Heart Condition
Category: Josh/Donna
Rating: PG-13 for language
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of the
West Wing. Aaron Sorkin, the master of banter and all
around demi-god, and all his friends do. I thought
maybe they would like to come out and play with me for
a while but don't worry, I'll return 'em before he
needs to write the next episode.
Spoilers: Mostly 17 People, and a lil' bit o' The War
at Home, In Excelcis Deo, Noel, Ellie, Somebody's
Going to Emergency, Somebody's Going to Jail, The
Stackhouse Filibuster, 20 Hours in LA and The Portland
Trip (can u find them all?)
Author's Note: Josh and Donna fluff. Josh's POV,
right after events in 17 People. All you need to
know.
Feedback: Pretty please with a cherry on top. I'm a
first time fan fic-er – have pity on me!
Archiving: I'm flattered! Really. But ask first.
I consider myself to be a healthy guy for someone who
doesn't work out, eats crap every day and has one of
the most stressful jobs in the world. I look good.
Sam might be Mr. Pretty Boy around the office but hey,
I have a fan club. So what if I still eat in the same
way as I did in college? I still act like I'm in
college and I'm one of the top aides to the leader of
the free world. So bite me.
Okay, well there was that whole shooting thing. I
definitely think that bullets are unhealthy. Still
standing though. Can't get Josh Lyman down. I am the
dude. Even if Mike Piazza never got the chance to
call me "dude," doesn't matter. Cuz he knows I'm the
dude.
After the shooting, I started to get these weird ass
pains in my chest. Okay, so there was the Post
Traumatic Stress Theory and my little episode with the
window. Glass is also up there on my unhealthy list.
Especially if it's lodged in your hand. But lately,
I'm beginning to think that my therapist was full of
shit.
I still have them. The weird ass pains, I mean. And
it's not when I hear music, or smell rubbing alcohol,
or drive past the hospital, like Stanley the Quack
thinks.
I think it's related to something else entirely. And
that scares me more than ever.
The first time it happened was the night I was hailed
"Deputy Downer" by my assistant, Donna. She looked
flat out gorgeous in this screaming red dress and I
made some flippant- yet albeit uncaring and callous-
remark about her lack of dating success. Yes, not
only am I a Fulbright scholar, I also masquerade as a
complete and total moron. Scum of the earth was I. I
don't deserve her. I know that. But if she wasn't
around, would I still be? I tried to fix everything,
I really did. Wasn't very successful but give the man
a few points for trying. She smiled at me before she
left. Then I thought I was having a heart attack.
All I know is, the pain finally stopped after a
couple more beers. After downing as many as I did
that night, I could have probably been numb to about
any possible kind of physical pain for days straight.
The funky feeling in my chest was gone in the morning
and Donna seemed normal the next day. Banter resumed
and all was well in the Lyman domain.
That is, until, Joey Lucas turned up again. I will
be the first to admit she is a "fine looking woman."
The deaf thing doesn't weird me out either- though I
think it would be pretty uncomfortable to go out with
her and Kenny. Kenny bothers me but since I'm too
lazy to learn sign language, he has his uses. But
still, it's freaky when he says things like "You have
the cutest ass in politics, Joshua Lyman." Even
though he's speaking for her, I just can't accept the
compliment without some hesitation. Though, hey, I do
have a nice butt, if I do say so myself.
What began to bother me was Donna's insistence that I
ask Joey out. First it was the incessant "Gather ye
rosebuds, Joshua" speech. Gathering rosebuds in LA
turned out to be a first rate disaster since Joey was
sleeping with Kiefer at the time. More like, smell
the rosebuds but do not touch or the Devil's cigarette
boy will come after you.
But I digress. The point is Donna continues to try
and play Yente and hook me and Joey up. This
perplexes me. Why should she do this? I certainly
don't push her into relationships. Rather the complete
opposite.
I discussed this with Sam. For someone who went to
Princeton, you would think he would be able to help me
figure this out. Unfortunately, Sam's smarts are in
meaningless factoids that no one else ever wanted to
know and his luck with women.... Well, can we all say
"call girl?"
"All last night at the phone banks, Donna was telling
me I should ask Joey Lucas out... . What do you make
of Donna being the one pushing it?"
"I don't make anything."
"You wouldn't think she'd be jealous?"
"She goes out with guys are you jealous?
"No... . I don't get jealous... I don't like it
and usually do everything in my considerable
capabilities to sabotage it... . Which is why it's
curious that Donna would do nothing to discourage and
in fact do everything to encourage a date with Joey
Lucas who is quite frankly a very attractive woman."
This is a truly weird thing going on. Why wouldn't
she sabotage me? Maybe she is. Maybe that's the
point. I go out with Joey, get my little heart
stepped on, and she can laugh about me dating
Californian gomers. Ya think? Nah, me neither.
Donna can be devious and malicious, but she's not that
bad.
Besides, putting my foot in my mouth is part of my
charm. Doesn't she know that by now? I made yet
another snafu there too. The love lecturer was touting
her experience with the "ways of love" and Deputy
Downer smacked her down. Not literally, mind you- I'm
heartless but not that heartless- but verbally. I
suppose that doesn't make it much better. Didn't stop
Miss Donnatella the Matchmaker though. Merely
continued to freak me out with dating advice for the
rest of the night. And the weird ass pains continued
too.
As she was talking, I was almost grateful there was a
blackout. That way she couldn't see my face scrunched
up in pain as I felt my heart being pulled in five
different directions all at once. She probably
would've gotten all motherly and shipped me off to the
hospital stat.
And I was busy waiting for the numbers to come in. No
matter if everyone else in the free world had plans to
goof off that night but Joshua Lyman was going to stay
focused. He would have the numbers. He would turn
the power back on through means of mental
communication and have every last member of the power
company who had put him in an infernal hell of holding
be audited by the IRS. And he could do that cuz he
was the dude.
I thought it was better once I left the phone banks.
I felt that I could breathe once more- that is, until
Joey Lucas and her faithful dog, er, translator Kenny
showed up in my office. Bad numbers, Great, just
great. Then I was annoyed. Joey and Kenny didn't
appear to understand the severity of this situation.
I would've raised my voice, but what the hell's the
point?
Then Joey said something that made my heart stop.
Literally. I think that if I were hooked up to one of
those heart monitor thingys, right then and there I
would have flatlined,
"If you polled a hundred Donna's and asked them if
they think we should go out, you'd get a high positive
response. But the poll wouldn't tell you that it's
because she likes you and she knows it's beginning to
show and she needs to cover herself with
misdirection."
Okay, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe
out. Still alive. Takes a licking but keeps on
ticking. She couldn't possibly have been serious.
But the thing is, somehow I think she's right. Now I
was even more annoyed. How the hell can that be?
Donna doesn't like me; she puts up with me, albeit
longer than most of my old girlfriends did,, but hey,
she's getting paid. Not well, admittedly, but paid.
Then this little voice out of nowhere whispered:
"Does she get paid to sober you up? Did she get paid
to visit your house every single day after you got out
of the hospital? Did she get paid to take you to the
emergency room the night you cut your hand?"
Swear to God that happened. Very bizarre. Between
the chest pains, the numbers, and the aural
hallucinations, not to mention the fact that Kenny
knows more about my personal life than Sam at the
present, I thought I really deserved a drink. Or two.
Or four.
Donna whacked me upside the head with a file folder
as a way of saying Good Morning the next day, since I
ended up stoned at my desk. I probably deserved that.
Didn't mean I couldn't say "OW!" I have no delusions
about masculine pride when I have a hangover. If
something hurts, I say it hurts. Donna called me a
baby and told me to get some coffee. If she really
liked me, she would have brought me coffee, I
rationalized. And since I'm always right, the world
resumed its regular tilt and all was right with the
universe.
I'm beginning to wonder about myself. I mean, I
think I've already pretty much covered how I am a fine
specimen of manhood. Do you think just anybody can
wisecrack like this? Okay, maybe CJ. And Toby when
he's pissed off. And Sam when he's around Ainsley.
And Donna. She can match me, beat for beat, any day,
any time, anywhere. But other than that, not many.
Not many at all. So, why do I still remain Mr.
Single?
I honestly don't know. It's not like I'm thrilled
with the prospects of a celibate, workaholic lifestyle
but work is fun. That is, when it's not
excruciatingly painful. Still, I love coming in the
West Wing every morning, getting my own coffee
(humph), and then having a verbal jousting match with
Donna. When I stay late, she stays late and nags me,
saying she's keeping me company. Frankly, I'm
grateful; I'd probably go bonkers all alone late at
night, no one to tell me I'd missed dinner, no one
waiting for me at home.
Donna waits for me here.
Did I just think that? That was almost a
settling-down old person's thought. And Donna was in
it.
I'm just going to emulate Scarlet O'Hara and think
about that one tomorrow.
Okay, so where was I? Oh yeah, the freakish pains.
The next one was the night after Sam found out about
his father's marital indiscretion. Donna had barely
spoken to me all day, said something about a friend
being in town, and spent all her free time finding and
talking to Sam. I know that because I asked around.
And before you say it, no, I do not spy on my
assistant. I merely act the part of a concerned boss
who can't find his stuff because a speechwriter
apparently felt the need to monopolize my assistant.
Did I miss something there? I think I definitely must
have. And if Sam hadn't been such a wreck, you
could've bet even money I would have confronted him
about that one.
I was going to take Sam out and get him stinking
drunk, what any good pal would do in this situation,
and I found Donna and Sam hugging in his office.
Erg. It happened again. When I spoke, it was in a
strained voice, trying to play itself off as
non-chalant. Just Josh. Everyday Josh. Regular ole
Josh who may or may not collapse onto the floor from
extreme bodily pain. That was probably the worst of
them all, right up there with the window incident.
I drank a lot that night. I think I drank more than
Sam and Toby, which says quite a lot. Sam noticed
too. At one point, he pulled me aside and told me
that there was nothing to worry about. Completely
confused and not a little bit tipsy, I asked him what
I was worrying about. He motioned toward the table
where Toby and Donna were sitting. After clarifying
for me that I was worried about Donna and not Toby, he
stopped talking and returned to the table with
refills.
I paid and took a cab home. The whole way there I
remembered that not once had Donna warned me of my
delicate system. That made it worse. I'm not sure
how I got to bed but I sure as hell know I overslept
the next morning, cuz Leo gave me quite the talking
to. Not a way to cheer up a guy with a hangover and
chest pains.
I decided that if these truly were my last few weeks
on this planet that I ought to be nicer to people.
Not Republicans though. Or telemarketers. Or those
really slow fast food workers that Forrest Gump could
outwit. I started with Donna.
I can be really nice sometimes. Really. No, no, I
mean it. I can be nice. I wrote Donna a most
wonderful inscription in her Alpine skiing book one
Christmas and she told me so. It was a limerick. I'm
rather proud of it really.
This is your present, I fear
And I hope that it brings Christmas cheer
I know that the binding is crude
And skis it does not include
But for coffee, maybe next year.
To the best assistant a guy could ever ask for.
Joyeux Noel. Josh.
See? I can be thoughtful and kind and all that. And
I remembered our anniversary! It's today. Well,
actually, there's some dispute on that one, since
Donna started working for me much earlier but then
quit to return to the loving arms of Dr. Freeride. I
picked out the flowers myself. Yet I didn't get so
much as a thank you from Donna. She wouldn't speak
more of three consecutive words to me. Mostly she
just disagreed with me. I mean, that's nothing new,
she always disagrees with me but there was no friendly
banter with it. Just curt, "No, Josh" s.
I tried talking to her. I practically skipped behind
her as she wheeled through the bull pen asking her
what she thought of the flowers. But it turned ugly.
Donna was mad and I was mad and the whole anniversary
was spoiled. She wouldn't talk to me. She made fun
of me, not in the light-hearted way she usually does,
but almost if she meant it. If I wasn't preoccupied
with being funny, I probably would have been hurt.
Then there was the revelation of revelations. She
was in a car accident. My Donna, in an accident and
never told me, never let me know. Instead she called
Dr. Freeride to pick her up from the hospital, which
he did after he stopped for a beer with his pals. The
absolute freakin' nerve of that guy. I swear to God,
if I ever find that man I will kill him. And then,
I'll kill him again. And maybe one more time just for
fun.
But at least she broke up with him. That must have
felt good.
Then came the Son of the revelations of revelations:
"All I'm saying is, that if you were in an accident,
I wouldn't stop for beer."
"If you were in an accident, I wouldn't stop for red
lights."
Whoa. I mean, whoa. I think my heart muscles were
so constricted that I actually felt dizzy when I
rejoined the others. She wouldn't stop for red
lights. That keeps repeating over and over in my
head. She wouldn't stop for red lights. I don't know
why I'm obsessing over this phrase- it's not like I'm
overly officious of traffic codes or something. But
whoa, she wouldn't stop for red lights!
After I finished inspiring Sam with my famous wit, I
returned to my office. And that's where I am now.
Still sitting here, in my chair, in the dark,
clutching my chest and thinking about Donna, the
Violator of Traffic Laws for my sake.
Joey was right. She wouldn't run through red lights
if she didn't like me. Right? At least a little bit.
This makes me ecstatic for some reason. I figure the
pain is making me giddy.
Is it a pain though? Really? I wish I was better at
reading biofeedback.
I see Donna outside in the bullpen grabbing her purse
from her desk. She looks over her shoulder to glance
in my office and sees me sitting there.
"Josh? Are you okay?" she asks, a concerned look on
her face.
Double take. She's talking to me. Play it cool.
You're the dude, remember?
"Yeah. Yeah." I sigh and shrug into my coat. I
turn off the light and find Donna waiting for me as
usual.
She eyes me up and down, scrutinizing, as if like
Sherlock Holmes she could deduce by sight of me what
precisely I was doing in my office.
She gave up and we started walking to the exit.
"What were you doing in there?"
"Thinkin."
"Thinking?"
"Yep."
"In the dark?"
"Good for rumination."
"At two o'clock in the morning?"
"Well, I certainly can't do it at 2:00 in the
afternoon, I'm too busy."
"Josh."
"Yeah?"
"You worry me sometimes."
I worry about me too, I say silently. Instead, at the
door, I stop, turn and say, "Happy Anniversary,
Donnatella. I promise not to worry you too much
tomorrow."
She blushes. "Happy Anniversary, Josh." She hugs me.
I wrap my arms around her and feel as if I've pulled
my heart into two pieces, one up each sleeve.
As I watch her retreating form, I think I've finally
figured it out. Donna makes me worry. That's why I
sabotage her dates, get jealous of Sam and accuse Joey
of making up drivel. Because I worry about her. I
care about her.
I like her?
And no one but the best is worthy of her.
No one but the Dude.
I hope when I see her later that she's in a good mood
because you really shouldn't worry a man with a heart
condition. Four out of five doctors agree.
The pain in my chest has subsided by the time I reach
my car. Hopefully, I'll get another attack just like
it tomorrow.
Fin.
Do you like? Please review!!!!!!! J
|