More than once, Josh caught members of the campaign staff fumbling to minimize photos on their laptops.
Sooner or later, they would confess, “I just miss my sister.” Or parents. Or best friend. Or turtle, of all things.
The last photo he’d seen showed the Congressman waving to a crowd in Eugene. But Josh was never one for photographs. If he wanted to, he could spread photos all over his desk, his mantel. He had enough.
When he’d turned forty, his mother had sent him a gift, along with a box full of photos. Flimsy three-by-fives. Joanie, nose to nose with her short-lived calico. Preschool graduation. Josh himself with a tuft of cotton-ball hair blown back by the wind, racing to the mailbox on his first bike. Hundreds more, piled high in stacks.
His father’s portrait traveled with him, took up residence on his desk, in his carry-on, but it was the only one.
Donna had taken notice of it once, a few months into the first term.
Oh, I just love this. Just the perfect amount of angst and wanting. I love that he's taken notice to all the photos of people the campaigners miss (and the turtles, I loved the turtle mention!) and that Donna noticed the picture of his dad and how she started supplying him with other photos. Such a wonderfully Donna thing to do. And then Josh looking for her whenever Russel made the paper, such a Josh thing to do.
I just...I might have just recapped the whole thing. But I really loved it and that was supposed to be the point. Thank you for writing it for me!
Gah, this is so devastatingly lovely; it;s not even prose because it reads like poetry. Thanks for filling the giant Josh/Donna shaped hole in my heart *goes off to look for any NEW fic*
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(Set Season 6)
More than once, Josh caught members of the campaign staff fumbling to minimize photos on their laptops.
Sooner or later, they would confess, “I just miss my sister.” Or parents. Or best friend. Or turtle, of all things.
The last photo he’d seen showed the Congressman waving to a crowd in Eugene. But Josh was never one for photographs. If he wanted to, he could spread photos all over his desk, his mantel. He had enough.
When he’d turned forty, his mother had sent him a gift, along with a box full of photos. Flimsy three-by-fives. Joanie, nose to nose with her short-lived calico. Preschool graduation. Josh himself with a tuft of cotton-ball hair blown back by the wind, racing to the mailbox on his first bike. Hundreds more, piled high in stacks.
His father’s portrait traveled with him, took up residence on his desk, in his carry-on, but it was the only one.
Donna had taken notice of it once, a few months into the first term.
“Who’s that? Your grandfather ( ... )
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B) Crying because you're writing more Josh/Donna.
C) Crying.
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I just...I might have just recapped the whole thing. But I really loved it and that was supposed to be the point. Thank you for writing it for me!
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