and that's just what she'll do
Title: And That's Just What She'll Do
Rating: Child
A/N: First West Wing fic in years, although it's been simmering for almost as long. Donna and her thoughts.
It's nothing at all, really.
No huge fight, no screaming match like so many times before, no arguing about money or lack of time together or housework left uncompleted. All the things you're supposed to fight over when you're in a relationship. They've fought too many times and now there's an uneasy truce.
She doesn't think she's happy anymore. She isn't happy. Sometimes she thinks he's been cheating on her and she asks him in those stupid moments of paranoia but he laughs her off.
How could he cheat on her? He never has time - between his residency and his nights out with the boys. You're being stupid, Donna.
Sometimes she wonders why she's stuck it out this long but there isn't that much more to get through. Everything will be fine once he's done, and he can pick where he wants to practice and the money won't be such an issue.
Her feet hurt.
It's nothing big, really. She wants to watch Letterman. She wants to sit on the sofa with her feet soaking in a mixing bowl from the kitchen, filled with hot water and some of the lavender gel her mother gave her for Christmas.
She wants to sit down and not talk to anyone, not even him. She's too tired.
He won't let her change the channel. There's a game on, but it's not really a game, it's a rehash of a game played last week; a game he went to with his brother while she worked twelve hours straight at the diner.
The remote flies across the room as she tries again to ask if she might, possibly, just watch her show for a couple minutes because there's-
Jeez, Donna, let me finish this in peace. I have to be on shift soon.
She loves him. She thinks she does. She thought she did. How can she love someone who treats her like this. Only, it's not that bad, he's under a lot of pressure and…
She sighs.
Donna, come on, I don't ask for much!
She hasn't even dipped her toes into the fragrant water but the mood is spoiled and she takes the bowl back to the kitchen sink and drains away her attempt at relaxation.
She gets a soda and sits back on the sofa.
He looks at the can in her hand and then at her face, with a smile. She lets him take a sip, then another, then he's drained it and she's left with an inch for herself. He slings an arm around her shoulders.
You're so good to me, babe. What would I do without you.
She loves him, of course. He can be so sweet when he's not tired. She can't remember when he wasn't tired. She has to love him. He needs her.
She wonders what she would do without him. Who she is without someone to take care of. She likes to be needed. She wants to be loved. She doesn't want to be taken for granted.
He leaves for the hospital. He kisses her goodbye on the cheek. He does that every time he leaves the house. It's routine.
She doesn't remember the last time he stared into her eyes like she was the only thing in his universe and it was nothing without her.
She sits on their bed and stares at herself in the dresser mirror. This isn't who she is. This isn't who she wants to be. She sits for hours, still and staring. Her face doesn't look right.
She's smart. Capable. She can do anything. She can be good at anything she wants. She knows it. She doesn't exactly know what it is she wants but she knows, she knows it's not this.
She gathers what she needs and turns the lights off. The front door is locked behind her. The windshield of her car has iced over. It's winter and cold, and why is she doing this now?
She scrapes everything down and climbs in, adjusting the vents to blast the hot engine air onto her hands to defrost them.
The clock on the dash reads four in the morning. Not exactly a midnight flit, but dramatic enough that it makes her smile. She likes to smile.
She doesn't know where she's going but hasn't that always been her problem? She's packed enough to hold her over until she figures it out and she will to figure it out.
The road ahead is dark, spotted briefly with yellow streetlights. Everyone's asleep and she's not. She's doing a stupid thing. What the hell is she doing?
She grips the steering wheel tightly and takes a couple steady, calming breaths. She knows what she's doing. She rests a hand on the gearstick and shifts into first.
Her toes flex in her boots. She hums a little. Nancy Sinatra fills her mind, telling her to start walking.
She drives instead.
Just before nine she's already out of Wisconsin. She finds a branch of her bank and closes her account, withdrawing everything. She wants a clean break. It's her money. She calls her parents, leaving a message when the machine clicks on.
She drives east, towards the sun. New York. She can make it there, she thinks. Frank, in her head, agrees.
The local radio signals fade and crackle into silence the further she drives and she turns the knob to find something new. The hourly news update starts with a missing cat. Local news first in the little towns she passes through. Then region, state, country.
She doesn't take the interstate, instead she takes her time driving. She's in no hurry. She expects he'll have called her parents by now and they'll have relayed the message. The sun is directly overhead and she's starving.
A sign for a local diner looms in the distance and she pulls into the lot, stomping the ice off her boots as she hurries inside. She orders a full breakfast, and a gallon of much needed coffee.
It's small and cozy, and the windows are frosted over, and the waitresses greet the customers with a familiarity born of years on the job.
As much as it warms her heart to see such camaraderie, and as much as she was just like them not one day ago, it all seems so foreign now. That isn't who she is. She doesn't want to be there in twenty years time.
Her breakfast arrives, the heavenly smell of bacon making her stomach rumble. The waitress gives her a paper as well, calling her honey as she refills the empty mug.
She doesn't think about anything in particular. The food fills the emptiness inside her. Less hunger; more yearning for something. She reads the comics first, then the entertainment, then leafs back to the headlines.
Outside, snow starts tumbling down.
She might make a roundabout pit stop in Buffalo. Her college RA lives there, and they were such good friends, even though she'd only made it through the first year and a bit. But an open invitation had been offered when they'd parted company years ago.
The warmth of the diner, combined with the food, the lack of sleep and the road-weariness, settles upon her in a haze of exhaustion.
She drops a couple notes on the table for a tip, and then adds a couple more. Waiting on someone hand and foot deserves more than is ever given in return.
She hurries back to her car, dusted with fresh snow, and drives to the nearest gas station. While the tank fills, she purchases a map of the eastern states and plans the trip to Buffalo.
Deciding a logical approach is called for, she huddles in her car and carefully marks out a route over the pages, then checks the index for interesting tourist sites along the way. If she's going to have a roadtrip, she might as well enjoy it, despite it being February and below freezing.
She throws her car into gear and splutters back onto the road. The radio crackles in and out of range and she twirls the dial until a clear station can be heard. A man is outlining his views on education. He's forceful and emphatic in the gentlest way she ever thought possible. She likes the sound of his voice.
Her skin tingles as she listens. He believes what he says. She likes what he says. She wants to believe it's possible.
The speech lasts only another minute and she learns his name. She knows where he is. What he's planning to do.
She pulls her car off the road and consults her map. Redraws her route. She feels good about this. She feels like she can help. She wants to help.
She smiles and hums a little as she jams her foot on the gas and speeds towards New Hampshire.
It's nothing at all, really. Just a little bit of hope.
Rating: Child
A/N: First West Wing fic in years, although it's been simmering for almost as long. Donna and her thoughts.
It's nothing at all, really.
No huge fight, no screaming match like so many times before, no arguing about money or lack of time together or housework left uncompleted. All the things you're supposed to fight over when you're in a relationship. They've fought too many times and now there's an uneasy truce.
She doesn't think she's happy anymore. She isn't happy. Sometimes she thinks he's been cheating on her and she asks him in those stupid moments of paranoia but he laughs her off.
How could he cheat on her? He never has time - between his residency and his nights out with the boys. You're being stupid, Donna.
Sometimes she wonders why she's stuck it out this long but there isn't that much more to get through. Everything will be fine once he's done, and he can pick where he wants to practice and the money won't be such an issue.
Her feet hurt.
It's nothing big, really. She wants to watch Letterman. She wants to sit on the sofa with her feet soaking in a mixing bowl from the kitchen, filled with hot water and some of the lavender gel her mother gave her for Christmas.
She wants to sit down and not talk to anyone, not even him. She's too tired.
He won't let her change the channel. There's a game on, but it's not really a game, it's a rehash of a game played last week; a game he went to with his brother while she worked twelve hours straight at the diner.
The remote flies across the room as she tries again to ask if she might, possibly, just watch her show for a couple minutes because there's-
Jeez, Donna, let me finish this in peace. I have to be on shift soon.
She loves him. She thinks she does. She thought she did. How can she love someone who treats her like this. Only, it's not that bad, he's under a lot of pressure and…
She sighs.
Donna, come on, I don't ask for much!
She hasn't even dipped her toes into the fragrant water but the mood is spoiled and she takes the bowl back to the kitchen sink and drains away her attempt at relaxation.
She gets a soda and sits back on the sofa.
He looks at the can in her hand and then at her face, with a smile. She lets him take a sip, then another, then he's drained it and she's left with an inch for herself. He slings an arm around her shoulders.
You're so good to me, babe. What would I do without you.
She loves him, of course. He can be so sweet when he's not tired. She can't remember when he wasn't tired. She has to love him. He needs her.
She wonders what she would do without him. Who she is without someone to take care of. She likes to be needed. She wants to be loved. She doesn't want to be taken for granted.
He leaves for the hospital. He kisses her goodbye on the cheek. He does that every time he leaves the house. It's routine.
She doesn't remember the last time he stared into her eyes like she was the only thing in his universe and it was nothing without her.
She sits on their bed and stares at herself in the dresser mirror. This isn't who she is. This isn't who she wants to be. She sits for hours, still and staring. Her face doesn't look right.
She's smart. Capable. She can do anything. She can be good at anything she wants. She knows it. She doesn't exactly know what it is she wants but she knows, she knows it's not this.
She gathers what she needs and turns the lights off. The front door is locked behind her. The windshield of her car has iced over. It's winter and cold, and why is she doing this now?
She scrapes everything down and climbs in, adjusting the vents to blast the hot engine air onto her hands to defrost them.
The clock on the dash reads four in the morning. Not exactly a midnight flit, but dramatic enough that it makes her smile. She likes to smile.
She doesn't know where she's going but hasn't that always been her problem? She's packed enough to hold her over until she figures it out and she will to figure it out.
The road ahead is dark, spotted briefly with yellow streetlights. Everyone's asleep and she's not. She's doing a stupid thing. What the hell is she doing?
She grips the steering wheel tightly and takes a couple steady, calming breaths. She knows what she's doing. She rests a hand on the gearstick and shifts into first.
Her toes flex in her boots. She hums a little. Nancy Sinatra fills her mind, telling her to start walking.
She drives instead.
Just before nine she's already out of Wisconsin. She finds a branch of her bank and closes her account, withdrawing everything. She wants a clean break. It's her money. She calls her parents, leaving a message when the machine clicks on.
She drives east, towards the sun. New York. She can make it there, she thinks. Frank, in her head, agrees.
The local radio signals fade and crackle into silence the further she drives and she turns the knob to find something new. The hourly news update starts with a missing cat. Local news first in the little towns she passes through. Then region, state, country.
She doesn't take the interstate, instead she takes her time driving. She's in no hurry. She expects he'll have called her parents by now and they'll have relayed the message. The sun is directly overhead and she's starving.
A sign for a local diner looms in the distance and she pulls into the lot, stomping the ice off her boots as she hurries inside. She orders a full breakfast, and a gallon of much needed coffee.
It's small and cozy, and the windows are frosted over, and the waitresses greet the customers with a familiarity born of years on the job.
As much as it warms her heart to see such camaraderie, and as much as she was just like them not one day ago, it all seems so foreign now. That isn't who she is. She doesn't want to be there in twenty years time.
Her breakfast arrives, the heavenly smell of bacon making her stomach rumble. The waitress gives her a paper as well, calling her honey as she refills the empty mug.
She doesn't think about anything in particular. The food fills the emptiness inside her. Less hunger; more yearning for something. She reads the comics first, then the entertainment, then leafs back to the headlines.
Outside, snow starts tumbling down.
She might make a roundabout pit stop in Buffalo. Her college RA lives there, and they were such good friends, even though she'd only made it through the first year and a bit. But an open invitation had been offered when they'd parted company years ago.
The warmth of the diner, combined with the food, the lack of sleep and the road-weariness, settles upon her in a haze of exhaustion.
She drops a couple notes on the table for a tip, and then adds a couple more. Waiting on someone hand and foot deserves more than is ever given in return.
She hurries back to her car, dusted with fresh snow, and drives to the nearest gas station. While the tank fills, she purchases a map of the eastern states and plans the trip to Buffalo.
Deciding a logical approach is called for, she huddles in her car and carefully marks out a route over the pages, then checks the index for interesting tourist sites along the way. If she's going to have a roadtrip, she might as well enjoy it, despite it being February and below freezing.
She throws her car into gear and splutters back onto the road. The radio crackles in and out of range and she twirls the dial until a clear station can be heard. A man is outlining his views on education. He's forceful and emphatic in the gentlest way she ever thought possible. She likes the sound of his voice.
Her skin tingles as she listens. He believes what he says. She likes what he says. She wants to believe it's possible.
The speech lasts only another minute and she learns his name. She knows where he is. What he's planning to do.
She pulls her car off the road and consults her map. Redraws her route. She feels good about this. She feels like she can help. She wants to help.
She smiles and hums a little as she jams her foot on the gas and speeds towards New Hampshire.
It's nothing at all, really. Just a little bit of hope.