole.”
“Excuse me?”
“Not you... him.” She let a tear fall down her cheek.
Josh looked contrite. “I really can’t agree with you
more, Donnatella.”
He hadn’t said her full name since she quit. Her head
jerked up and she saw a faint smile on his face. Very
quietly, he grabbed the kleenex box on the night stand
and walked over to where she was sitting, on the floor
with tears rolling down her cheeks. He pulled out a
few tissues, handed them to her and sat cross-legged
across from her.
In her mind, there were emotions she could name and
some she couldn’t. But the most familiar was the rage
that was burning her right now. The same rage that was
still smoldering in Josh; she could see it in his
eyes. They didn’t heal very well after these things.
After Rosslyn, after the MS disclosure, after Zoey,
after Gaza... and Colin and those producers at PBS,
blissfully detached from the whole thing... the
thoughts kept coming to Donna. Her hands balled into
fists.
“I just can’t believe there’s nothing I can do. I’m
the one whose dying in those damn pictures. I’m the
one that got hurt. It’s my face.”
Josh stared off into the distance.
Donna continued talking. “I would rather have Cliff
read every word of every diary I’ve written. That only
hurts me. But this hurts my family, my friends,
you.... my God, what if my mother was watching? What
about my nephew, whose four and wouldn’t understand...
I thought PBS would have more, I don’t know,
discretion...”
If she had raised her eyes from the carpet, she would
have noticed Josh’s hands shaking.
“There’s got to be something I can do, Josh. Something
I can...”
“Why did you quit?” Josh interrupted.
He was crying. He quickly grabbed some tissues from
the box.
“Josh...” She couldn’t, wouldn’t, watch him cry.
One-hundred and fifty two strands of fiber in the
carpet, right in front of her.
“I keep losing you. I don’t want to lose you. I did
everything I could to prevent losing you. And it keeps
happening again and again and again...”
“You haven’t lost me.”
He chuckled bitterly and sniffled. Tears were still in
his voice. “Oh, but I have, Donnatella.”
“You lost an assistant, you didn’t lose me.” The last
part was said in a moan. They were both crying, near
sobbing.
He moved so quickly she didn’t even see. She wasn’t
looking anyway. He lunged for her, grabbed her hands,
then her face. Forced her to look up at brown eyes
rimmed with red and saltwater. His lips were
quivering.
He sounded like he was being strangled. “I would never
read your diary. I would never let you cover for my
mistake. I would never, ever take pictures of you
while you were...dy...dy...dying. Why did you leave
me?”
She looked back at the ground again and then looked
up. “Why are you comparing yourself to them?”
Taken aback, Josh let his hands fall to the floor.
Donna took a deep breath and rubbed her eyes. “You
were my boss, Josh...”
He interrupted, sounding angry, “Please don’t tell me
I was just your boss.”
“Let me finish. Please, God, let me finish what I’m
saying, Josh.”
He looked at his hands.
“You were my boss and obviously there was a lot more
to it than that. And you were part of my life,
everyday, for almost eight years. And
our...relationship... for eight years had boundaries
because you were my boss. I know you would never do
those things, Josh. You know that. So why compare
yourself?”
Gently, he took her hand again. “Because they got to
cross the boundary and I didn’t.”
Donna met Josh’s eyes. Tears were still rimming both
of their visions, but Josh’s eyes were more filled
with love than she had ever seen before. She had
convinced herself that she was swimming in the sea
alone; sure, he’d sleep with her if the circumstances
were different, but she made herself believe he felt
nothing more. Other people had encouraged her
conviction. For a second, she was back in her
turquoise gown with a binder on her lap and C.J. was
telling her... but now there were three-hundred and
fifteen strands in the carpet and she was wrong.
She spoke quietly. “But if we had crossed that
line...”
“...I would have been no better than them.” Josh
finished for her.
She let her thumb begin to trace tiny circles on top
of his. “You still would have been better.”
They sat on the floor, holding hands, silent.
*******************************************************
It was two in the morning at it was too late for her
to drive back. That’s what they told themselves, told
each other. Nothing was going to happen, they repeated
again as he handed her a pair of boxer shorts and
t-shirt to sleep in. This night, of all nights, wasn’t
the night.
Josh found, though, that he couldn’t let go of her.
Legs touching, his arm around her waist and at one
point he buried his face in her shoulder and let a few
more tears slide out of his eyes. Worst part was over,
the aftershocks still remained.
He eyed the clock as two-fifteen rolled around. There
had been no cameras at Rosslyn. Nobody had filmed the
bullet enter him; there weren’t any black and white
shots of him and his pool of blood. He was grateful
she was spared.
And then he wondered if she really was. She had been
miraculous during his recovery. He had tried, God
knows, to be there for her. But he felt he had failed;
he felt he had failed before he had even stepped on
that airplane for Germany. After, he took her to
therapy when he had the time, stopped by her apartment
when his schedule permitted... she moved in with him
after he was shot. He had failed.
The guilt overtook him for a few minutes. He could
never convince her that he thought of her first
because she would know that it was lie. She deserved
someone who did. The horrible Catch-22 of his last
eight years laid out bare. No one could love her like
he did, that much he was certain of, but she deserved
so much more than what he was. A workaholic
politician. A forty-something man with a bullet wound.
At the same time, he would never be able to sleep
again without holding her. The skin of her legs
against his, soft and hard at the same time. Her body
was drugging him. Perhaps it was selfish of him, but
he couldn’t give her up. Even if the better man came
along, he would fight for her. He would rip away
scorching metal. He would, he would, he would...
He would just have to stop failing her.