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To say he was surprised to find Donna knocking on his front door at almost 10 o'clock at night, a duffle bag slung over one shoulder and a stack of papers clutched to her chest would be an understatement. That, and given that she was supposed to be in Tampa until tomorrow night and not DC really threw him off.
"Uh, hi." He says, blinking at her a few times to ensure she's not some twisted figment of his imagination.
"Hi."
"Aren't you in Tampa right now?"
The corner of her mouth twitches into a ghost of a smile, "Does it look like I'm in Tampa?"
"I- no. I mean, obviously you're not in Tampa. But you were supposed to be, right?" He asks, momentarily considering the possibility he's gone so long without sleep that he's lost all sense of day and time. Given that the campaign is in its final stretch he doesn’t think it would be out that outlandish.
"I was," She says, much to his relief, "But Lou sent me back early so I can get media prep started tomorrow while they're finishing there. She wants to hit the ground running once her and Otto land tomorrow night."
"Oh," He says, trying to remember if Lou had mentioned it during their earlier phone call, "Right. Makes sense. Did you, uh, need something from me?"
At his question her face flushes crimson, a color she only wears when she's embarrassed. Once upon a time he would have relentlessly teased her about it. But that was then and this was now; and right now he feels like he’s supposed to be looking away.
"There was a problem with my hotel reservation," She explains hastily, "They booked it for next week somehow, and didn't have anything left until at least tomorrow night, and ever other hotel in the city is too expensive this last minute. I tried CJ but she's not even in the city right now."
As was the case since he opened the door, he only becomes more confused.
"What's wrong with your apartment?"
She rolls her eyes, "I'm subletting it. I can't exactly afford to pay rent at a place I'm not currently living."
It all clicks into place then; she has nowhere to stay while she's back in the city for however long. And while he's sure she could of found somewhere to sleep at for the evening (it wasn't like she didn't have friends here) he understands despite the physical and metaphorical distance that's been between them for the better part of a year, this is a place she feels at least marginally safe.
So he steps aside, a silent invitation.
(Later he'll wonder how he's managed to let that distance between them become so great that he didn't know she wasn't even living in her apartment)
"Thank you." She breathes, clearly relieved, and he wonders if she had thought he would turn her away. As if he ever could.
"You could have used your key." He tells her, unable to bring himself to question what she thought his reaction would be for fear of the truth, then pauses, "If you still have it, I mean."
He waits for her to tell him she chucked it the day she left the White House, which somehow would bigger blow than leaving in the first place, even if would have understood why she did it.
"I have it," She says, and he hopes the relief he’s feeling isn’t written all over his face, "But I wasn't about to just walk into your apartment unannounced."
"As opposed to knocking on my front door unannounced?" He goes for teasing, desperate to bring any kind of levity to the room. Things between them have been better, he supposes, though given that they weren't on speaking terms prior to now 'better' was more of a relative term than anything.
It works, thankfully. It's even enough to get a small chuckle from her as she deposits her bag on the kitchen table.
"Exactly."
The smile she grants him, while small and slightly unsure, is enough to knock him breathless for a moment because, god, when was the last time he saw her smile? When was the last time she smiled at him?
Before he has a chance to say anything else something on the TV catches her attention. He had completely forgotten he had been watching CNN before she knocked on the door.
"You know," She says, shaking her head fondly, "Your addiction to CNN seems to have reached a fever pitch recently."
"I don't have a CNN addiction." He protests, but it comes out weaker than he would have liked.
"Please," She says, taking a seat on his couch, though it doesn't go unnoticed by him that she looks nowhere near as comfortable here as she used to once upon a time, "When's the last time you were in the vicinity of a television and didn't have it turned to this channel?"
He knows he can't argue with her, and judging by the glint in her eye she knows it too, so he opts to change the subject entirely.
"You feeling good about tomorrow?" He asks, making sure to keep an appropriate amount of space between them as he joins her on the couch. It feels wrong, the distance, but most things have felt wrong since she left, and the last thing he wants is to spook her into leaving. He’s not sure how many chances he has left with her.
She nods, "For now, we'll see what happens when I get the updated numbers for Maryland and Virginia tomorrow morning. If we can swing the panhandle in Maryland I think we’ll be in the clear there, for the time being at least. Southern Virginia is making me nervous, but we’ll see what I have to work with in the morning.”
"His approval ratings have been steadily increasing so far." He says, eyes fixed on the TV, "Besides, if anyone can spin it and keep it from looking bad in the press, it's you.”
A news anchor mentions something about Vinnick's latest campaign stop in Oregon, and he's about to launch into a tangent about Oregon having been a blue state since 1984 when it occurs to him that Donna hasn't responded.
He thinks that maybe she's doing the same thing he is; intently watching the news report in front of them, but when he turns his head to look at her he finds that she's staring at him, her blue eyes wide and cheeks tinged the slightest bit pink.
"What?" He questions, instantly concerned that he's somehow said the wrong thing. Again.
"Do you mean that?"
He blinks, "Mean what?"
The blush she wears deepens, "That I could spin it."
"Did I - Of course I meant it!" He sputters, a bit offended by the question, "When have I ever lied to you?"
Out of all the things he's done to Donna, lying has never been one of them.
She hesitates for a moment, then looks back at the TV.
"Never."
He actually has lied to her, back on that fateful Christmas Eve she had spent with Jack Reese at the Washington Inn. He had told her it wasn't what it looked like, that he hadn't been keeping her there on purpose, when the shameful reality had been it was exactly what it looked like.
If he wanted to get technical, it hadn't so much lied to her as he had lied to himself. He had convinced himself he was telling her the truth, after all.
He decides he'll just keep that particular instance a secret.
They slip into as close to a comfortable silence as they could possible get between them, and he's never been so grateful that she's just as prone to CNN as he is, despite her earlier teasing about his debatable addiction to the channel. This faction of their relationship is easy to navigate. Anything rooted in or related to their work always had been.
He's self-analyzing what that meant exactly when it came to his less than willingness to promote her when they were still at the White House when the news cuts to commercial. An add for some local restaurant he's never heard of rolls across the screen, and he realizes he hasn't eaten anything since early that morning.
"Are you hungry?" He finds himself asking before he can think better of it, "The good Chinese place delivers until 2am, and I'm guessing you haven't eaten anything since before your flight."
Something twists unpleasantly inside him at his own words. Even after the months of no contact and shaky ground they had been on even before she had left he can tell just from looking at her that she hasn't eaten anything either. He knows he’s the last person who should ever be allowed to comment on her well-being, given all that’s happened over the past year, but he doesn’t know how to not worry about her. He doubts they’ll ever be a time when he doesn’t.
"I should probably try and get some sleep." She says after a moment, "I already showed up uninvited and disturbed your evening, and I look like someone who's been traveling all day. I'll be doing us both a favor by hijacking your shower and going to sleep.”
He desperately wants to tell her that nothing she could ever do - showing up to his apartment most of all - could disturb him. That the only thing that had been disturbing every day that had passed since they left the White House was her not being by his side. That nothing would make him happier than her barging into his life every day until the end of time.
But that's not what he says. That's not what he says at all.
"That's a flimsy excuse; you're beautiful."
He thinks that telling her any of the other thought he had on her explanation would be less soul-barring than this.
It takes him a moment to realize that if he was thrown off by his own words, then Donna must be completely taken by surprise at the admission, and if her wide eyes and slightly parted lips are anything to go by, she absolutely is.
"What?" He asks, a desperate attempt to play the whole thing off, "You know you are. If you want to go to bed because you've had a long day in the midst of an even longer campaign, I get that, but don't attempt to reason why you want to go to sleep at damn near eleven on a Tuesday by undercutting your appearance."
He waits for a comeback, waits for her to throw out one of her snarky one-liners making fun of his own sleeping habits and how only a year ago he likely would have teased her by calling eleven early, but she doesn't.
Its right around then that he starts to wonder how Donna sees herself. Sure, her self confidence has grown exponentially since she left her good for nothing boyfriend and joined Barlet's first campaign. Anyone could see that. But he wonders what Donnatella Moss sees in the mirror when she strips the political persona part of her away.
He's seen her prance around in backless dresses and high heels when going out on dates, seen her reapply her lip gloss throughout the day even though he never thought she really needed it. She's never came into work without at least a touch of mascara and concealer, despite the fact she's always had flawless alabaster skin. There's even been an occasion or two where he's overheard her making plans to get her nails professionally done with Ginger.
It makes him wonder if she does these things because she likes it, or if it's because she feels some patriarchal pressure to look a certain way, particularly in their line of work where appearances do matter.
Because he's seen Donna in lounge clothes and makeup free, and while he's always captivated by her each time they dress up for a formal event or she returns from an ill-fated date, he's not sure he ever finds her more alluring than when she's the most raw version of herself.
And then of course there are the physical marks Gaza had left behind. He knows the way that scars can make you feel; it's the very reason almost nobody - save for his doctors and Donna herself - has seen him shirtless since Rosslyn. But what he thinks is ugly about himself is one of the things he treasures most about Donna. The scar that bisects her chest or the jagged ones across her leg are a reminder that she was here, alive and breathing, and he doesn't think there's anything more beautiful to him than the knowledge that he hadn't lost her.
Not completely, that is.
"I could eat." She says after what feels like an eternity.
"Okay," He says, grateful she's elected to gloss over the other, more consequential part of his little soliloquy, "I'll call."
"Can you get me-" She begins, but Josh cuts her off with a chuckle.
"I know your order, Donna." He says, smiling softly as he does, "Unless you've suddenly done a 180 on your preferences."
It wouldn't have been that surprising, all things considered. He's spent the better part of the last year thinking maybe he hadn't known her at all.
By the time they finish eating it's nearing midnight, and while a majority of the time since their food arrived had been spent eating in silence, with only the occasional comment regarding the campaign spoken between them, it's the first time since Donna joined the Santos Campaign that Josh feels some semblance of what they used to be.
It's unbelievably bittersweet, but he's willing to take what he can get.
"What did you mean earlier?" She asks suddenly, "When you said I was..."
She trails off, but he knows what she means. They've never spoken in code per say, but there wasn't always a need to fully complete a question verbally. They always understood what the other one was asking without really asking at all, and Josh would be lying if he said it didn't warm something deep in his soul to know even after all those months they went without speaking they hadn't lost the ability to read one another.
"What did I mean?" He questions, unsure what exactly it was she was looking for here.
"Never mind." She says quickly, averting her gaze.
Another commercial plays in the background that she pretends she's interested in, but Josh can tell she's not actually paying attention.
"I meant-" He pauses, desperately searching for the right thing to say. He hadn't even been very good with words, but he can sense that they matter very much right now.
"I meant that you're beautiful, full stop. And I don't just mean in a physical sense - though you are, obviously, anyone can see that - but, I don't know Donna... it sounds cliché, so I don't want you to think I'm just feeding you a line, but you back up all that physical beauty with pretty much every other applicable sense of the word. You're a better person than most people are deserving of, including me, and I'd probably go toe-to-toe with anyone who disagreed with me on that."
Alarm bells are blaring in his head, telling him to backtrack backtrack backtrack. Maybe play it off with a joke, or throw out something self-deprecating about himself to shift the focus from something other than his longwinded confession.
But then he chances a glance at her, and instead of the resentment that he knows she's harbored for him the past year making its way to the surface again, or the familiar little half smile she used to give him when she thought he said something ridiculous (which was fairly often) he finds something so much more raw and vulnerable that he almost looks away.
"Donna..." He swallows thickly, "I, uh, I'm sorry if that was overstepping. I wasn't trying to, you know, make you uncomfortable or anything."
She shakes her head the slightest bit, just enough that the motion registers with him.
"You didn't." She assures him faintly, "I was the one who asked for an explanation, after all."
He doesn't know what to do then. Once upon a time he would have tugged her by hand into a hug he would carefully try not to think too hard about, maybe bury his face in the crook of her neck with practiced ease, but everything has been so unstable and unsure between them since before they even left the White House that he doesn't know if she would humor him and let him do so.
So he settles with carefully bumping his knee against hers and tries his best to give her a reassuring smile. Just enough to let her know that the conversation doesn't need to go any further than it already has; that she doesn't have to try and engage with a him on a subject that clearly causes some conflicting feelings within her.
It's because of this thought process that Donna leaning over and kissing him catches him completely off guard.
Though the thought wouldn't hit him until much, much later - right about when his brain comes back online - the reality of kissing Donnatella Moss was better than anything he had been imagining since 1998.
When they part he's breathless, and something akin to a thrill zings up his spine when he realizes so is she.
"I can't believe I did that." She whispers, and he has a sneaking suspicion that she's talking more to herself than to him, though he’s just as dumbstruck, if not more so than her.
"Me either." Is all he can come up with, because he hasn't quite convinced himself that this isn't just some delusional, exhaustion induced dream his mind conjured up, "Feel free to do it again."
He waits for her to hesitate, to pull away and tell him it was a mistake. A mistake that was bound to happen sometime, but a mistake none the less.
But - as she seemed to be doing an awful lot tonight - she surprises him by kissing him all over again.
He doesn't know what to do with his hands, but he figures they already crossed whatever unspoken boundary they had drawn so long ago that there wasn't anything to lose now, so he places one tentatively on her hip as she shifts up and onto her knees.
And then she's sliding one of her legs across his own and hauling herself into his lap, her lips not once leaving his, and he thinks maybe this campaign has actually driven him to the grave, because there's no way he's finally holding Donna is the way he's shamefully dreamed about for the better part of a decade.
She slides one hand into his hair, fingernails raking against his scalp, and he lets out a shuddering breath while Donna chuckles against his lips.
"Predictable." She whispers, not really kissing him but not pulling away either.
"What are we doing?" He asks, voice as soft and breathy as her own.
This is enough to give her pause, but she doesn't make any type of move to extract herself from her place on his lap.
"I don't know." She answers, voice light like air, "But I think it's long overdue, don't you?"
The TV plays softly in the background, flickers of red and blue flashing across the screen behind her while a news anchor rattles off another set of numbers Josh has suddenly no interest in knowing about. They would still be there in the morning. Donna, however, might not be, and he intends on savoring every moment in case this is the only chance he'll get to have this with her.
A hand is placed gently on his jaw; his face half cradled in the palm of her hand - a motion she's done more times than he could count, but it's never felt quite as charged before as it does right now.
He doesn't know how to answer her, because conceding that yes, this was so very overdue implied so much more than he was ready to admit to, whether it be to himself or to her.
So he kisses her this time and hopes she understands.
It must be enough, for now at least, because she melts into his embrace within seconds.
Josh has kissed a lot of women throughout the years. Ones akin to something meaningful and others simply because the opportunity presented itself, so he's not inexperienced by any means. He's had one-night stands and short term flings. He'd even thought he had been in love once or twice. But this wasn't just anybody and any relationship; it was Donna. And that meant this kiss was the only one that's really mattered in his life.
It turns out that kissing Donna and being kissed by Donna are two different things. Being kissed by Donna felt like a gift. Kissing Donna felt like a right of passage that he was certain he would never be worthy of.
He places both of his hands on his hips, locking her in place, and he thinks that in the span of a few minutes he's already addicted to how well her body slots into his space, as if she were the missing piece of the puzzle that had overtaken his life.
(She was)
The hand on his cheek slides down the slope of his neck, slowly and deliberately, making him shudder as her palm comes to rest directly over his scar. It's no accident, that much he's sure of, in the same way that his own hand intentionally drifts to her thigh to where her own scars hide behind the denim of her jeans.
While he would have assumed the intimacy of their actions would cloud his better judgment, he finds an unexpected sense of clarity, one that's exponentially heightened when he feels her fist the material of his t-shirt and tug just the slightest bit, and the understanding of exactly where this was going hits him square in the chest.
"Donna." He says, reluctantly parting his lips from hers, "Donna, we gotta- you have to be sure. I need you to be sure."
"I'm sure." She replies instantly, leaving no room for debate from him, "Are you?"
He curves the urge to laugh, because everything about this - about them - is more serious than he could ever adequately put into words, and the thought of it being him that's unsure is so absurd that it's laughable. He's been unsure of so many things in his life, but never has Donnatella Moss been one of them.
"About you? Of course." He leans forward and kisses her, slow and sweet before pulling away again, "I just need you to realize that there's no undoing it. We won't-" He pauses and considers his next words, "I won't be able to act like this never happened if it does."
He's terrified she's going to change her mind and say that yes, this was a terrible idea, but she doesn't. She just smiles at him.
"I think we've long since crossed that bridge, don't you?"
Her tone implies nothing but certainty, but Josh can't help the anxiety the pools in the pit of his stomach.
"I just-" He looks down, suddenly too overwhelmed to look her in the eye, "I just got you back, Donna. The last thing I want to jeopardize this again."
When he looks back up he finds her expression has changed completely. Instead of blazing determination, all he can see is something so raw and so vulnerable that it makes his heart skip a beat.
"Josh..." She starts, but trails off before she can say anything but his name, and god, does he understand the trouble of trying to find the right words right now.
But Donna - his Donnatella - has always been so much better at these things than he ever was.
"I'm not going anywhere."
She kisses his forehead, his temple, his cheek. A gentle brush of her lips trailing along the curve of his jaw until they reach his again, and when she kisses him this time he knows in his heart of hearts that yes, she was sure.
He thinks he should say something - anything - to convey even a fraction of what he feels for her, especially in this moment, but he was wasn't a man known for his monologues or articulation. He was a man of occasion.
With that, he slides his hands under her thighs, effectively locking her in his embrace before he lifts them both from his couch and heads towards his bedroom.
He's imagined this very scenario more times than he could count. In his dreams he operates with a little bit more finesse and less fumbling with the doorknob of his bedroom, but really who could blame him when Donna's legs are wrapped tightly around his hips and her chest flush against his own. And, god, don't even get him started on her mouth.
It doesn't really matter though. He could have stumbled every step of the way (as if he hasn't been doing so for the better part of a decade when it came to her) and she wouldn't have judged him for even a second, because this was Donna, and Donna knows the things he cares for the most are often the things he tends to fumble more often than not.
He lays her down on his bed; carefully, reverently. He doesn't want treat her like she's made of glass, god knows she would resent him for that, but he doesn't know how to else to convey how precious she is to him. For a moment he wonders if she could hear his heart thrumming against his chest; wonders if hers is doing the same.
Her fingers curl around the hem of his shirt, tugging impatiently, and he can't help but laugh.
"In a hurry, Donnatella?" He teases, dipping his head down to kiss along her collarbone.
"Eight years is a long time, Joshua." She quips, abandoning her task and opting to yank off her own top.
It takes Josh a moment to recover, though he thinks he can hardly be blamed. Between her statement and her newly exposed skin his thoughts had come to an abrupt halt.
Even so, he takes the hint when her eyes look him expectantly, and he doesn't waste another second in following her lead.
"Fucking hell..." He breathes out, looking down at her. The room is dark, but the glow of the full moon trickling in through the windows in tandem with her bright smile lights up the room more than the sun could ever dream too.
"You're beautiful."
She bites down on her bottom lip, effectively turning him on even more.
"So you've said."
He's already strung together as much of a speech as he's able to, but he doesn't know if she's understanding him. And god, he needs her to understand.
"I mean it." He says insistently, almost desperately, "You're just- god, Donna, I don't think I've ever wanted anything more than I want you."
The light may be low, but he can tell she's blushing at his words, a familiar pretty pink that despite his best efforts has always been a weakness of his.
Her lips part, open as though she had something to say, only nothing comes out. He can't tell if he's rendered her speechless in a good way or bad. A speechless Donna was new. It was just as much as an uncharted territory as a shirtless Donna, though no less terrifying.
Whatever it was she had wanted to express must not have been something she could put in words - a first for her, he would have to guess - and instead presses one hand to his scar, the other dusting along the slope of his neck until her fingers are tangled in his hair, and just as gently as he had deposited her onto the bed she tugs on his curls, beckoning him downwards until her lips meet his again.
He understands then that she wasn't speechless, but that what is happening between them is too monumental to be simplified into words.
So he lets himself fall into the cradle of her embrace. More than that, he lets himself fall in love with her all over again, and suddenly words are the last thing on either of their minds.
Eventually he chances a glance at the clock and finds it's just cresting over 2 in the morning, and while he certainly doesn't feel anything close to tired despite the time and his previous lack of sleep, he does feel a deep-rooted sense of peace that has been missing for the past year.
Donna lays beside him, one of her legs tangled with his own, her head tucked into the hollow of his neck while her fingers idly trace the length of scar. This was new for them - not the intimacy, per say, but the degree of which it was in this moment - and yet it felt like they had been doing this very thing, to this very extent, for years. It felt natural. It felt familiar. It feltright.
But even as right as it felt, there was a part of him riddled with anxiety over it all. The line they had so carefully toed all these years had finally been crossed, and he doesn't know what to do with that.
"What are you thinking?" She asks after a bit, and he wonders if it was the feel of his rapid heartrate beneath her fingers that gave him away, or just that she knows him well enough to know what's going through his mind.
"A loaded question."
He feels more than sees her lips curl into a smile. It's a feeling he could used to; Donna's lips pressed lazily against his neck.
"It always is with you."
And if he pulls her a little closer, holds her a little tighter, well, he could hardly be blamed for it. He had also been waiting eight years for this.
"Where do we go from here?" He tentatively asks.
He suspects part of her must be experiencing the same worries based on the way she holds him equally as tight.
"I don't know." She answers honestly, which does nothing to soothe his worries, "There's a lot we're going to have to figure out."
"Yeah."
The hand that rested on his chest begins to travel north until its cupping his jaw.
"I don't know what we're doing," She tilts his head down so they’re at eye level, “But I’m done pretending, Josh. We’ve been pretending for far too long.”
It settles something deep inside of him to know that it wasn’t just him. That he hadn’t been the only one hiding behind banter and denial all these years.
He turns his head slightly, just enough that he can press a kiss to her wrist.
“No more pretending.” He says.
The room is dark, but he swears the smile she gives him is bright enough to light up the whole damn city.
“No more pretending.”
He knows there are more discussions they need to have; that there is as much hurt as there was longing and misdirection that they need to work through. But for now Donna is here, in his bed, telling him that she’s done pretending too, and for now that’s enough.