Fic: West Wing s7, Josh/Donna, untitled
Sep. 25th, 2005 02:30 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
anxietygrrlI'm still trying to get the hang of writing again after a year of letting my meager skills atrophy. This needs polishing, but I'm up against a deadline, dammit. This is also the first thing I've written for The West Wing over a couple hundred words. Eep.
"So what's the reaction from the dorkosphere?" Josh set another beer on the desk beside her and leaned in to read DailyKos over her shoulder.
"You mean the netroots? The activist base?"
He twisted off the cap of his second--third?--Sam Adams. "Whatever."
"Seems to be a toss-up between 'OMG' and 'WTF'. That means--"
"I know what it means, thanks," he smirked. He sat down and put his feet up on the desk next to hers.
"Feeling good, are you?"
"Relieved. The balloons even came down on time."
"You were worried about the balloons?" she teased. "We hired someone specifically to worry about the balloons."
"And yet, Bob Russell will never be President. Money isn't everything, my friend."
She clicked over to TAPPED, and smiled wryly at her reflection in the monitor. "You won't be wanting our donor list, then, I suppose."
"Already got it."
Donna turned in her seat, surprised. "You talked to Will?"
"Before he left, yeah. Told him he could bring over six senior staffers."
She swivelled her chair around to face him. "You're hiring us."
"You guys almost got Bingo Bob the nomination. I'd be an idiot not to."
"True." She paused, picked at the corner of the label on her beer. "Will's a good guy, you know," she said quietly.
Josh nodded. "I know."
"And he's good at what he does."
"Absolutely."
She struggled for a moment with what she had to say. When she found the words, Donna met his eyes, and suddenly she felt every second of the last very long year. "He couldn't have done what you did." He seemed a little startled by the compliment, and that saddened her. "I don't know if that means anything, coming from me..."
"It does," he was quick to say. Then, more softly, "Of course it does. Thank you." If it wasn't Josh sitting across from her, she might almost say he sounded humble. "So," he said, needing to relieve the aching sincerity they were both too exhausted to sustain, "How'd you like to be on the radio?"
She sat up straight, interest piqued. "Details, please?"
"I wanna book you on the Franken show."
"And by 'want to book me' you mean...?"
"I booked you on the Franken show."
She sighed in familiar frustration. "Josh. You couldn't have asked me first?"
"I got cornered on radio row. It was either you or me, and you're prettier."
"It's radio."
"You have a pleasant voice, then. Look, you don't even need to prep, really. Just hit the buzzwords. Party unity, focus, energy, progressive vision. You could do it in your sleep."
"You want me to reach out to the liberal base," she said, incredulous. "You do remember I was with the Russell campaign?"
"And now you're with the Santos campaign. No one'll care. It's Franken. I'm not throwing you to the shrieking lefties."
"Yeah, it probably is a good idea you don't do this yourself."
"It'll be fun, I promise. Talk up Leo, be vaguely optimistic, ten minutes and you're done."
"That's our message right now? Vaguely optimistic?"
"For the next twenty-four hours it is."
"And if they try to nail me down on policy?"
"Tell a Bartlet anecdote and flirt with Conason."
Donna's eyes lit with mischief. "Okay, all you had to do was tell me Conason was going to be on. You know I have a crush on Conason."
"Yeah, I can't imagine why that slipped my mind."
The remark had the unexpected effect of making her blush, and she remembered that she'd had three beers herself. "So is this going to be a regular thing?"
He raised his eyebrows. "You and Conason? He's married, you know."
She grinned. "Me and the radio, Josh."
"If you want. I think you're the right person for it."
"And why is that, exactly?" She was awfully curious to hear his answer.
"You're smart. Young. You've got Beltway experience, but you're not a hack. People like you. You're like...a regular person."
She snorted. "Gee, thanks."
"You know what I mean." He tilted his head, as if letting his thoughts slide into place. "You connect with people. That's...valuable."
There was a time she might have blushed at that. Now she simply smiled a little, glad to hear him acknowledge it.
"Of course, I don't know if that means anything coming from me..." he joked.
She smiled wider and leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "Are you sure you want to spotlight the woman who castigated a chicken on national television?"
"She asks the guy with the secret plan to fight inflation."
"Josh, on some blogs I'm still known as the Chicken Lady. Which I blame you for, by the way."
He waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, come on, it's endearing. Anyway, people will forget about it the more we get your face out there."
"My face. I really think you're confused about what radio is."
"Yeah, here's the thing..."
"Oh, I knew there was a thing lurking around here somewhere."
"You can work the press. I want you doing more heads-up media."
Donna frowned a little. "Okay, but I didn't get into this to do PR, Josh. Media strategy, maybe, but I'm not going to be this campaign's soundbite-spouting happy face. I'm not going to sit at the kids' table."
"You want to let me finish, Dr. Bartlet?"
She didn't know whether it was the comparison--which she chose to regard as only half-sarcastic--or the fond, slightly tipsy way he smiled at her as he said it that secretly thrilled her inside. She gestured for him to continue.
"I'm not talking about schmoozing local news reporters." He planted his feet on the floor and leaned forward. "I'm saying," he said, his voice low and serious, "that by September first we'll have you shooting down RNC talking points on Hardball."
"Oh." Donna turned her chair back to the computer, closed the browser, and shut down the machine. Then she stood, approached Josh, and lifted the beer right out of his hand. He didn't resist.
"How many of these have you had?"
He thought for a moment. "Three? No, two-and-a-half. Two. More like two."
"I think it's time you switched to pop."
He chuckled. "'Pop'. That's adorable. See, that's why this is going to work so perfectly. You're just this wholesome Midwestern girl. No one will ever suspect you of being able to eviscerate them on television."
"Unlike a sneering Yankee elitist like you."
"Exactly."
"You really think I could eviscerate people?" she asked.
He nodded. "With a little practice, absolutely."
"And practice starts tomorrow." She was definitely warming up to the idea. "I've got to call my parents in the morning and tell them I'm going to be on the radio." She looked toward the muted television and saw that C-SPAN had already cut away from the empty convention floor and moved on to its post-show 'phone calls from crazy people' segment. "We should head out."
Josh agreed. "Don't have to go home, but you can't stay here. Share a cab back to the hotel?"
As they walked, he with his backpack slung over one shoulder, she with a bulging messenger bag with a tattered 'Russell for President' sticker still clinging to it, he gave her the details of the next day's radio booking and the producer's contact info. They made their way to a back exit out of one of the basement levels. In the stairwell, they stepped over a group of befuddled, despondent looking Hoynes staffers who abruptly quieted their conversation when they saw the two approaching. On the way out they passed dumpsters overflowing with crumpled signs and delegates' funny hats. They quibbled a little over the relative importance of GOTV versus 'building the narrative' over the summer months. Donna told him which high-powered consultants she considered 'full of shit,' something she'd never quite felt was appropriate when he was her boss. She'd done it, of course--usually in less blunt language--but always with the knowledge that it wasn't really her place. He laughed, and his arm brushed hers as they approached the busy intersection. She suddenly realized that as of a scant hour ago, he was, in fact, her boss again.
Maybe it was the sudden noise and bright light that made her slightly queasy as she thought this. Maybe it was the three beers, or the diesel exhaust of the buses lined up to take delegates back to hotels or home states. She slid into the backseat of a taxi and contemplated the stretch of weeks between her and November. And then, after that, a flickering, nebulous expanse called 'the Santos administration.' The cab door slammed as Josh slid in beside her. He gave the name of the hotel to the driver, and Donna leaned her head back and closed her eyes. The car lurched forward.
"So what's the reaction from the dorkosphere?" Josh set another beer on the desk beside her and leaned in to read DailyKos over her shoulder.
"You mean the netroots? The activist base?"
He twisted off the cap of his second--third?--Sam Adams. "Whatever."
"Seems to be a toss-up between 'OMG' and 'WTF'. That means--"
"I know what it means, thanks," he smirked. He sat down and put his feet up on the desk next to hers.
"Feeling good, are you?"
"Relieved. The balloons even came down on time."
"You were worried about the balloons?" she teased. "We hired someone specifically to worry about the balloons."
"And yet, Bob Russell will never be President. Money isn't everything, my friend."
She clicked over to TAPPED, and smiled wryly at her reflection in the monitor. "You won't be wanting our donor list, then, I suppose."
"Already got it."
Donna turned in her seat, surprised. "You talked to Will?"
"Before he left, yeah. Told him he could bring over six senior staffers."
She swivelled her chair around to face him. "You're hiring us."
"You guys almost got Bingo Bob the nomination. I'd be an idiot not to."
"True." She paused, picked at the corner of the label on her beer. "Will's a good guy, you know," she said quietly.
Josh nodded. "I know."
"And he's good at what he does."
"Absolutely."
She struggled for a moment with what she had to say. When she found the words, Donna met his eyes, and suddenly she felt every second of the last very long year. "He couldn't have done what you did." He seemed a little startled by the compliment, and that saddened her. "I don't know if that means anything, coming from me..."
"It does," he was quick to say. Then, more softly, "Of course it does. Thank you." If it wasn't Josh sitting across from her, she might almost say he sounded humble. "So," he said, needing to relieve the aching sincerity they were both too exhausted to sustain, "How'd you like to be on the radio?"
She sat up straight, interest piqued. "Details, please?"
"I wanna book you on the Franken show."
"And by 'want to book me' you mean...?"
"I booked you on the Franken show."
She sighed in familiar frustration. "Josh. You couldn't have asked me first?"
"I got cornered on radio row. It was either you or me, and you're prettier."
"It's radio."
"You have a pleasant voice, then. Look, you don't even need to prep, really. Just hit the buzzwords. Party unity, focus, energy, progressive vision. You could do it in your sleep."
"You want me to reach out to the liberal base," she said, incredulous. "You do remember I was with the Russell campaign?"
"And now you're with the Santos campaign. No one'll care. It's Franken. I'm not throwing you to the shrieking lefties."
"Yeah, it probably is a good idea you don't do this yourself."
"It'll be fun, I promise. Talk up Leo, be vaguely optimistic, ten minutes and you're done."
"That's our message right now? Vaguely optimistic?"
"For the next twenty-four hours it is."
"And if they try to nail me down on policy?"
"Tell a Bartlet anecdote and flirt with Conason."
Donna's eyes lit with mischief. "Okay, all you had to do was tell me Conason was going to be on. You know I have a crush on Conason."
"Yeah, I can't imagine why that slipped my mind."
The remark had the unexpected effect of making her blush, and she remembered that she'd had three beers herself. "So is this going to be a regular thing?"
He raised his eyebrows. "You and Conason? He's married, you know."
She grinned. "Me and the radio, Josh."
"If you want. I think you're the right person for it."
"And why is that, exactly?" She was awfully curious to hear his answer.
"You're smart. Young. You've got Beltway experience, but you're not a hack. People like you. You're like...a regular person."
She snorted. "Gee, thanks."
"You know what I mean." He tilted his head, as if letting his thoughts slide into place. "You connect with people. That's...valuable."
There was a time she might have blushed at that. Now she simply smiled a little, glad to hear him acknowledge it.
"Of course, I don't know if that means anything coming from me..." he joked.
She smiled wider and leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "Are you sure you want to spotlight the woman who castigated a chicken on national television?"
"She asks the guy with the secret plan to fight inflation."
"Josh, on some blogs I'm still known as the Chicken Lady. Which I blame you for, by the way."
He waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, come on, it's endearing. Anyway, people will forget about it the more we get your face out there."
"My face. I really think you're confused about what radio is."
"Yeah, here's the thing..."
"Oh, I knew there was a thing lurking around here somewhere."
"You can work the press. I want you doing more heads-up media."
Donna frowned a little. "Okay, but I didn't get into this to do PR, Josh. Media strategy, maybe, but I'm not going to be this campaign's soundbite-spouting happy face. I'm not going to sit at the kids' table."
"You want to let me finish, Dr. Bartlet?"
She didn't know whether it was the comparison--which she chose to regard as only half-sarcastic--or the fond, slightly tipsy way he smiled at her as he said it that secretly thrilled her inside. She gestured for him to continue.
"I'm not talking about schmoozing local news reporters." He planted his feet on the floor and leaned forward. "I'm saying," he said, his voice low and serious, "that by September first we'll have you shooting down RNC talking points on Hardball."
"Oh." Donna turned her chair back to the computer, closed the browser, and shut down the machine. Then she stood, approached Josh, and lifted the beer right out of his hand. He didn't resist.
"How many of these have you had?"
He thought for a moment. "Three? No, two-and-a-half. Two. More like two."
"I think it's time you switched to pop."
He chuckled. "'Pop'. That's adorable. See, that's why this is going to work so perfectly. You're just this wholesome Midwestern girl. No one will ever suspect you of being able to eviscerate them on television."
"Unlike a sneering Yankee elitist like you."
"Exactly."
"You really think I could eviscerate people?" she asked.
He nodded. "With a little practice, absolutely."
"And practice starts tomorrow." She was definitely warming up to the idea. "I've got to call my parents in the morning and tell them I'm going to be on the radio." She looked toward the muted television and saw that C-SPAN had already cut away from the empty convention floor and moved on to its post-show 'phone calls from crazy people' segment. "We should head out."
Josh agreed. "Don't have to go home, but you can't stay here. Share a cab back to the hotel?"
As they walked, he with his backpack slung over one shoulder, she with a bulging messenger bag with a tattered 'Russell for President' sticker still clinging to it, he gave her the details of the next day's radio booking and the producer's contact info. They made their way to a back exit out of one of the basement levels. In the stairwell, they stepped over a group of befuddled, despondent looking Hoynes staffers who abruptly quieted their conversation when they saw the two approaching. On the way out they passed dumpsters overflowing with crumpled signs and delegates' funny hats. They quibbled a little over the relative importance of GOTV versus 'building the narrative' over the summer months. Donna told him which high-powered consultants she considered 'full of shit,' something she'd never quite felt was appropriate when he was her boss. She'd done it, of course--usually in less blunt language--but always with the knowledge that it wasn't really her place. He laughed, and his arm brushed hers as they approached the busy intersection. She suddenly realized that as of a scant hour ago, he was, in fact, her boss again.
Maybe it was the sudden noise and bright light that made her slightly queasy as she thought this. Maybe it was the three beers, or the diesel exhaust of the buses lined up to take delegates back to hotels or home states. She slid into the backseat of a taxi and contemplated the stretch of weeks between her and November. And then, after that, a flickering, nebulous expanse called 'the Santos administration.' The cab door slammed as Josh slid in beside her. He gave the name of the hotel to the driver, and Donna leaned her head back and closed her eyes. The car lurched forward.
