Donna thinks of herself as a people person, but she doesn't have a lot of friends.

She did once, back in high school, but once she got to college her life quickly became consumed by Dr. Freeride, and after that she started working for the Bartlet campaign, and then the White House, all of which effectively killed her social life for the foreseeable future.

She has friends at work, of course, people she likes who like her back, people she gossips with and drinks with, people with whom she shares the highs and lows of their unique office.

But she isn't close to anyone, not really. Except for Josh. And for some reason he seems to be the one person she can't talk to anymore. Not about the movie offers, not about the reporters, and not about the one thing that she knows he is most qualified to discuss -- the dread that rises in her throat, the tears that burn her eyes at the most inappropriate of times. She just can't talk to him, at all, and has to admit that she hasn't even tried.

She's not sure why that is, but she knows that it bothers her. And she wishes it bothered Josh just a little bit more.

She's not completely stupid; she knows that if she were to go to Josh, to tell him that she needs his help and his counsel, that he would be there for her, would become the knight in shining armor he fancies himself to be. But she's tired of being the damsel in distress. She's uprooted his life enough over the past couple of months, and she can't help but wonder if he was passed over for Chief of Staff because of it. So she keeps her distance, lets him wrangle with Congress instead of with her emotional problems.

She's doing it for his sake, she tells herself, and sometimes she almost believes it. But there's also a small matter that conflicts with her seeming selflessness, which is the fact that all too many times over the past few weeks she's felt like punching him in the face.

That bothers her, too.

He's not the only one she feels like punching, but he's definitely the most frequent object of her rage, probably because no one can push her buttons quite like he can without even trying. She knows he's not doing that on purpose, either, but it doesn't stop her from wanting to pop him one.

She's not a violent person, never has been, and these dark thoughts scare her and piss her off all at once, leaving her even more unsettled. She knows she needs to talk to someone, anyone, about it, but can't do it, not yet. It's still all too fresh, too new. The scars haven't started to form, and she senses that she needs that layer of defense before she can pick at whatever lies beneath.

So she continues her deliberate emotional isolation, shutting out Josh, feeling herself give him dirty glances when he's not looking, as if it's somehow his fault for not reading her mind and knowing how she feels without her telling him. She can't decide whether she wants to hug him or slap him, so she does neither. Instead she goes home and listens to her answering machine messages, the multiple pleas from her parents to call them, the persistent queries from reporters who've managed to obtain her home phone number.

She sits on her couch and listens to the messages, and then deletes them. She turns on the television and watches mindless programming, the Food Network, pop culture pap on VH-1. She lets the inanity of it lull her into sleep.

When she wakes up in the morning, it starts all over again. And even when she's surrounded by people, she feels completely alone.

*****

Josh has spent the majority of his adult life trying to help people, even though he hates most of them.

People are generally problematic annoyances who are too stupid to help themselves, which is why Josh has put so much energy into putting measures in place to make sure the government will help them even when no one else will. He thinks of himself as an elitist, but an altruistic one. He wants to help people even if he's not entirely convinced they deserve it.

But the one person he wants to help the most suddenly doesn't seem to want him around any more.

Donna doesn't seem to want him around her, and so he doesn't know how to be when he is. He's torn between wanting to hold her close and shut out the rest of the world, and letting her stand on her own to be the brave person she's proved herself to be. He doesn't know whether to grab her and kiss her or set her free so she never has to lay eyes on him again. He's never been good at this sort of thing, has always needed to be directed, and Donna has not seen fit to helpfully drop water balloons on his head.

So basically, he's screwed.

He knows he's been making an ass of himself around her lately, and he wishes he could stop, but all the confusion and hesitation and desire to help seems to translate into "I am a jackass" every time he opens his mouth. He sees flowers on her desk and instead of asking her who they're from, in a casual, friendly manner, he flies into a jealous fit and acts like an idiot, sneaking a peek at the card when he thinks she's not looking. When he's caught, he can't even come up with a good excuse for his behavior (not that that's ever been his strong suit).

When he tries to be solicitous, she shoots him an angry look. When he tries to let her stand on her own two feet -- metaphorically and literally -- he gets an icy glare. He can't figure out whether she wants him to be her boss or her friend or her boyfriend. At this point he's willing to be any or all three, but the specter of Blarney Boy looms large and if Donna is sending him any signals about that particular situation, he sure as hell isn't receiving them. He also suspects that she blames herself for his not being promoted to Chief of Staff, and wishes he could tell her differently. But she's not speaking to him about it and he doesn't know how to broach the subject without looking like he's trying to forgive her for a mistake he doesn't think she made.

So when he gets home from work, he changes into sweats and goes back out for a run. He pounds the pavement, breathing hard, burning off frustrated energy. He keeps waiting for that exercise-induced euphoria he's heard about to kick in, but it never seems to happen.

The running doesn't clear his head, doesn't make it any more obvious to him how he can talk to the one person who's come to mean more to him than anyone else, the one person who pulls him in and then pushes him away. But the physical activity does make him tired, at least, and when he arrives back home, he falls easily into a mindless sleep before waking up the next morning, alone.

End.