Archive of Our Own

It started off as a benign day: stale coffee scenting the bullpen, the bustling of heels against the linoleum floor, the grey skies streaked with white clouds. A quiet, slow, morning, if such a thing was possible in the White House, was what Donna Moss had- save for the new hires behaving like terrified rabbits, scurrying around and looking at Josh’s door as if they expected him to pounce at any minute. 

“I don’t know why they’re so afraid of him,” Donna said to Margaret through bites of greek salad. It was wet, and the olives were too hard. She didn’t know what she expected, really. “He’s like…a total puppy. Totally harmless.”

Margaret shrugged. “Not to them he’s not.” 

Donna furrowed her brow. “What?” She stirred her salad a few more times with her plastic fork before declaring it a lost cause, and tossed what was left of the sorry mess into the already overfilled trash bin. “This is gross.” 

“It’s mess food. It always is,” said Margaret, flatly in her very Margaret way. Donna hummed in agreement. “And Josh…he isn’t the same as he is with the others as he is with…well, you, Donna.” 

“What?” She said again, starting to feel a little like a parrot. “No, he is. The same, that is.” 

Margaret shook her head, and there was a glint behind her eyes that Donna didn’t like the look off. It looked…almost conniving. As if Margaret was plotting something sinister.

“What, he is!” Donna exclaimed. “He is.”

“Have some of my sandwich,” Margaret said, and pushed her plate over to Donna. She suspected that it was really a ploy to shut her up, but the bread looked toasted and god, she was an absolute sucker for a sandwich with bread that was toasted. She had always used to get a BLT on toasted bread at every shitty little mom and pop’s diner out in the midwest when they had been campaigning, which at the time had felt like finding an oasis in the middle of Timbuktu, and Josh had used to berate her from across the table because he thought it was weird- though, she thought, no weirder than his infatuation with burger patties that were charred into well, nothingness- and why was she even thinking about that? 

“Donna?” Margaret said. Donna blinked. “You looked a little lost there.”

“Huh.” 

“A little flushed.” 

Donna scowled. “Was not.” 

“A little flustered.” 

“Was not!”

“Was too,” Margaret rebuked. “Whatever. Anyways. What I was trying to say, before you transcended into la-la land, was that I’m- look, I’m not saying that Josh has favourites, Donna, because that would be-”

“Unprofessional,” she cut in.

“Yes. But if he was to have favourites, well, it would obviously be you.” 

Donna shrugged. “Well of course. I’m his assistant. He knows me better than,” she said, and paused to think carefully about her choice of words, because part of her wanted to say anyone and part of her knew that was true, “the rest of all of his staff. But he doesn’t act differently around me, Margaret. Like I said, he’s like a…stupid little yappy dog.” Who I happen to be very fond of, actually, she neglected to add. 

“Around you, Donna,” Margaret argued. “You just don’t pay attention to how he is with the other assistants down in the bullpen. And why would you? Look, all I’m saying is that if my boss looked like that-”

“Margaret!” Donna hissed. “Don’t be mean about Leo. Leo is lovely.”

“I’m not.” She stood. “But trust me, Donna. Josh isn’t the way he is with you with anyone else. What you two have is…special, and I don’t think it takes a rocket scientist to see that there's a bit more than a professional relationship going on there.”

Donna bit her lip, and felt a crimson flush creeping up her neck. “Whatever,” she said quietly, and hurriedly rose from her chair. “This is silly.”

“Whatever you say,” said Margaret. 

–

Later in the afternoon there was some ridiculous cock up with the press that sent the whole building into a flurry and made CJ flap like a bird let loose in a bullfight- an analogy that, according to Josh, Donna made up entirely- and for a few hours the chaos had was unbridled, and she had no time to consider Margaret’s words. But when all was resolved and she was sure that CJ had berated Danny Concannon six ways into next Sunday (she really was sure, because she had heard it from across the building), she sat and listened to the clock tick and really thought about it.

Throughout the earlier carnage, there had been yelling. Lots of it. Yelling and arguing and shouting, all boys club and schoolyardish, and the vein in Josh’s forehead had made an appearance. He’d grimaced and growled and had practically behaved like a petulant child- grovelling at his desk over what, in Donna’s opinion, was a very minor mistake on CJ’s behalf, but this was politics and everyone was strange and dramatic- and had torn at his hair incessantly, raking the tips of his fingers through the fluff at his temples and displacing the precarious peace of the nest of curls.

“Don’t do that,” she’d said as she’d brought him yet another cup of coffee. “You’ll lose your hair.” 

Josh had shrugged. “I already am, Donna. Thanks.” He’d taken the mug from her hands, and for a moment had actually torn his eyes from the briefing he’d been reading to look at her and smile. 

She hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, too absorbed in the White House hurricane, but in the calm of the storm she now did- and realised, perhaps, that Margaret was right. He’d been stressed and at his worst the entire afternoon and yet with her, he never once directed his frustration. 

Fuck, Donna thought. Double fuck, she thought, when the first thought made her heart flutter a little. 

“Donnnaaaaaaaa!”

Triple fuck.

“Yes?” 

“I need- I need you- I need your help.”

It couldn’t be serious, because he sounded characteristically…well, Joshy. 

“What is-” 

When she rounded the corner she had to suppress the urge to laugh, because she’d seen him in ludicrous situations before but this one really took the cake, the creme de la creme of Joshisms, so ridiculous that it only made her feel affection instead of annoyance. 

On top of the desk stood Josh. Down the front of his shirt there was a long, wet stripe of coffee. His tie hung askew around his neck. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows. In one hand was a large, grey, wiggling creature. His other was stretched towards the ceiling, pressing on…what was it pressing on? 

“Josh,” she said steadily, and bit her lip. “I’m not even…I’m not even going to ask you what is going on here, because truthfully I don’t think I want to know, and- what is that thing in your hands and why does it look like you’re holding the building up like He-Man?” 

“Well, Donna, you see. This,” he diverted his eyes towards the…thing, that was now flapping in his hand, “is a pigeon.” 

Donna blinked. The pigeon cooed. 

“And if it looks like I am holding up the building, that, my friend, is because I am. You see, in my quest to capture this…pigeon, I may have caused a bit of damage. Nothing bad, but it’s plaster, and if it falls my office is going to look like someone heated up a bottle of baby powder over a bonfire, and really the maintenance people should look into this! I should tell the President. I mean really, Donna, it could’ve killed me!”

“The pigeon or the plaster?” Donna drawled, staring up at him with her arms crossed across her chest. 

Josh seemed to consider it. “Both, I suppose. Pigeons are notorious disease carriers.”

“Not true,” Donna rebuked. “And I happen to quite like pigeons, so be careful not to offend me, Josh. I think they’re cute.”

Josh huffed. “Okay, well. Maybe if you’re good I’ll get you a pet one for your next birthday.” The pigeon cooed again. “Hey, I think he liked that.” 

“It’s a he?” 

“I mean, he did just pee in my hand. So.” 

“All pigeons pee, Josh. It isn’t gender discriminate.”

“Right.” 

“You know, for someone so smart, you are remarkably stupid.” 

Josh shrugged, and scowled, and she wanted to cry with laughter at the absurdity of it all. Just a few months ago he’d been in the hospital with hot lead shot into his chest and he was putting his hand through windows and she’d thought that nothing would ever be normal again. But it was. 

“Donna?” Josh said, and she realised her vision was a little fuzzy at the edges and her throat felt weighted. “A little help here?” 

“Oh. Yeah,” she said, and blinked the tears away. 

Slowly, Donna made her way up onto the desk until she was basically standing pressed against him- close enough to feel the heat of his skin and hear the cadence of his breath- and placed her hand upon the ceiling where the weak plaster was. For a moment, it seemed as though he forgot what he was doing, and kept his hand there beside hers, pinkie brushing up against the alabaster of her skin.

“Josh,” Donna said.

“Right.” Slowly, he withdrew his hand. Donna held her breath. The ceiling didn’t immediately cave in, thank god, so she slowly, slowly, brought her other hand up and carefully lowered the chunk of precariously hanging plaster until she was able to deposit it safely, in one fat chunk, on top of the desk. She stood back up and found herself inches from his face, and suddenly realised that she didn’t have a reason to be up there anymore.

She thought of what Margaret had said to her in the mess earlier; thought of the way her body seemed to fill with a rush of adrenaline at the idea of it. She wasn’t stupid and unaware of herself and her own desires- Josh was attractive, and she’d wanted him for…well, a long time. There was no use in denying that to herself. It would only make it worse.

But she also knew, or thought, that it was improbable, perhaps impossible: him reciprocating such a…feeling. He was her boss, and not only that he was the deputy chief of staff for the White House- a powerful, powerful man, highly regarded (which she thought was stupid, because at the end of the day it was Josh), and observed through a magnifying glass by the press- so he couldn’t possibly ever like her. Not like that. It would be idiotic. Falling in love with his assistant would be career suicide if one of those vulture reporters got even a whiff of it. So no. He didn’t like her. He couldn’t.

And yet.

“Donna?” Josh said lowly, and her skin tingled. “The pigeon.”

“Oh,” she said, and hopped off the desk reluctantly. When she looked at him, his eyes were firmly focused on the pigeon. Perhaps that moment- if it even could be classed as one- was all in her head. Her mother always had said that she was away with the fairies. 

Josh followed, and carefully lowered himself to the floor. At the movement, the little pigeon started to flap his wings frantically, desperate to break free. Donna felt a stab of sympathy for him. Him? When had she started thinking of it as a him? 

“I think it’s a girl,” she said defiantly. “And I shall name her…Agatha.”

Josh snickered. “Agatha, Donna?” 

“Yeah. My great aunt was called Agatha. She died when I was a baby.”

“Oh.”

“She got run over by a combine harvester when she was cow tipping.” 

Josh opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious.”

Donna rolled her eyes. “Yes, Josh, of course my great aunt Agatha died a horrible death a la combine harvester.”

“That’s improper French.”

“Potato, potato.” 

“Was she wearing a skimpy milkmaid dress too?”

“Shut up, Josh.”

“You know, Donna, I think you should turn up to work in full milkmaid getup one day,” he said, and although it was a joke the look he gave her was…withering. 

This was the Josh problem. This was the being in love with Josh problem. 

She’d convince herself that he didn’t like her, that he couldn’t, and then he’d say something stupid and flirtatious and give her one of those looks that would send her spinning. And then she’d be back at square one, questioning everything again. Replaying moments in her head at night, over and over and over again, restless…

Donna trembled. “And maybe if you get lucky, I’ll even bring a cow,” she managed, though it was a terrible comeback and she knew it. Josh just…stared at her, like he could reach into her throat and put his hand over her heart, and she thought that she’d let him. She didn’t know if she liked that; him really looking at her, long enough to see past the facade she painted; didn’t know if she liked the fact that she allowed it to happen.

And then Agatha flapped her wings again. 

Josh cleared his throat. “We need to get rid of him.” 

“Her,” Donna insisted. “Agatha.”

“Right. Agatha. Well, we need to get rid of Agatha.”

Donna hurried across the office to open up a window. Josh quickly followed, and held the little bird out of it, palms gently cupped. 

“Fly, Agatha, fly!” He exclaimed. 

Agatha did not fly. 

“She just doesn’t like you,” Donna said. “Go Agatha, be free from the shackles of the pit that is Josh Lyman’s office!”

“My office is not a pit!”

“So is,” Donna rebuked, grinning at him, and when she looked back Agatha was gone. “See? Even Agatha thought so. That poor pigeon. She’ll be scarred for life, you know…”

—

That night the air turned foggy and humid, water clinging to the panes of her apartment windows like limpets to a rock. For March it was unusually balmy, and Donna found herself sitting on her bed wearing only a tank top and panties- her Tuesday pair, she noted, looking at the elastic waistband, despite it being a Friday- while scrawling in her diary.

Mess up at press briefing today. CJ annoyed, and Josh pissed. Not at me, though. At everyone else, but not me. It makes me wonder. 

Wonder she did. Since she’d left the office she hadn’t really thought of anything except for Margaret’s words. And Josh. Josh, Josh, Josh. She felt lovesick and hopeless and somehow flying full of hope at the same time. She hated everything. She hated living. She hated Josh for existing.

No, that was a blatant lie. She loved him. She loved him so much that sometimes it made her want to throw up everywhere. God, she felt like a pathetic highschooler all over again. 

The crux of it was that it really, truly, sucked. He was her best friend. He was her boss. Those two things alone should not be able to coexist. Though, she supposed, Leo and the President were best friends. And the President was Leo’s boss. But that was toddler logic, because Leo wasn’t in love with the President. Was he? Now that would make for one hell of a press briefing.

Donna groaned, and dropped her pen onto the sheets. She couldn’t stop thinking about what Margaret had said, or the specific shade of Josh’s eyes earlier that day. They were always lighter, more honeyed, under the glow of his office light. And they crinkled when he smiled. And he had dimples. 

“Get a grip!” She said out loud, and in the same breath reached for the phone without thinking about it.

On the third ring, it went through.

“CJ Cregg.”

“CJ!” Donna hurriedly exclaimed. She didn’t even think that CJ had her number. 

“Donna?” On the other end of the line, CJ sounded almost scared. “What’s wrong?”

“What?” Donna asked. “Nothing is…nothing’s wrong.” 

“Oh.” CJ said. “Whenever you ring me it’s usually because Josh has done something stupid.” 

Donna smiled into the receiver. “Yeah, that sounds about right. Um, CJ, can I ask you something ridiculous?”

A beat of silence hung. “Um, sure?” 

“Is Leo in love with the President?”

Donna heard spluttering and the faint sound of liquid falling back into a cup. “Donna, what? No. Of course not. Leo isn’t gay. As far as I’m aware, at least. Wait. Is there something I need to know? Donna, tell me there isn’t something that I don’t know about.”

“No, no, not about Leo. It was just- it was just hypothetical, it was silly, I’m sorry,” Donna rushed out in one breath. “But- if he- if he was, though- gay, that is, and in love with the President- how would that fare? I mean, like, would that be allowed?”

CJ guffawed. “And I’m supposing that homophobia is a thing of the past in this hypothetical world?”

“Uh, yes,” Donna said, beginning to feel more stupid and exposed by the second. 

“Then, I mean...there’s no law against it. But it’d be frowned upon. These things are always a scandal, Donna. So I wouldn’t advise that he acted upon it, no. But, I mean, that isn’t ever going to happen because Leo isn’t gay and he isn’t in love with President Bartlet, and where the hell is this coming from, Donna? It’s the middle of the night and today was horrible and I’m tired and I have to be up at six o'clock tomorrow.”

Donna didn’t know what to say. She looked for the words, but came up empty. 

“Wait. I know what this is,” CJ said after a minute of uncomfortable silence. Donna could practically hear the penny drop on the other end of the line. “Oh, hohohoho. Oh, Donna. Please don’t tell me this is what I think it is.” 

Donna swallowed. “And what…do you think this is, CJ?”

“I think that you’re in love with Josh and you don’t know what to do about it, so you decided to call me because you thought I wouldn’t immediately realise exactly what the hell you were calling me about? Nice try, buckaroo. I’m the press secretary for a reason.”

“CJ…”

“I’ll tell you what it is, Donna,” she continued, voice suddenly sturdy with resolution, “it’s a pain in the ass for me. It’s a pain in the ass for you. It’s a pain in the ass for Josh. Mostly a pain in the ass for me, because I’m the one who has to answer stupid questions like oh, Miss Cregg, what is Josh Lyman and Donna Moss’s favourite sex position?”

“We haven’t- we haven’t had sex, CJ.”

“Well. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time,” CJ replied.

“Claudia Jean!”

“What?” She sighed. “Look, Donna. It’s a pain in the ass for me to deal with. I’d rather you weren’t in love with Josh Lyman. I’d rather you waited until there was at least a slither of daylight to impart this information upon me. But here we are. And I might be a terrible romantic but I’m not going to sit here and try and dictate who you love. I mean, I might if I knew it was unreciprocated, because that would be downright sad for you, and I like you more than I like my own assistant, Donna, and I’d hate to be embarrassed for you because you’re my friend. Don’t tell Carol I said that. But- like I was saying- I have no power to stop you. Free will, and whatever.”

All of the neurons in her head seemed to misfire at once. “What?”

“Are you deaf? I said I wouldn’t stop you.”

“No, no, not that!” Donna pressed the phone closer to her ear, as if it would somehow make the words more real. “The other part about it…unreciprocated. Not unreciprocated, I mean. What do- what do you mean?”

CJ sighed. Donna could picture how aggressively she was rolling her eyes. 

“You’re a clever woman, Donna. Come on now, I mean, really! Are you blind too?” In the background, Donna heard cupboards opening and the clinking of glasses. “He is obviously in love with you. Like, so obviously, that even Toby can see it, and Toby is frequently useless.”

“I- I don’t understand.”

“Donna, he looks at you like you hung the moon. I don’t think he could survive here without you if I am being honest, and god I hate talking like this because it sounds so sappy and I am not sappy. But you called me, you…you’re pestering me, so I am telling you. I am also telling you that everyone knows. Like, everyone. All the assistants notice it.”

Donna thought back once again. “Margaret said that. Earlier. That Josh is different with me than the rest of the staff.”

“Well Margaret seems to have more sense than you, and you should listen to her. And you should listen to me. And why am I even indulging this? I am the press secretary, not a life coach-”

“Okay. Okay,” Donna squeaked. “I got…I got the point, CJ. And I…thank you.”

“You’re welcome?” CJ said. “Now if you don’t mind, I am going to drink some very strong whiskey. Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight.”

“Oh, and Donna?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t let my advice go to waste,” she said. “And if you’re going to do something about it, do it soon. There’s a betting pool with my name on it.”

The line turned to static.

“Really?” Donna shouted up at her ceiling as she flopped back onto her bed, receiver still in hand. “A betting pool?”

–

Donna awoke with a start to the sound of insistent knocking at her door, the feeling of sweat beading on her forehead, and the sensation of a hacking cough building in her chest. Everything felt…foggy, and fuzzy, and her head was spinning like a merry go round. 

She blinked her eyes open slowly to find the golden morning sun pouring in through the slats in the blinds. It had to be at least 10, and god, she was late, really, truly, late, and that was probably HR at her door ready to murder her. And why did she feel like shit?

Head in a haze, she sat up. A series of spluttering coughs erupted from her throat, and for a moment her vision went white. Still, the knocking continued.

“I’m,” she yelled through coughs, “coming!”

As she made her way across her apartment her legs wobbled and she was sure that she would faint into a pile on the floor, and that the cops would bust in to find her in a crumpled, dead, heap, because Jesus Christ, she couldn’t remember feeling this sick in her entire life- no, scratch that, ever. This was something else entirely. 

The knocking didn’t stop until Donna was undoing the latch and slowly pulling the door open. When she did, though, she almost wished that she hadn’t.

“Donna,” Josh said, standing there strangely with his arms hanging at his sides like a limp sort of mannequin. 

“Josh,” she grumbled. “I think I caught the black plague.” 

“Um, Donna,” he said stiltedly, and cleared his throat. “Uh. You’re. You’re in your underwear."

Suddenly, Donna felt very, very awake. 

“Oh my god,” she spluttered. “Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.” 

“It’s okay,” he said through gritted teeth. 

“It really isn’t.” 

“Yeah,” he said noncommittedly, not really seeming to be entirely there. Donna felt like she was falling in slow motion. Falling into a very, very, deep black hole. “Um, I- take my jacket.” 

Josh pulled his jacket from his shoulders and handed it to her. She didn’t miss the way his eyes stayed firmly fixed upon the floor. She didn’t miss how he occasionally glanced up, either. 

“I’m sick, Josh, not blind,” she said humorlessly. “Keep your eyes averted.” 

Josh bit his lip. “Right. Yeah.” 

Donna wrapped his jacket around her waist in a makeshift sort of skirt, grimaced, and promptly fled to her bedroom to retrieve some pyjama pants. It was ridiculous, and embarrassing, and any moment she expected to blink awake for real to find an empty room and a body void of sickness. 

But the world kept turning, and in the hall she heard the door click shut as Josh entered her apartment. Sighing, she pulled on a pair of baggy sleep shorts, tied her hair up, and didn’t dare to look in the mirror for fear of what she might find.

When she came back out, Josh was in her kitchen with two mugs in his hands. 

“Oh, Donnatella,” he said lightly when he caught sight of her. He had this look in his eyes that she hadn’t seen before; something akin to both sadness and affection, and it made a jolt run through her. “You look really…rough.”

Donna snorted, and forced a hint of a smile. “Gee, thanks, Josh.” 

“Don’t mention it.” He set down a mug in front of her. “Tea. No idea what it is. I found it in your cupboard. Is it expired?”

Donna shrugged, and took a sip. “Why aren’t you at work?”

“It’s Saturday.” 

She set her mug down. “And my question still stands.”

Josh rolled his eyes. “Can’t a man enjoy his weekend?” 

“If he was a normal man,” Donna said. “Then maybe.”

“You ought to be nicer to me, Donnatella,” he sniped, and was then quiet for a moment. “You…you’d usually call me by now. I was concerned. Didn’t want you to be dead in your apartment or anything. Because you usually call on the weekends and ask me about something entirely mundane and make my morning a little less boring. Oh, now would you look at that. That rhymed.”

“Mmm,” she hummed. “Poet laureate, Josh Lyman. Would you like a sticker?”

“Yes.” He reached a hand out and tenderly brushed the back of it against her forehead. “Jesus, Donna, what the hell happened to you? You’re hotter than…scratch that, I don’t know where I was going with that. But you are hot.”

“Thanks.” 

“You know that isn’t what I meant,” he snickered. “Unless you wanted that to be what I meant. Which you didn’t, of course. Donna, where do you keep your Aspirin?”

“Left cupboard, bottom shelf,” she grumbled, trying to make sense of his words. Her brain felt like scrambled eggs. If she’d been in any normal state, if it had been any normal day, whatever he was saying would’ve sent her into a tailspin, she was sure of it. But today was not normal, apparently. Certainly not.

“Sorry about the um, underwear thing,” Donna said and dropped her head into her palms, hair falling around her face like a curtain. “I guess I was groggy.”

“You are groggy,” he replied, muffled as his head was currently stuck deep inside her kitchen cupboards. “Where the hell? And don’t apologise, Donna, it was funny. And sexy. More the latter. Am I allowed to say that?”

“Josh, that’s one of the more normal things I’ve heard you say,” she said, and tried to hide the flush creeping into her cheeks. 

“They were the wrong pair, by the way,” Josh added, head finally reappearing from the cupboard. “It is Saturday, and you are wearing Tuesday. Really, Donna. Days of the week for your underwear?”

“What? I’m a forgetful person except for when it comes to you,” Donna replied, and realised how intimate that sounded. “I mean- I mean- oh, whatever, I am tired. And I really don’t think my underwear is the largest concern right now. So unless you plan on doing something about it then I would really, really, just like my Aspirin and I would like to sleep for a long, long time.” 

Josh stopped. “Unless I plan on…doing something about it?”

Donna looked up from her palms. “Did I say that?”

“You certainly did,” he said, and she didn’t miss how his dimples seemed a little more prominent and his complexion seemed a little more rosy. “Uh, here. Aspirin and water.” 

“Thanks.” She swallowed them, and flopped down against the table. “Ugh, Josh. This is all Agatha’s fault.”

“Your great aunt?”

“No, Agatha the pigeon.” 

“What has she got to do with it?”

“I think she gave me bird flu,” Donna said exasperatedly. “I’m disowning her. Can we put her up for adoption?”

“I didn’t know we had adopted her,” Josh replied. “And no, Donna, I don’t think you have the bird flu. I think that is, you know, famously reserved for birds?”

Donna rolled her eyes. “Shut up, Josh.”

“You’re delirious. Come on. You’re going back to bed.” 

“Joshhh,” she groaned. “I don’t even want to move.” 

“I’ll bring you soup,” Josh added.

“Are you bribing me right now?”

“Chicken noodle soup.”

“You don’t even know that I like chicken noodle soup.”

“But you do, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she groaned. “But the noodles have to be wholewheat.”

“I- alright, Donna, I will make you chicken noodle soup with wholewheat noodles if you get up now and go back to bed.”

With a groan, Donna stood and attempted to walk across to her bedroom. But her legs felt like toothpicks, and wobbled beneath her. She felt her knees buckling and she started to sink to the ground, but then suddenly she was stationary and leaning against something solid.

“I got you, Donna,” Josh said gently, and she wanted to cry. “Come on.” 

With one swift movement he swept her off of her feet and then she was pressed right up against him, draped bridal style across his arms. She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t imagined this before, only under different circumstances: her in a sophisticated white gown, him in a tux, giggling as they stepped across the threshold. Somehow, though, this felt more intimate. It made her ache in ways the illness didn’t.

Josh set her down on the bed and pulled the covers up around her, carefully tucking them up under her chin. 

“There you are,” he murmured, and pushed back stray strands of sweaty hair from her forehead. 

She sniffed, and still felt the urge to cry as she looked up at him through lashes. She swallowed and tried to push the tears down, but it was a futile cause. 

“Donna?” Josh said, voice thick with concern. He smoothed her hair back again, this time reaching behind her ear. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re making it worse,” she mumbled, voice wavering. 

Josh withdrew his hand suddenly. “Oh. Oh. Sorry. I thought you didn’t mind me- well, taking care of you.”

“That’s exactly it, Josh,” she said, her voice finally cracking. “No one…no one ever really takes care of me. Like this. I don’t know…what it’s like. I’m not used to it.”

His gaze softened. “Oh, Donnatella Moss.” He slowly sat down on the edge of the bed. “No one’s ever taken care of you? Not even your parents?”

Donna frowned. “No. I mean, not really. Not like this. Not like…” You, she didn’t say. 

Josh reached behind her head to tug her hair loose. “Of course I’m gonna take care of you,” he soothed, and proceeded to thread his fingers through her long blonde strands. “My Donnatella.”

Fuck. Now she really was a mess of sweat and tears. 

“Please don’t cry,” Josh added. “I hate seeing you cry.”

Donna really couldn’t hold it in anymore. Maybe it was the heightened sensitivity from the sickness, and the conversations with Margaret and CJ, that made her so…sappy. But she couldn’t help it. 

“Josh,” she croaked, and pulled her arms out from under the sheets as if to beckon him. She knew it was a stupid idea but she couldn’t find reason to care, not when her face was wet and her lips were salty and he was looking at her like she held the answer to the universal question of life itself. 

Wordlessly he pulled up the sheets and slid in beside her, only stopping to shuck off his shoes. Without missing a beat she shuffled closer until her head was leaning against his shoulder, and she could smell that familiar aroma of what could only be described as Josh, of coffee and paper and the expensive cologne that she’d bought him for his birthday the year before. 

“It’s alright,” he soothed as he draped an arm across her. “You’re okay.”

Donna sniffed. “I’m sorry.”

He turned until his mouth was practically buried in the crown of her head. “Nothing to be sorry for. I’m just sorry you got sick. Maybe it was Agatha.”

Despite herself, she laughed against him. “Yeah. Let’s blame Agatha.”

His chest rumbled underneath her at that, and she pressed herself closer to hear the beating of his heart. So strange, she thought, that it had almost ceased to beat last year; that he was almost taken from her, that he had almost bled out on the operating table in front of her eyes. He almost wasn’t here now, almost wasn’t against her, solid and warm and all the things that one’s boss shouldn’t be. 

Donna blinked up at him after a while, and found he was already gazing at her. And suddenly she just couldn’t keep it inside anymore.

“Josh,” she said. “I love you.”

He smiled. “I love you too, Donna.” 

“No,” she insisted, because he wasn’t getting it. “I love you, Josh. I am in love with you. And I don’t know anything and I don’t know if you even feel the same but I just- I had to tell you, Josh.” 

“Donnatella,” he said, cutting her off. “I knew what you meant the first time.” 

“Oh.”

He kissed her forehead. “I love you, Donna. I’ve been loving you for a long time. And I’m in love with you. And I…I love you more than In And Out burgers, more than flying on Air Force One, more than…cotton socks.”  

Donna sniffed, and then burst into laughter. The tears were back again. “Well that’s high praise,” she said wetly. “I love you more than…underwear with days of the week on, french fries, and…CJ. I love you more than CJ.”

Josh furrowed his eyebrows. “CJ?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Donna choked out. “I called her last night because I was up late thinking about you and whether I was even allowed to love you and whether you were allowed to love me, and if Leo was gay and in love with President Bartlet, and she said that he wasn’t but that you were in love with me and that I should do something about it. So CJ is pretty high on my list of people right now for saying that. But you, Joshua Lyman, take the cake of Donna Moss cakes.”

“As do you, Donnatella Moss,” he replied, and then split into that stupid grin that she loved so much that probably fell under the I’m About To Be A Pain In The Ass category of Josh Lyman smiles. “Sorry, what was that about Leo being gay and in love with the President?”

“He’s not. For the record.” 

“Helpful to know,” he snickered. “Wait, you called CJ to tell her you were in love with me? Why CJ?”

“Because I trust her. And she’s a woman. And the press secretary. And, actually, I called her because I didn’t know you were in love with me. I didn’t…think you were.”

Josh’s mouth fell wide open. “How could you even- Donna! I thought- I thought you knew.” 

“Well, I certainly know now.” She sat up a little to look at him properly. “I’d kiss you now, by the way, like any normal person would. But I don’t want to make you sick.”

“I don’t care.” 

“But you work at the White House. You can't really be...well, off sick because you've been canoodling with your assistant."

"Canoodling?" Josh echoed, and laughed. “ And to hell with the White House."

He kissed her, then, and all felt right in the world. He tasted of coffee and everything bagels, and she knew that her bed breath must be terrible but somehow didn’t find the room in her chest to care, not when it was breathed full of life. Not when she had Josh Lyman in her bed, kissing her like his life depended on it. 

When he finally drew back she was breathing heavily, sweat beading on her forehead, and she could feel the way her lips had swollen into a healthy cherry red. A sudden wave of tiredness overcame her, the tides of sleep pulling once more, the gentle lull of his presence weighting her blinks with every passing second.

“Sleep,” he mumbled, and kissed her on the nose. “Sleep, Donnatella.” 

“Don’t go,” she pleaded. 

“Never,” Josh said. It was the most certain she’d ever heard him. “Never.”

She listened to his heart once more, and let it take her. On the fringes of sleep, he spoke again:

“I was right, by the way. Agatha was a boy. I searched up bird facts. He had a pattern on him that meant…”

“Shut up, Josh.”