Work Text:
Whiteout Wednesday
by: Liza C.
Character(s): Josh, Donna
Pairing(s): Josh/Donna
Category(s): AU, Humor, Romance
Rating: YTEEN
Disclaimer: I don't own anything; this is for fun and no money. Beta'ed by Kim.
Summary: Josh, Donna and when food means more than lunch.
Author's Note: Seven Days One Fall Series #001
"Donna!" There it is. The bellow. I knew it was coming. How could I not expect it? Not two minutes ago I dropped off his lunch: tuna fish on whole-wheat-- with fat-free, no-sodium mayo, of course-- with some raw vegetables on the side. Delicious! I know. But I predict the problem is going to be that he asked for a cheesesteak with fries.
"Yes?" Once I'm standing in his doorway, I lean against the door jam nonchalantly and open my notepad as if I'm prepared to jot down some vital instructions of extreme governmental import.
"What's this?"
I push off the door and come to stand across from him. Peering over the cluttered desktop, I survey his personal disaster area. "Looks like the vetting files for the new Deputy Secretary of the Interior."
"Not that." His voice is tight and tinged with annoyance. Doesn't he know by now that a little bit of attitude from him won't faze me? "This!" He points to the offending box from the deli.
"That appears to be a sandwich. For future reference, the way you can tell it's a sandwich is that it consists of two pieces of bread with meat in the middle." Yes, I'm sassing him. I sass my boss. Don't you?
"This is not meat." He grimaces at the box and then shoots a glare in my direction. He's so cute when he glares. That may sound like an odd thing to say about a man in his 40s, but it's the truth.
"Sure it is."
"Donna…" Uh-oh. The whine has made an appearance. I'm prepared for that as well.
"It's fish. Fish is meat."
"Not by my definition." He shakes his head, before looking up at me with pleading eyes. "Why? Why would you do this to me? Aren't I a good boss?"
"No comment on the latter… and you know why." I fold my arms across my chest and level my best no-nonsense stare at him.
"No, I don't." His voice is much softer now and he's futzing with the sandwich, lifting up the bread and inspecting the tuna with a pronounced frown. But the most important thing to note is that he won't meet my eye.
"Yes, you do."
We're silent for several long seconds before he breaks. "Medical records are personal, you know. You could go to jail for reading mail not addressed to you."
A-ha. He does know why. I knew he left the results for me to find, but I'll play his game. "I could go to jail for reading the results of your cholesterol test? Which you opened and left in your outbox?"
"I didn't mean to. I just set them down. How was I to know where the outbox even is… look at this desk." He gestures to his hopeless mess. I really need to organize it. It's been… oh… all of four days since I last went through the wreckage. Honestly, I could see where he wouldn't know where the outbox begins or ends, but I'm still not buying it.
"Yes, well, you did and I read them. And it's a good thing, because your cholesterol is sky-high and your triglycerides are off the charts." Now my hands are on my hips. We both know he left the results where I'd find them, and we both know why. He doesn't do a great job taking care of himself, and he knows I'll force the issue.
"It's not that bad." For some reason his flippant tone, at this moment, pushes my buttons. My heart starts to race and I begin to feel my own anger boiling over. How dare he not take this seriously.
"Sure… it's not that bad… until one day after arriving home after a typical sixteen-hour workday, you'll pull open the fridge and start eating some greasy leftover sesame chicken right out of the carton. As you're standing in the kitchen, the first thing you'll notice will be a tightening in your chest. Then pain. Pain like shooting daggers, right up your left arm. Next, you'll have trouble breathing, and because you're you, you'll ignore the warning signs. You'll assume its indigestion, or aches and pains from a long stressful day at work. But it won't be, and before you know what's happening, you'll be on the floor. Alone. Sesame chicken spilled everywhere. You won't be able to get up because it will feel like a two-ton bank vault is sitting on your chest. And you'll die, Josh. Just like that. You will DIE. Of a heart attack. And I won't be there to help you. But I'm here now and that's why I brought you the DAMN TUNA FISH SANDWICH!"
Josh is just staring at me, his eyes wide and his jaw slack. Oh my God. What did I just say? And why did I say it? And why was I so intense? I was shouting there by the end. Immediately, I spin around so that my back is to him. There are tears burning behind my eyes. My throat is dry and I feel a tad bit dizzy. I gulp several times and flutter my eyelashes to keep from actually crying.
Since my back is now to him, I hope he won't be able to tell how near tears I am. Yeah, I know… he knows. Taking several long slow breaths, I will myself to calm down. Only a few moments pass before I feel a hand on my shoulder, but I don't turn. If my face looks at all like I feel, I can't let him see it. I just can't.
"Donna…" His voice is soft. I resist when he gently tries to turn me back towards him, but after a few attempts I relent and we're face to face. He has a hand on either of my shoulders. It's warm where he touches me, but I don't allow that little detail to distract me. Refusing to meet his questioning gaze, I stare directly at his light blue dress shirt and count the stripes on his blue-and-tan tie. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, of course." Swallowing hard, I make every effort to present a recovered front and eventually raise my eyes to his. They're brown and warm and… is that caring I see? "I…I just…" Stuttering, I search my brain for some credible justification that I can give him that will explain away my outburst. "I just… it's just that I need this job, and if you die then, well, I'm probably out of work."
I try to force a smile on my face, but his expression is still solemn and serious, and it's painfully obvious that he sees through my facade.
"Donna, I'm fine." I just raise one eyebrow at him. "Really I am." I just keep looking at him so he continues with a nod to the desk. "I'll eat the sandwich." Even as he acquiesces, he sees that I'm relatively unmoved by the small victory. Sighing, he concedes, "And I'll take my diet more seriously. We can have Tuna Fish Tuesdays every week if you want…"
"And boiled skinless chicken on a bed of spinach Wednesdays?"
"I hate spinach." But he's grinning at me now.
"That's why I was breaking you in with the tuna."
He actually chuckles. "We can talk about it."
I nod before asking, "What else?"
"What else? What do you mean 'what else'?"
We stare at each for several more long seconds. Neither of us has broken eye contact and I'm not going to blink first. Finally, he squeezes my shoulder and gives in. "And I'll go to the gym more often, and do what the doctor says."
"Okay." Satisfied, I sniff and back up one step, and he drops his hands from where they'd been on my shoulders. Suddenly, there's a weird awkward silence happening. The reason that's its weird is that it's very rare for us. We're hardly ever silent, and when we are, it's not awkward. It just isn't. Frankly, I feel a little emotionally drained after my outburst. Maybe I just need to get out of there. There's candy at my desk. I need some candy. He can't have candy, but I can. I motion to his desk. "You should eat; you've got that meeting with Hamilton in 20."
"Right." He nods, gives me one final quizzical look as if he's trying to figure me out, and makes his way back behind his desk. I pause a moment before heading for the door. Just as I'm past the doorway, he calls my name. Slowly, I turn back. He's staring at me with an unreadable expression on his face.
"Yeah?"
He takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry you were upset… but I'm glad… really glad you worry about me."
I press my lips together for fear I'll get emotional again. We stare at one another for a long uninterrupted minute. I have no idea what to make of the look in his eye. It's not the normal way he looks at me… but it's not bad. Nope, it's not bad at all. Finally, I shoot him a weak smile and turn to go back to my desk. Yes, I worry about him. But it's only because I'm concerned about my potential job loss if he dies. Seriously. I swear.
You're not buying it, are you?