Disclaimer: Sorkin's and other people's; not mine
They don't know how it happened. Or, well, they know how it happened-happened, but not how it...*happened*, so they just look at each other in half-shock. Mostly shock. All shock.
"Oh God oh God."
He looks at her. "Donna, I think we've got the God-part covered now."
"Oh. Yeah. Oh God. Turn around."
"So I can get dressed. And leave."
"...oh. You leave, then."
"Yeah." He lifts the covers and looks under them, then, keeping the covers close to himself, at the floor. "I can't seem to find--"
"Boxers. Here. Shirt, bed-post. Trousers, carpet. Socks and jacket..."
Then, fully dressed, he looks at her again. "So."
"Talk about this, I meant."
"Oh. Yes. Yes, we should. How," her hands fall in her lap, "did this...happen?"
"I think many shots of tequila were involved. You were upset. I...comforted you."
"Yes. That you did." The wry comment brings a faint blush to his cheeks.
"I didn't...I meant...this wasn't..."
She smiles tentatively. "I know."
They look at each other again.
"This won't happen again," she finally says with conviction, ending the silence.
The reason why isn't discussed. It's there, and they both know it, no need to put it in words.
At her bedroom door he pauses. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. You're...you're a good friend."
He smiles. "I hope so. Good night."
"You are. Good night, Sam."
And he leaves, and she looks at her hands for a moment, glancing then at the clock. 4:36 AM. Sighing, she gets up to take a quick shower before heading off to work.
She'll be there early, and maybe she'll pick up two extra tall lattes to go from Starbuck's on the way.