"Just Friends"
The usual disclaimers: not mine, no profit, no harm no foul.
Rating: Probably a PG
Spoilers: Allusions to many episodes up to "Noel."
Summary: Donna starts dating someone, and Josh's nose is out of joint over
it.
* * *
My assistant is a young woman. This is handy for many things, most of which
aren't work-related, but I think the handiest is perhaps her ability to
handle drunken people. It's a talent many twentysomethings have. I think it
goes away as they age. It gets replaced by open contempt for those of us
who have delicate systems.
I'm ruminating on this as I press on her apartment buzzer at 2 a.m. Saturday
night. After what seems like forever, an extremely disheveled Donna flings
open the door, wearing what looks like a robe and not much else.
"Donnatella," I say, giving my best "please take care of me" look. It usually
works. But not tonight.
"Are you on some sick campaign to ruin my love life?" she hisses. God, she's
annoyed. It's cute on her. But it's also a whole new thing. And what love
life? I usually know about these things.
I don't think I have the brain cells left to answer that question. We just
stare at each other for a few minutes. "I'm ..." I have no idea what I am. "I'm
swaying." I finally manage, helpfully.
Donna's not exactly rushing to help me.
"Can I come in?" I plead. "Can I ..."
*You know? Can I stay? Will you fuss over me? You usually do.*
Donna gives me a sour look and retreats to the kitchen for a moment. The
water runs, and she comes back with a cup. Ah, good woman.
"You can have the couch." she finally spits out. "There's a glass of water on
the end table if you want it. But keep quiet. Yell at the cats once -- *once*
-- and I'm calling a cab on you."
I nod. The room is spinning. I'll do whatever she wants so long as she lets
me lie down.
Donna leaves the room without so much as a backward glance. Fine. Just
let me rest.
* * *
I'm being suffocated by a loaf of bread; I keep trying to push it off me and
it keeps sitting on my face. My eyes fly open -- and I realize that it's not a
loaf of bread but a cat settling its considerable bulk on my mouth and
neck.
Oh, Christ. I passed out at Donna's again. My mouth tastes like cat. Is that
from one too many scotch-and-waters, or from the actual cat glaring at me
as it repositions itself square on my crotch? I grab the glass of water,
swallow desperately, and check my watch. You know you've had a bad
night when tepid tap water is the best thing you've ever tasted.
6:30 -- no, wait. My watch sucks. It's 6:45 in the morning. I get up now, I
can spend the morning drinking virgin marys and arguing with the
McLaughlin Group.
My back is killing me. That's okay. It matches my head. And my ass -- I fell
asleep wearing everything, including my wallet. I stretch, and dislodge the
cat in the process. The cat gets even by using my lap as a launching pad,
and I hiss as several sharp claws dig into my inner thighs on the way off.
That was a little close.
Pain. Why do I do this to myself? Why didn't Donna at least insist that I take
off my shoes?
Oh, I cannot wait until the dull throb in my brain dies down. Then I'll be
able to think in complete sentences again.
I dimly remember something about Donna being pissed at me. I should
apologize. Paper. Does the woman leave paper anywhere around here? I sit
up to take a look and promptly regret it.
I had no idea my heartbeat sounded so loud. Well, in my ears anyway. Oh,
God. I'm going to be miserable today.
A note for Donna. Something nice that will cajole her out of whatever
mood she's been in for the last week. She's been awfully short with me.
Victory! A pen and paper. Thank you, Donna. I scrawl something about her
being an angel of mercy and head toward her bedroom. I'll just leave it on
her nightstand and grab a cab on my way out. Things'll be back to normal
tomorrow.
The door is cracked, and another cat slinks in before I do. Where do these
animals come from? I am about to slip in and head toward the bed when
something brings me up short.
Donna's fair hair gleams in the dim half-light of the bedroom, and spills
down across her bare shoulder and over the arm of the man who's wrapped
himself around her. I can't see his face, just a dark head of hair.
I need to get out of this doorway before someone wakes up. I pocket the
note and quietly depart, carefully clicking the door shut and walking with
exaggerated care down the stairs. I sit on her stoop and use my cell to call
a cab to come get me, trying very hard not to recall everything I saw in
that moment.
The clothes laying haphazard on the floor. His body curled behind hers, his
arm holding her as they slept. Her long bare leg curving above the covers
where she'd kicked them off. The box of condoms on the headboard,
clearly ripped open in a hurry.
The cab comes and I climb in slowly and stiffly. I give my address and lean
back against the seat, eyes open. That doesn't stop the images from
coming: the lacy black bra on the floor by the bed. The blue oxford-cloth
boxers crumpled next to it. I have boxers like those. I had no idea Donna
wore that kind of bra.
We pull up in front of my apartment and I pay the guy silently. Then I let
myself in, scoop up the morning papers and prepare to jump in the shower
and spend Sunday babying myself.
But over the course of the day, as I'm reading or arguing back with the
talking heads on television, I keep stopping short as my mind inexplicably
dredges up another detail. My assistant's seeing someone. I had no idea. I
don't why this bothers me so much, but it does.
* * *
Donna doesn't even mention my drunken visit on Monday, just comes in and
gives me my schedule. No asking how my head is, no gentle rebukes about
frightening the cats, nothing. We still talk -- well, as much as we ever do,
about the inner workings of the government and how weird it can be -- but
she doesn't volunteer any personal information anymore. She doesn't pop
in with trivia or burble about whatever the hell happens to be rocking her
world that day.
We're just boss and assistant. This should be fine. She's still doing her job,
and I'm doing mine. I've had time lately to notice how efficient she is, and
how thorough.
But something's gone. I don't look forward to working with her anymore.
We just go about our days, bouncing off each other occasionally with
utterly neutral remarks.
I realize what it is one night when I'm looking out the window at the office.
I miss our spark. Working with Donna was fun because she seemed to really
enjoy whatever it was she happened to be doing. She insisted on making
even the most tedious tasks exercises in amusement.
She made me feel like working for me was the best time she'd had, and that
feeling was contagious. And now ... now I'm just her boss. Nothing more,
nothing special.
Again, I have no idea why this bothers me so much.
* * *
Sam and I are having a meeting with two of Senator Callahan's staffers,
trying to figure out what it's going to take to get him to vote for the
utilities regulation measure the President wants passed. Callahan's from
California, which has spent the last few years wrestling with deregulation,
and selling him on the idea of having to tell his constituency that they're
going to go back on a regulated system in five years is going to be a hell of
a task.
Hence Sam and I, playing good cop and abusive cop, are meeting with
Callahan's two smartest people. They're us, ten years ago: young,
well-educated, overconfident and still idealistic. They're also Californians,
so that means they give the impression that they spend most of their spare
time surfing or hiking or doing something generally outdoorsy and good for
you.
The meeting goes about how we think it should: they see our point, we
promise to come up with something that won't lose a Senate seat or 54
electoral votes next year, we're all going to go back to our bosses. Sam
makes a joke about twisting one of the guy's arms next time he sees him
jogging by the canal.
He laughs back and says, "Nah. Thad'll just lean on Donna a little."
"Oh?" I inquire, all friendly interest.
Staffer number two, apparently named Thad Whelan, glares at staffer
number one, Greg Whitford. He smiles in what's clearly meant to be a
self-deprecating way and says, "Donna ... well, we're dating. We were trying
to keep it under wraps. She's pretty adamant about keeping work out of
..."
I jump in quickly, "She is good at that. Nothing but professional."
That looks relieved; Greg does not. I suspect the two of them are going to
have an interesting conversation on their way back to the Capital.
Oh, but it's not as interesting as the conversation Sam and I as we walk
back to his office.
"So Donna's seeing Thad Whelan," he muses.
"Apparently."
"You didn't know?"
"We don't talk about her love life."
Which is when Sam stops and gives me a priceless look. "How many times,"
he finally manages, "have you two barrelled through here with her talking
about her dates while you carry on about her terrible taste in men?"
"We're over that," I reply diffidently.
"She didn't tell you."
"Not true."
"You didn't know. I've seen you get blindsided before. That was an ambush,
my friend."
"You think he's dating Donna in an effort to get close to the
administration?"
"No. I think you just didn't know he was dating Donna."
"I knew Donna was seeing someone."
We're in Sam's office. "You didn't know," he says, pulling the door shut.
"I did," I say. "It's pretty obvious."
"How'd you find out?"
Oh, I don't know, Sam. By stumbling into Donna's bedroom and seeing
Thad's underwear on the floor?
"She said something," I hedged. He doesn't need to know that what she
said was something along the lines of accusing me of romantic sabotage.
"But she didn't tell you who."
"Nope. Can we stop fixating on Donna's boyfriend and figure out how we're
going to finesse the bill?"
Sam looks up with a guileless look. He's good at that. "Of course," he says,
and the subject is dropped.
Thank God I help run the country. It keeps me from having to deal with
small annoyances, like learning who my assistant's boyfriend is, or trying to
figure out why the hell he bothers me so much.
* * *
Weeks pass. I watch Donna carefully whenever we have to deal with
Callahan and his staff, but she's utterly blank when she passes on phone
messages or ushers Thad and Greg into my office. I'm amazed at how
carefully professional she is. When did this happen?
Congress kicks into high gear and we all start working long hours and full
weeks. Donna doesn't complain about working until ten or eleven on Friday
nights anymore; I figure Thad's pulling the same long hours.
A small voice in the back of my head whispers, "maybe they'll break up if
they don't see each other." I try and ignore it; who Donna dates is clearly
none of my business anymore. "She used to make it your business," the
voice whispers.
Then I'm running along Hains' Point with Hoynes in yet another goddamn
jogging meeting and I see Donna and Thad sitting on a bench, sharing lunch
before they go back to work. He's laughing at something she says, and
when the wind picks up, she leans over and brushes back the hair on his
forehead with obvious affection. They don't notice us going by with the
Secret Service.
"She used to look at you like that," the voice whispers unhelpfully.
If I listen to this voice, it's going to end up telling me that I had been
seeing my assistant and she dumped me, all without my realizing it. I'm not
the fastest man on the make, but I think I know Donna well enough. I would
have been able to read whatever signals she was sending.
"Nope," offers Sam unhelpfully when I finally advance this theory over
drinks one night. "You're even more clueless than I am. At least I knew how
to date at one point. You've always been dumb about women."
"So you're saying that I don't know this woman I've worked with for four
years?" I shoot back.
"Well, you know her." Sam amends. "But you were ignoring the signals. Did
it never occur to you that she was trying to get your attention?"
"How is it you know more about this than I do?"
"I'm only clueless about my own love life," Sam says. "I can observe other
people's with no problem."
"Obviously," I mutter into my scotch.
"I just wonder," Sam muses.
"What?"
"Why she's not interested in you anymore. You were a pretty big part of
her world for a while."
"And you knew this how?"
"I watched," Sam said simply. "Cathy's a great assistant, but she's nothing
like Donna. And Donna didn't get to be that way because she's an
overachiever -- well, she is, but that's not my point."
"What's your point?"
"The way to most men's hearts is through their stomachs."
"Lower," I snort.
"I'm painting imagery here. The way to yours is through your work. And she
tried to get in."
"She stopped, you know." Hearing this out loud makes me feel very lonely.
DC's not the warmest place to work; friends are few and far between. I've
lost a friend.
"I know," Sam says. "I just wonder why. It seems to me that if you figure
that out, you'll know what to do next."
That Sam, there's a reason he went to Princeton. I just need to figure this
out. It's so nice to know I can count on at least one friend.
* * *
A few more weeks pass. It's the heat of summer; everyone seems to move in
some soupy, irritated state. People are getting snappish: August is typically
the month where everyone suspends national affairs for a vacation, and the
month can't arrive fast enough.
I figure Donna will quietly disappear and spend a week off on the other
side of the country, hiking around the Bay Area or doing some other West
Coast activity that requires Gore-Tex and open air. The first hint I get that
this isn't happenning is the day a boquet arrives at work and her response
is to silently read the card, then dump the entire thing in the trash. The
vase makes a very satisfying thunk.
The next hint comes in the form of a phone call. I'm passing by on my way
to Toby's office when I see her hunched over the phone, speaking in a low
and furious voice.
"I'm telling you, now is not the time to discuss it. Now stop bothering me at
work!"
Oh, someone's in the doghouse. I shouldn't be so happy about this. Donna's
clearly agitated. Well, that part bothers me. But I'm hopeful for the first
time in months.
Then one Saturday morning Donna comes into work sporting both a big
Macy's bag and a pair of black sunglasses. When she takes them off to
work, I wince in sympathy: her eyes are red and bloodshot and there are
huge circles under them.
We work in silence for the better part of the morning, and I have an idea.
To borrow Sam's deathless image -- the way to a woman's heart may be
through her stomach.
Twenty minutes later, I've returned from the cafeteria and I'm standing at
Donna's desk, holding out a Fudgesicle like a peace offering. The woman's
got a weakness for chocolate. I hope it's still in effect.
"Take a walk with me," I say. "We'll head down to the Mall and make fun of
the tourists. You know, normal summer activities."
Donna gives me a shaky smile, but grabs her sunglasses and prepares to go.
As we leave the office, I surreptitiously check out the Macy's bag. There's
a pair of blue oxford boxer shorts sitting at the top of a stack of clothes.
* * *
We're walking toward the National Gallery, eating our ice cream in amiable
silence, when Donna finally speaks.
"I broke up with Thad."
"You demonstrated extremely good judgement," I reply.
"And here I thought you had a low opinion of my dating instincts," she
shoots back.
"Is that why you never actually told me you were dating someone?" This
floors me. She actually considered my opinion on her love life? Well, I have
an opinion -- several even -- but I figured whatever I said just rolled off her
back.
Donna fixes me with a look of exasperation. I haven't seen that look in a
few months. I've missed it.
"I believe you have, at various times, used the words 'local gomers,' 'losers,'
and 'desperate need to be coupled' when describing my personal life," she
says coolly. "I wanted to see what happened if I did something without
getting any guff about it first."
This is why she's been so aloof. She thinks I'd run down her personal life.
"Well?" I ask.
"Well what?"
"What happened? Did you find out something new?"
*Are you planning on keeping everything apart from me, Donna?* I think.
*Because I don't know if I can do this with you anymore.*
Donna's quiet for a moment, dodging around a couple pushing the world's
largest stroller. She finally speaks. "It was nice to learn what a gomer he
was on my own instead of having it spelled out for me."
"You like learning from mistakes?"
"Yes, Josh, I do." Donna flares. "We can't all be born thinking we know all
the answers. Sometimes the experience is worth it, even if the lesson is
hard."
Well. This is going downhill. I should say something fast. She's almost out of
ice cream.
"I just don't like it when you're unhappy," I finally say.
"Why?"
"What?"
"Why do you not like it when I'm unhappy?" Donna presses. "Your office still
runs, so don't give me a line about interrupting work."
I take a deep breath. I'm no good with this. "Believe it or not," I finally say.
"I consider you my friend. What kind of friend would I be if I was okay with
you being unhappy?"
"You know," Donna says, "this is the first time you've ever called me your
friend."
It is? I'm a terrible friend.
"Donna," I say. "I'm sorry if I didn't let you know. You're my friend. And I've
missed you. It feels ... you've just been kind of, well, distant recently."
She's smiling. "I've missed you too."
And that's it. She's forgiven me -- I have no idea for what, but I don't care --
and we're back to being friends.
* * *
Things didn't go back to normal for us right away. It still took a few weeks.
Thad's an off-limits topic of conversation although, I as I keep telling Donna,
it seems unfair that she can still dissect my old flames with impunity.
"I'm making up for missed opportunity," she informs me loftily, and smiles
when I groan.
But the signs are back. She's stealing my fries again. When we work late,
she's singing along softly to whatever's playing on her discman. She's calling
me on Saturday mornings to prod me into the office.
Donna Moss is back in my life.
I'm making more of an effort to be in hers, as opposed to simply criticizing
it. I'm asking for the trivia of the day, insisting she share the CDs she's
listening to.
There have been a few nights when I look at from my desk as Donna's giving
me files, and there's a look in her eye I don't quite remember. Something
measuring, maybe. Or just observant. I usually just smile and we let the
moment pass.
I feel like I'm still getting to know this friend of mine. But it's okay. Our
spark is back, and it feels good to see Donna at her desk. And sometimes,
the little voice in my head whispers, "The next time a moment comes
around, jump on it."
I think I might. Like Donna once said, learning from experience is
worthwhile. And believe me, this lesson took.