Galatea Rising
folder
S through Z › West Wing
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
3
Views:
4,843
Reviews:
3
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
S through Z › West Wing
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
3
Views:
4,843
Reviews:
3
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own The West Wing, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Part II
She awoke with the disorientation that comes from having slept in a strange place, and as the last remnants of sleep dissipated, they were replaced by a growing panic as she remembered just how her night had been spent.
Her mouth was dry, her tongue clung to the roof of her mouth, and every movement made her head swim – a painful reminder against over imbibing. Wine hangovers were the worst.
Josh lay next to her – a line of spittle ran from his mouth to the pillow and his arm was slung over her chest. She searched frantically for a graceful exit, and found none. Carefully, she tested the weight of his arm, and in so doing also tested how soundly he slept.
He didn't stir, so she slid away, and grabbed a robe to cover herself with for the short walk from Josh's bedroom to the foyer where her discarded clothing lay.
She dressed slowly, her clothing hanging on her more heavily than they had the night before. Careful to lock the door behind her, she descended the staircase and hailed a cab.
In the solitude of her own apartment, she stood under the showerhead, struggling to get clean and wash away something she couldn't quite put her finger on. Memories of the night before flooded her, and she drew a deep breath at just how strong they were.
There'd been an animalism, a danger, a ferocity that she'd never before experienced in sex. They'd laid claim to one another. She didn't remember him biting her and yet the bruises and scratches were there on her shoulders. Her lips burned from the stubble on his face, and her legs ached as though she'd just run a marathon.
Her head throbbed in time with the pulsing of the showerhead, and before she knew it, she could taste bile rising in her throat. A subsequent wave of nausea overwhelmed her and she knelt and gripped the sides of her tub as the remnants of her dinner spooled down the drain.
She continued to clutch the sides of the tub and heave well after her stomach was empty. Tears joined the water that was tracking down her face, and she slumped, weak and exhausted at the back of her tub while the spray continued to assault her. Only after it began to run cold, did she rise and exit the shower.
She'd messed up, and now was determined to punish herself for it. Good girls didn’t sleep with their bosses – especially after getting drunk. She wasn't sure how she was going to face him – how she was going to be able to continue to work with him – what he must think of her now. She wanted to crawl back under her covers and hide, though she knew that wasn't the answer. Running away had never worked in the past.
She was going to be late, and yet she couldn't bring herself to rush. She combed the tangles out of her hair, and then stood in front of the closet studying her clothes with something bordering on disaffection. She settled finally on a blouse and skirt combination – only after studying herself in the mirror did she notice that the deep red blouse did not pair will with the pale blue skirt. She pulled a black skirt instead from the closet leaving the blue one in a small heap on the floor.
She slipped on her shoes, grabbed a coat, and went outside to hail another cab. She didn't feel like dealing with the tourists that would undoubtedly be swarming in the metro this morning and also coming down from an inaugural high.
* * * * *
She hadn't expected him to beat her into the office, and yet there he was. His eyes were red-rimmed, and his tie slightly askew, betraying the fact that his morning had been nearly as rough as hers.
"Good morning!" His voice was rough and she was surprised to find him right there helping her with her coat.
"Good morning," she responded in kind though she couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes.
Even without looking up, however, she could feel his eyes on her, and felt suddenly exposed – as naked as she had been the night before in his apartment. She was still woozy from the hangover, and unconsciously, she reached behind to steady herself against the credenza.
"Okay?" he asked, solicitously.
"Fine," she murmured. "Just . . . a little hungover."
"Yeah. . ." he answered and reached for her hand, running his thumb over her fingers. "Donna, about that . . ."
She cut him off sharply, and pulled her hand back. "It's okay; it won't happen again."
He was silent, and she realized he was waiting for her to say more. Josh, the master tactician, didn't know how to deal with her.
"It was a mistake. We were drunk," she continued, moving her hands about as though trying to bring some order to the jumbled orchestra of thoughts in her mind. "Neither of us really thought through what we were doing."
"That doesn’t mean –" Josh tried to take control of the conversation, but she was determined to set things to rights in her way.
"It doesn't have to mean anything," she said. "Sometimes things just are."
He looked as though she had just slapped him, and for a moment, she regretted the decision. Taking a deep breath she tried to push everything away – how good it felt when she realized that he wanted her as much as she wanted him, how good he looked in and out of his tuxedo, how his voice had cracked when he'd told her how amazing she looked – and focus only on the immediate problem. There was no way she could have a relationship with Joshua Lyman.
She turned her back on him and flipped open the large appointment book she kept on her desk. Thumbing through the pages, she began to read aloud, "You have an 11:30 meeting with Senator Stoiber's staff regarding funding for AIDs prevention in Africa; at 1:45 Congressman Carlson – the Washington State one, not the Minnesota one – is going to join you for a briefing on the DoJ proposal for a national ballistics database; at 3:00 . . ." she broke off when she felt his hand on her shoulder.
"Donna . . ." She turned to face him, and inhaled deeply in an attempt to quell the blush that was rising in her face. She met his eyes for the first time that morning, asking a question without saying a word. "It doesn't have to be like this."
"Doesn't it?" she asked. She was surprised to find tears springing to her eyes – convinced that she'd cried herself out in the shower that morning. "You're my boss; we work at the White House. How are we supposed to turn this into something workable?"
He was silent, and she continued for him. "It was a mistake, Josh – a lapse in judgment. We're both to blame. The only thing we can do is move on." She reached for his tie, and straightened it. "You're going to be late for your meeting with Senator Stoiber."
"Donna—"
She cut him off, "Josh, please. Use your head."
"You're a piece of work; you know that?" He was angry, and the level of his ire shocked her. "Why is it that you're willing to date hundreds of men who are wrong for you, but even after what happened last night you won't even listen to me?"
"It's hardly hundreds," she answered him, coldly. "And what makes you the judge on who's right and wrong, anyway?"
She reached behind him to pick up a file folder, which she handed him. "These are your notes – summary of current US intervention efforts on page 1, impact page 2, local efforts on page 3, and estimates on page 4. Review them in the cab on the way over."
She sat down, signaling an end to the conversation, and he picked up his jacket to leave. She turned her full attention to her email, and never saw him glance back.
Her mouth was dry, her tongue clung to the roof of her mouth, and every movement made her head swim – a painful reminder against over imbibing. Wine hangovers were the worst.
Josh lay next to her – a line of spittle ran from his mouth to the pillow and his arm was slung over her chest. She searched frantically for a graceful exit, and found none. Carefully, she tested the weight of his arm, and in so doing also tested how soundly he slept.
He didn't stir, so she slid away, and grabbed a robe to cover herself with for the short walk from Josh's bedroom to the foyer where her discarded clothing lay.
She dressed slowly, her clothing hanging on her more heavily than they had the night before. Careful to lock the door behind her, she descended the staircase and hailed a cab.
In the solitude of her own apartment, she stood under the showerhead, struggling to get clean and wash away something she couldn't quite put her finger on. Memories of the night before flooded her, and she drew a deep breath at just how strong they were.
There'd been an animalism, a danger, a ferocity that she'd never before experienced in sex. They'd laid claim to one another. She didn't remember him biting her and yet the bruises and scratches were there on her shoulders. Her lips burned from the stubble on his face, and her legs ached as though she'd just run a marathon.
Her head throbbed in time with the pulsing of the showerhead, and before she knew it, she could taste bile rising in her throat. A subsequent wave of nausea overwhelmed her and she knelt and gripped the sides of her tub as the remnants of her dinner spooled down the drain.
She continued to clutch the sides of the tub and heave well after her stomach was empty. Tears joined the water that was tracking down her face, and she slumped, weak and exhausted at the back of her tub while the spray continued to assault her. Only after it began to run cold, did she rise and exit the shower.
She'd messed up, and now was determined to punish herself for it. Good girls didn’t sleep with their bosses – especially after getting drunk. She wasn't sure how she was going to face him – how she was going to be able to continue to work with him – what he must think of her now. She wanted to crawl back under her covers and hide, though she knew that wasn't the answer. Running away had never worked in the past.
She was going to be late, and yet she couldn't bring herself to rush. She combed the tangles out of her hair, and then stood in front of the closet studying her clothes with something bordering on disaffection. She settled finally on a blouse and skirt combination – only after studying herself in the mirror did she notice that the deep red blouse did not pair will with the pale blue skirt. She pulled a black skirt instead from the closet leaving the blue one in a small heap on the floor.
She slipped on her shoes, grabbed a coat, and went outside to hail another cab. She didn't feel like dealing with the tourists that would undoubtedly be swarming in the metro this morning and also coming down from an inaugural high.
* * * * *
She hadn't expected him to beat her into the office, and yet there he was. His eyes were red-rimmed, and his tie slightly askew, betraying the fact that his morning had been nearly as rough as hers.
"Good morning!" His voice was rough and she was surprised to find him right there helping her with her coat.
"Good morning," she responded in kind though she couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes.
Even without looking up, however, she could feel his eyes on her, and felt suddenly exposed – as naked as she had been the night before in his apartment. She was still woozy from the hangover, and unconsciously, she reached behind to steady herself against the credenza.
"Okay?" he asked, solicitously.
"Fine," she murmured. "Just . . . a little hungover."
"Yeah. . ." he answered and reached for her hand, running his thumb over her fingers. "Donna, about that . . ."
She cut him off sharply, and pulled her hand back. "It's okay; it won't happen again."
He was silent, and she realized he was waiting for her to say more. Josh, the master tactician, didn't know how to deal with her.
"It was a mistake. We were drunk," she continued, moving her hands about as though trying to bring some order to the jumbled orchestra of thoughts in her mind. "Neither of us really thought through what we were doing."
"That doesn’t mean –" Josh tried to take control of the conversation, but she was determined to set things to rights in her way.
"It doesn't have to mean anything," she said. "Sometimes things just are."
He looked as though she had just slapped him, and for a moment, she regretted the decision. Taking a deep breath she tried to push everything away – how good it felt when she realized that he wanted her as much as she wanted him, how good he looked in and out of his tuxedo, how his voice had cracked when he'd told her how amazing she looked – and focus only on the immediate problem. There was no way she could have a relationship with Joshua Lyman.
She turned her back on him and flipped open the large appointment book she kept on her desk. Thumbing through the pages, she began to read aloud, "You have an 11:30 meeting with Senator Stoiber's staff regarding funding for AIDs prevention in Africa; at 1:45 Congressman Carlson – the Washington State one, not the Minnesota one – is going to join you for a briefing on the DoJ proposal for a national ballistics database; at 3:00 . . ." she broke off when she felt his hand on her shoulder.
"Donna . . ." She turned to face him, and inhaled deeply in an attempt to quell the blush that was rising in her face. She met his eyes for the first time that morning, asking a question without saying a word. "It doesn't have to be like this."
"Doesn't it?" she asked. She was surprised to find tears springing to her eyes – convinced that she'd cried herself out in the shower that morning. "You're my boss; we work at the White House. How are we supposed to turn this into something workable?"
He was silent, and she continued for him. "It was a mistake, Josh – a lapse in judgment. We're both to blame. The only thing we can do is move on." She reached for his tie, and straightened it. "You're going to be late for your meeting with Senator Stoiber."
"Donna—"
She cut him off, "Josh, please. Use your head."
"You're a piece of work; you know that?" He was angry, and the level of his ire shocked her. "Why is it that you're willing to date hundreds of men who are wrong for you, but even after what happened last night you won't even listen to me?"
"It's hardly hundreds," she answered him, coldly. "And what makes you the judge on who's right and wrong, anyway?"
She reached behind him to pick up a file folder, which she handed him. "These are your notes – summary of current US intervention efforts on page 1, impact page 2, local efforts on page 3, and estimates on page 4. Review them in the cab on the way over."
She sat down, signaling an end to the conversation, and he picked up his jacket to leave. She turned her full attention to her email, and never saw him glance back.