Part 2
Disclaimers in Part 1.
Additional Spoilers: "The Portland Trip." Now, this part comes after
my "The Company of Women," but before "Downtime." I know, I know. I
could probably be slightly more confusing, but it would be hard.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I'm sitting in his office at ten o'clock on a Tuesday night because
that's what I do. We've been pulling these late nights all week, and
except for when they interrupted my dating schedule - okay, my one
date - I've barely noticed. Tell me that isn't disturbing. But it
hit me while I was showering this morning (have you ever noticed how
many things you think of in the shower?) that I've been uncommonly
fixated on Josh, that I've actually been spending more time in his
office than necessary, just to be with him - so much so that I
haven't minded working late. All right, now that's just terrifying
to me. The man has the power to make me work late every day and not
mind.
Okay, yes. We knew that before.
Just making sure you're still paying attention.
But whether I minded or not, this work schedule is seriously
beginning to catch up with me. I no longer wonder why Josh is always
either really excited or half groggy. I too have started living in
the caffeine cycle. And we're definitely on to groggy at the moment.
He's left me reading through briefs looking for a needle in a
haystack, and gone in search of some Communications underling that he
needs to kill. I'm pretty sure Toby gave him permission, as long as
he hides the body under Sam's desk and not his.
Okay, I'm really fighting this falling asleep at work thing now.
I've seen Josh do it far too many times to make it look like an
attractive coping option. And his couch is not terribly comfortable.
I'd wake up with a stiff neck and shoulders and just about
everything else. No. I will not fall asleep. I will - I will
continue reading these extraordinarily boring, dry, wordy briefs.
And they are pretty boring. Really boring. Dull. Obtuse.
Somnolent. Coma-inducing, in fact.
Oh, God. If I'm resorting to strings of synonyms I must be in
trouble.
The sound in the doorway makes me straighten up quickly, knocking a
pile off my lap. I dive for it and look up expecting to see Josh.
But it's not Josh. And God bless her, she brought me coffee.
"You look just this side of unconscious," she comments, sitting down
next to me.
I sip the coffee she brought gratefully and sigh. "He can only stay
a couple more hours, right? I mean, he does sleep somewhere other
than here?"
"You've had proof of that yourself," she responds. I nearly spit out
my coffee.
"What?"
Uh-oh, now she's looking at me funny. "You've been in his apartment.
You practically spent the summer there keeping the rest of us out."
Oh. Whew.
"What did you think I meant?" Oh, no. Her eyes are twinkling. I'm
in trouble again. Especially in view of our weekend "it's not that
way" conversation.
Well, best to be honest and casual. "I thought you were making
inappropriate suggestions about me and my boss." There, good. Keep
it businesslike. 'Cause really, at this point letting her know that
I discovered I'm harboring some sort of attachment to my boss while
watching him with her would not be a good plan.
I let my head fall back against the couch - where, I can hardly help
drawing the comparison, hers was that time last week. Good Lord, was
that really only last week?
We hear someone stumbling around in the bullpen, and CJ, who can see
out the door, yells, "Joshua, you're overworking your assistant. And
by the way, who honestly cares about the legal precedent for sedating
someone else's cows - are you honestly expecting this to become an
issue?" She should learn to stop asking questions like that.
Okay, pause. Last week we had an eye-opening lesson in Josh and
Affection, which was bittersweet, lovely, and strikingly painful.
Tonight's lesson we'll call What Happens When You Distract Josh. CJ
could first of all win an Emmy for her role as distracter - making a
personal comment and following it up with an involved political
question is the perfect way to send Josh's brain flying into the
clouds and ensure that he has no idea what the rest of him is doing.
And then we learn What Happens When You Distract Josh.
Obviously the part about overworking his assistant, while certainly
not a new suggestion, has worked its way into at least part of his
brain. This I can say with some degree of certainty, judging by his
behavior. And what is that behavior? As he steps into his office
but before he slides into his chair (which, incidentally, no longer
even thinks about wobbling, thank you) and starts arguing precedent
with CJ, he pats me on the head and says distractedly, "Sorry,
sweetheart."
Okay, what? What was that? Yes, we all heard correctly. Yes, Josh
- my boss, as well as, well, whatever - just used a term of
endearment. This sort of thing does not happen. I've been known to
call him "baby" playfully, but only as a sort of slang thing and
never seriously. He sounded - well, distracted, yes, but - serious.
Like he meant it. Oh, dear.
You know, I think it's worse that he was distracted when he said it.
Because that means he didn't consciously decide to tease me or try to
be nice or whatever - it means that whatever was in his mind or heart
or wherever just slipped out unguarded. And that means a lot of
things.
And meanwhile Josh and CJ are arguing about cows and I'm sitting here
probably with my mouth hanging open like a sea bass.
Right. Pull yourself together, Donnatella.
Since no one requires my assistance at the moment and I think I'll
die if I open those briefs again, I lean back into the couch and
close my eyes. This whole situation feels kind of surreal. I feel
like a kid napping in my dad's office on Take Your Daughter To Work
Day or something. I shouldn't. Heaven knows Josh sleeps here all
the time.
Oh, God. Could we erase that image, please?
You know, the one of me sleeping on the same couch that he sleeps on.
No, I mean it. Erase it. Please.
I must do a pretty good job of looking "this side of unconscious,"
because all of a sudden I notice that Josh and CJ have dropped their
voices. They're still fighting over whether anyone cares about
drugged cows, so I doubt it's for the sake of secrecy. They're
trying not to wake me up. Well, that feels kind of - nice, actually.
And then I must do a pretty good job of more than looking
unconscious, because the next thing I'm aware of is someone carefully
sliding the pile of briefs off my lap. I'm still in that sleep-haze
and I don't stir or open my eyes, but it sounds like CJ's gone. A
shift in the couch cushions indicates that someone has sat down next
to me. Damn. I should wake up. He's going to start going through
the things himself, and that will take hours, plus I'll feel bad
because that's my job. The briefs, I mean, not feeling bad for him.
Although I guess the jury's still out on that one, too. I should wake
up.
But I'm so tired still that I'm not even startled when a hand slips
gently under my neck, supporting my head while the rest of the arm
involved tries to lift my shoulders. What is he - Josh should not be
picking me up. He better be just shaking me awake because therapy
and weight training notwithstanding he should not be lifting me.
He's not planning on lifting me. Good. But he isn't waking me,
either. He's trying to shift me over to the middle of the couch. I
should wake up all the way and move, but I feel like I'm fighting
through twenty feet of water and can't break the surface. He'd have
to slap me to wake me up at this point.
But he doesn't know that, and he's trying very hard to move me
without jostling. He slips his other arm under my back and gathers
me carefully against his chest - which he should not be doing, but I
almost don't care - and then he does it. Good Lord, the man's trying
to kill me. He leans close to my ear and whispers, "Come on,
sweetheart, I'm just shifting you over a little here. You're going
to get a stiff neck if you stay there."
Yes, we all heard right again. And I know I should wake myself and
help him, but this is just too damned sweet and agonizing all at once
and I'm not willing to break it just yet.
And then he's obviously managed to get me where he wants me, because
my head settles back against the couch and his arms slip out from
under me and I'm cold where he was a moment ago, and it actually
hurts. I feel the couch shift and I know he's next to me again, and
I hear him pick up the pile of papers. And then, I can hardly
believe it, but his arm slides around my shoulders and he very
carefully pulls me closer to him, settling me in the crook of his arm
with my head on his shoulder, and he kisses my forehead before
starting to flip papers, and I think I might die.
No, I should definitely not wake up. I should stay right here, where
I can feel his warmth and breathe in not just his cologne but the
fresh-washed smell of his shirt fabric and feel his heart beating
near my ear. There is no way I'm moving right now.