NOTES:
Author: Yana
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Season 4 up to HN
Disclaimer: I have no claim on The West Wing or its characters.
Archive: Please ask.
AN: This is a sequel to The
Hour After, which is an immediate sequel to Stolen
Hour. You should probably be familiar with those to know where this
is coming from.
The plan--his secret, subtle, cunning plan to win Donna--was, generally speaking, not going well, and he had only himself to blame. He was man enough that he could acknowledge that now.
Now, standing here, with his pants around his ankles and the Senior Staff of the President of the United States openly staring at his red-on-white polka dot boxers, he could admit that several aspects of his secret, subtle, cunning plan had gone south like swallows leaving Capistrano. And his pants.
Circumstances had developed with astonishing rapidity. Hence, parts of his plan that had not yet been, well, fully laid out, shall we say, had nearly gone to pieces. And certain other parts of his plan which had been fully laid out and executed had gone so well that he’d exceeded his own expectations.
Which was why he was now modelling his underwear in the West Wing.
He tried to remind himself that things could have been worse; all of this could have happened while he’d been talking to Lily in the East Wing, where the First Lady’s predominantly female staff would have gotten the free show. Then Dr. Bartlet would have hauled him into her office and interrogated him about his health, his exercise regimen, and his eating habits. Or maybe, if he was fortunate, he’d only have gotten a lecture about harassment. He shut his eyes briefly. No, with his luck it would have been the health interrogation.
He took another precious second to wonder if there was anyone or anything else on the planet he could blame for the fact he hadn’t worn a belt today. No. No luck there either. He had gotten dressed alone, at home, with several minutes to spare. He just hadn’t thought he’d needed one.
He wondered whether he could blame the entire situation on Donna. After all, wasn’t one of the unwritten responsibilities in an assistant’s job description to take the fall for her boss’s screwups? He’d never shuffled blame onto her before: it was about time he started.
Unfortunately, she would no doubt point out that he’d been the one to stack those top bookshelves in his office, not her. She’d made him do it, insisting that he was taller than her when in fact they were practically the same height. At the time, he’d teased her about wanting to look up her skirt, then given in and climbed the step stool himself.
And he hadn’t called for Donna two minutes ago, when he’d decided he needed one of those big, heavy books. He’d climbed up to get it himself. It had just been unlucky that he’d slipped slightly and pulled the entire shelf down around him with a crash--and, he admitted, a yelp--that had sounded through the entire wing.
Sure, Donna had come running then, along with a lot of other people. He’d been so embarrassed, sitting amidst the pile of books and binders, that he’d scrambled to his feet and then bent over, picking them up one by one, not straightening to look at her standing at the open door until he had two arms full of reading material.
“I’m okay,” he’d said, finally looking up at her, a little breathless but nevertheless defiant. He might have even salvaged some of his pride at that point.
Except that right then, his trousers had begun to slip. Arms full, he’d wiggled surreptitiously, trying to readjust them. Donna had frowned at him.
Will had come running; being new, he didn’t realize that the crashes and the yelling were part of a normal day in the West Wing. CJ and Toby had wandered over at a slightly more relaxed pace, but were nonetheless peering into his office, looking for the source of the excitement.
“I’m okay,” he’d repeated, a bit irritably.
Then his pants had fallen around his ankles.
It was one of those good news-bad news situations. The good news was that the first part of his plan had been successfully implemented with stunningly fast and unexpected results. The bad news was that A) the good news was responsible for his current humiliation and B) he was a complete idiot.
He decided to go on the defensive. “A little privacy here?” he barked.
Snickering, the Senior Staff backed away from his door, only to be replaced by junior staffers who hadn’t heard his request to be left alone. One by one they all peered in, chuckled, took a look at the expression on his face, then departed hastily.
He looked around for some place to put the books he was holding, and finally decided to dump them unceremoniously on the floor again.
“Donna!”
“DONNA!!”
“DOOONN...”
“I’m coming, I’m coming.” She bustled in, not bothering to hide her amusement but thankfully closing the door behind her. “Here,” she said, handing him a belt.
He snatched it away and turned his back to her, intent on ending his humiliation and therefore completely missing her appreciative stare as he bent over to grab his pants from where they lay around his ankles.
Hauling them up, he turned to her as he buckled the belt and saw her start back slightly.
He frowned. “You weren’t checking me out, were you?”
“Get over yourself,” she snorted.
Deciding not to press the issue, he looked down at his new belt. “It doesn’t match,” he observed.
“Josh!” she said in disbelief.
“I’m just saying...”
“Fine.” She strode towards him and grabbed the waistband of his pants with one hand, her knuckles grazing his now flat stomach. With her other hand she started unbuckling the belt. “I’ll just return this one then, and you can...”
“Donna, no!” He grabbed both her wrists and tried desperately to ignore the fact that despite his current state of humiliation, she’d caused the first stirrings of an erection in under three seconds. He pulled her hands off him and spun around hastily, rebuckling with his back to her.
“What do you say, Josh?” she demanded, apparently oblivious to the effect she’d had on his cock.
“Colour’s fine, Donna.”
“You’re welcome.” She slammed the door to his office as she left.
He flopped down in his chair, put his head in his hands and sighed. There was always a price. Wasn’t that what the old gurus sitting on top of mountains said? In order for something to go right, something else had to go horribly wrong. It was all about balance. He and that guy Murphy were getting along really well right now.
He shut his eyes and tried to think of things he should be grateful for. Well, there was the fact that his exercise plan was apparently working. The guy Sam had recommended hadn’t commented on his requirements, simply asked what he needed, thought for a few moments, then started writing everything down. Josh had been following the exercise and eating regimen as well as he could in the two months since reelection, and apparently it was paying off. His arms and back were stronger. He still wasn’t lifting as much as Sam, but what he did lift felt good and solid and didn’t overwhelm him.
And, as had been demonstrated not only to himself but to the entire West Wing, the little paunch he’d been carrying was now non-existent. He was going to have to stock up on belts until he could get around to having his pants altered.
So that part of the plan had gone off without a hitch. If he ever had the opportunity to offer his body to Donna, he’d be able to do so without wincing. And now he was hopefully strong enough and fit enough to satisfy any highly specialized physical desires she might have.
If she had any.
God knew he certainly did.
So that part of the plan was up and running. The rest of it....like the part where he and Donna admitted their undying love and mutual lust to each other...well, the rest of it had pretty much gone tits up.
He sighed again and rubbed his face with his hands, then tried unsuccessfully to focus on the report in front of him. He should also be grateful, he told himself, that Donna hadn’t noticed the jolt of arousal he’d felt when she’d grabbed him. If she had, the game would’ve been over. Having her find out in such an obvious way that he wanted her would have been awkward, to say the least. Awkward wasn’t part of his secret, subtle, cunning plan.
He eyed the closed door for a moment before allowing his game face to drop for a few minutes. It would have been nice, though, if she had noticed his cock jumping a little, then cooed, ‘Oh, I can take care of that too...’ Not that he’d ever seen Donna coo over a grown man before, though she’d come close that time his mother had sent him shoes.
The cooing wasn’t required, he decided. It was just a nice touch.
It occurred to him that he would have been slapped with a briefing memo if CJ had been able to hear that last thought.
All right, he thought. No cooing. And no, there was no way she would ever spontaneously decide to ‘take care’ of that particular situation in his office, either. Though he could really go for a hand job right now. Or a blow job. Or, for that matter...
He stopped himself there. Hadn’t he already thought up too many deeply depraved fantasies which involved the full cooperation of his blonde assistant in his locked office? Hadn’t he already wished, too many times, that he’d insisted on a trade when they’d first started working together? A trade like maybe she wouldn’t get him coffee, but instead...maybe...occasionally...if she were in the mood...they’d adjourn to his office and she’d suck him off?
The current damaged state of his secret, subtle, cunning plan was apparently making him delusional.
He stared at the report he was reading and watched, fascinated, as the papers full of unemployment stats morphed into Donna’s spread thighs. Not that he knew what Donna’s bare thighs looked like, spread or otherwise. But what if, instead of the open folder on his desk, he’d had an open Donna?
He imagined her sitting on his desk in front of him, skirt hiked up to her waist so that all he needed to do was lean forward in his chair and taste her. Her stocking-clad legs would hook over his shoulders and she would arch into him, moaning, as he thrust his tongue into her opening. He’d stroke her again and again, letting his mouth roam over every inch of her tangy, Donna-scented sex while he gripped her smooth rounded ass with both hands.
He’d worship her until she came for him with a soft cry, her legs tightening reflexively around his head. Then, when her climax had subsided, he’d stand and coax her forward on the desk, then pull his cock out of his pants. She’d...no, not coo...she’d...moan. Moaning was allowed. She’d give a little moan of appreciation, take his cock in both hands, and stroke it until it was the perfect size for her.
Then she’d push him back down in his chair, straddle him, and put him inside her. His head would be at the perfect level to gaze at her breasts, and, knowing that, she’d unbutton her blouse and undo the front clasp of her bra to expose them. He’d be able to enjoy their movement as she bounced up and down on his cock, and he could take one or the other into his mouth at will.
He hoped Donna would like that; her choice of gowns for formal occasions had always accentuated the soft roundness of her perfect-sized breasts and he’d spent more time fantasizing about them than he cared to admit. As she rode him, he’d take time to pay attention to her nipples, to her delicate feather-soft skin, to the gentle weight of her breasts in his hands.
She’d be amazing to watch, rocking up and down on him, gripping him tightly as she increased her pace, her head flung back, her hair loose and cascading around her, her breasts bouncing, her mouth open and beckoning. He wouldn’t be able to hold out long. He’d reach down between them and caress her until she came again. As she collapsed against him, her inner walls convulsing around him, he’d finish himself with two or three deep thrusts up into her.
Yes, he was definitely delusional.
And possibly an idiot. He let his forehead hit the desk with a satisfying thunk. Now he really couldn’t concentrate on the unemployment stats because he had an erection. A big one.
Professional politician my ass, he snorted to himself. For the love of God, think of something to make it go down. Down, down, down. Like a rock heaved over the edge of a cliff. No, no cliffs. Deflate. Yes, deflate, like a flat tire. Sssss. Wait, no, because then you’d need to jack up the car to change it. No jacks.
But actually, that little train-wreck of thought seemed to work. He was now no longer aroused in any way, shape or form.
Unfortunately for the unemployment stats, they still looked unappealing. At least he had a couple more days with them. His secret, subtle, cunning plan was in more dire need of salvaging.
He’d considered, albeit so briefly that the thought might have been described as fleeting, that Donna might go into denial about their mutual attraction. Sure, they’d slept together, as in collapsing-with-exhaustion-on-the-same-couch slept, and woken up entwined like lovers. Sure, they’d almost kissed. But maybe it had taken that night for her to actually realize what was between them, and the new knowledge had scared her.
So he’d decided that if she did get antsy, or try to push him away, that he’d allay her fears gently, subtly, with tiny gestures and a few well-chosen words.
He’d also considered, in thoughts even more brief, that she might try dating someone else in the next four years, especially if he hadn’t yet arrived at the point in his secret, subtle, cunning plan where he made her realize she was meant to be with him for the rest of their natural lives.
This was one of the contingencies he hadn’t gotten around to conceiving a fully-developed plan of action for.
Sure, he’d left a scribbled note on the mental drawing board that said, ‘Don’t piss her off.’ He knew that he’d never reacted well to news of her boyfriends and that his reaction usually had led to an argument and/or a period of alienation. His secret, subtle, cunning plan did not call for any period of alienation whatsoever; it called for gentle, inexorable pressure, like flowing water wearing a rock smooth. So he knew that if she did start seeing someone, he shouldn’t immediately mock the guy. That would only make her shut him out.
That was why, when she asked him to talk to her newest gomer, he’d agreed. He’d been blindsided by the revelation that she’d met someone new so quickly, and had panicked, knowing that he didn’t have a full strategy worked out for that particular contingency. The only thing he could cling to were the words ‘Don’t piss her off’ flashing in big neon letters across his mind’s eye. So he’d done what she’d asked, telling himself that she’d go after the guy anyway and that this way he might have some chance of controlling the situation.
And after he’d done what she’d asked, he’d realized that the no-mocking strategy would keep the lines of communication open. Played right, he’d be able to rack up ‘friend’ points while at the same time spying on the competition, identifying the sap’s weaknesses in preparation for crushing him utterly.
God, he was even more of a genius than he’d thought.
Except that as it turned out, there was a slight flaw in his reasoning. The flaw was Lieutenant Commander Jack Reese, who was by no means an idiot. Which was good, he supposed, since the guy did work for the National Security Advisor. Unfortunately, in the alleged seven minutes of conversation they’d had together, Lieutenant Commander Jack Reese had come dangerously close to uncovering his secret, subtle, cunning plan and exposing it.
Add to that the fact that Lieutenant Commander Jack Reese had yet to expose any gomer-like qualities: He had the pull--and the resources--to give Donna a Christmas at the Inn at Little Washington. He treated her like a queen; Donna couldn’t stop talking about him. And before he’d gone ahead and swept her off her feet, he’d given Josh a chance to chase him off. You couldn’t ask for a more honourable, upstanding non-gomer for Donna.
Of course, the guy had been intending to vote Republican. That might have been a fault. But even then, he had been voting his conscience on issues, not on party lines. And in the end he’d been swayed by an honest, if not entirely reasonable, argument.
Damn.
He would have to flesh out a strategy for this situation very soon.
Suddenly he missed Sam. Not that he would have included Sam in his plans for Donna; Sam was too open and plain-dealing for that. But it would have been nice to kick back with a beer and talk about women with his friend. All of a sudden he felt very alone.
Maybe, if Sam lost, they could do that again. But the election was still over a month away and this situation with Jack needed to be cleared up sooner rather than later. He couldn’t simply bide his time and hope that things fizzled out between Jack and Donna.
Because he’d made an error. A small, critical error that he hadn’t adequately covered. And Donna had noticed and had asked him a direct question about it.
He’d had to make her miss her ride down to the Inn, and all he could see in his mind when he realized that was the big flashing sign that said, ‘Don’t piss her off’. He really didn’t want to. The plan didn’t call for pissing her off in any way, shape, or form. But as he tried to figure out how to explain to her, hoping desperately that he wouldn’t piss her off, the plan had been looming large in his mind and the words had just tumbled out:
“It’s not what it looks like.”
And she had asked him straight out what he'd meant. He hadn’t been able to come up with any answer, either for her or for himself, which did not involve the word ‘idiot’.
So, as he saw it, he had two problems, three if you counted the neglected unemployment stats still sitting on his desk, four if you counted the heap of books and binders on his office floor. Problem number one: Donna was deep in denial, and might not have realized the deep significance of their night together on the couch and their almost-kiss. Problem number two: His error might have given Donna the impression that he was jealous of Jack, and if she chose to extrapolate on that impression, she might come to the conclusion that he liked her.
He believed that it was far too soon in the grand scheme of his four-year, secret, subtle, cunning plan for her to figure that out. However, he was nothing if not flexible. If the time frame of the plan needed to be altered, so be it. Right now, though, he had to fully flesh out his Donna-dating-someone-not-him strategies.
Getting the guy transferred back to a submarine probably wasn’t an option.
His door opened and he looked up, startled. Donna poked her head in. “You have to be on the Hill.”
He checked his watch and looked up at her questioningly.
“Pereira,” she prompted him.
He shook himself. “Right.”
She grinned. “I have something for you.”
He looked at her suspiciously. “What?”
She tossed another belt at him, one that matched his suit. Surprised, he caught it and flashed her a dimple. “Thank you, Donna. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I couldn’t let my man go up to the Hill with a mismatched belt,” she said, smiling.
He smiled back, then waited for her to leave so that he could change. When she made no move to go, he frowned. Earlier he had been so anxious to get his pants back on that he hadn’t cared who had been in the room. This situation, however, was a little inappropriate.
The silence stretched in the room as she watched him expectantly. “What?” she said finally.
Denial, he thought. Remember, she probably doesn’t realize, and if she does, she’s in denial. “Would you close the door?” he asked.
“Oh, sorry.” She coloured a bit and turned to shut the door. From the inside.
He bit back a teasing remark and decided to let her watch. He unbuckled his belt and drew it off casually, as if he were in no particular hurry. He let it fall on the desk with a muted clunk and imagined that she jumped a bit at the sound. He threaded in the new one without looking, choosing to study her face instead. Her eyes were glued to his fingers, watching them as they deftly tightened and buckled the belt.
If nothing else, he thought, I now have an image of Donna staring at my groin.
Still staring at my groin.
Still staring.
“Donna?” This time she did jump.
“Yes?” She dragged her eyes to his face almost guiltily.
“What do I need for Pereira?”
She held out his backpack. “Here.”
“Thanks.” He scooped up the still-warm extra belt from his desk and dropped it into her waiting hands. “And thanks for this, too.”
“You’re welcome.”
He grabbed his coat. “Be back in an hour. You want anything?”
“Lunch?”
“Okay.” He walked out the door and was greeted by a chorus of wolf whistles and cheering. Laughing, he wiggled his ass briefly at the bullpen, then strode down the hall and out of the building in a good mood, knowing her eyes followed him as he went.
He’d come up with a strategy, he assured himself. And he’d do it soon.
THE END