Author Note: This story is prequel to my first WW fanfic "This Rocky Path", and it's told from Donna's POV. Also, this story was started the day "Noel" aired - but before I actually got to see it. I swear.

Rating: Um....PG-13 for graphic images.

Archive: Take it if you want it just let me know where you put it.

Synopsis: Post-Noel Donna angst. Donna has a belated reaction, too.

Spoilers: ITSo2G, vague Portland Trip. Lots of Noel.

UNDER CONTROL

By Lacy

I’m sitting at my desk, my fingers flying on the keyboard, typing a memo for Josh when it happens. I don’t even know what started it. Maybe it was the smell.

It must have been my imagination because I don’t know why the smell of antiseptic and alcohol would be present in the West Wing of the White House. It shouldn’t be there. There’s no reason for it to be there.

But, for a moment, that’s all I can smell. Isopropyl alcohol. Then I taste bile in the back of my throat. I haven’t eaten anything since dinner last night, which is a good thing. It keeps me from vomiting right there in front of everyone in the bullpen.

For just a second, I’m afraid to move for fear that it will spark a chain of events, which will culminate in my own body turning against me. Unexpected beads of perspiration pop up on my forehead.

"Donna, do you know where I can get…?" I can hear Ginger’s voice, but she seems so distant, like at the end of a tunnel. "Donna?" she stops. "Are you okay?"

"I can’t–" And then we’re off to the races. I cover my mouth with my hand. "Oh, God!" I’m making a mad dash to the ladies’ room, praying I don’t humiliate myself in front of the staff.

I make it to the restroom just in time and throw open the stall door. I’m simultaneously praying that there's no one else there to hear me throw up in the White House bathroom. I throw myself at the toilet bowl just an instant before this morning’s coffee decides to make an encore.

I can’t breathe through the gagging, and I’m desperately hoping that I can just ride this out until my body has finished betraying me. Involuntary tears spring to my eyes, blurring my vision, and I have to close my eyes to keep them from stinging. My abdomen is cramping in its attempt to reject any and all contents of my stomach.

Every time I do this, I hope that it’s the last time. Yeah, you heard me right. Every time I do this.

If ever it was something I could control, it has ceased being that. My body’s decided, against my will, that it needs to purge itself once a day. What upsets me most is that this is the first time it’s happened in the White House. The first time anyone has witnessed this uncontrollable horror that has become my life.

At first, when this all started two weeks ago, I thought it was a one-time thing. Maybe something I ate. Clearly, that is not the case.

I open my eyes after the nausea passes. I try not to look into the bowl, but for some reason I’m unable to stop myself. What I see there terrifies me in a way that I have never been terrified before.

Blood. My blood. There’s a lot of it.

The tears that earlier were a byproduct of my body’s betrayal, have now become earnest. Despite my blurring vision I can’t take my eyes off of the blood in the toilet bowl. I hear the bathroom door open and out of the basic protective instinct that says ‘no one can know about this’, my hand pumps the toilet handle and I watch as my blood is flushed away. Problem solved.

"Donna?" It’s Ginger again.

"Uh huh?" I say, quickly wiping my mouth before I drag myself to my feet. My knees are shaking. Everything is shaking. I turn to exit the stall on unsure legs.

"Are you okay?" Her brow is wrinkled with concern.

"Sure. It’s nothing. I must’ve had bad cream cheese on my bagel this morning." Now, I’m lying to her. I am lying to this wonderful friend who has nothing but concern for my health and well being.

"You’re sure?" she pushes.

"You bet," I nod.

"I’m only asking because I’ve noticed that you’ve been looking a little peaked lately."

People have noticed? God, I thought I’d managed to keep it under control.

"Must be something going around." I’m trying to deflect this. This isn’t my problem. Doesn’t everyone need to vomit at least once a day?

I turn the water on in the sink and fill my cupped hand. I transfer some of the water to my mouth and quickly gargle and spit.

"Right," she says, but I can tell she isn’t buying that line. "Because, you know...if you need someone to talk to…."

"Of course, Ginger. I know."

She smiles softly, and I know I must be looking at her with an expression of confusion. "Are you pregnant, Donna?"

Are you crazy? I think. The look on her face suggests that any possible pregnancy on my part would be a good thing. As if I could handle a baby in my screwed-up life right now. At this point, I don’t know if I ever could. Ginger wants to have babies, though, so she’s projecting her own emotional needs onto me.

"No," I say, trying to laugh it off. "I’m not pregnant, Ginger. Like I said…bad cream cheese."

"All right," she nods.

I’m through with this conversation and I head for the door. I have to get back to my desk.

"Donna, Josh was looking for you."

Great! Just when you think your day can’t get any worse. "Did you tell him where I went?" I inquire, but we both know what I’m really asking is ‘Did you tell him I was in the bathroom throwing up?"

"I told him you had a take a restroom break. Those exact words."

I open the bathroom door, but I turn before leaving and say, "Thanks, Ginger."

"You’re welcome, Donna. Just remember what I said earlier, okay?" She decides it must be time to go back to her job. I hold the door open for her as she passes.

"I’ll remember. Thanks, again." I can’t seem to look her in the eye.

Standing in front of the bathroom door, I take a moment to collect myself. I get a drink of water from the fountain, hoping that my stomach won’t react strangely to it.

This is one of those times when I have to give myself a quick little mental pep talk.

C’mon, Donna, you can handle this. You’ll just have to be a little stronger. This is the White House, Donnatella Moss! There’s no time for personal problems. Your job is to do your job. You can take control of this, starting right here, right now. You have to take control of this -- because no one can know. Least of all, your boss — who has enough to worry about without thinking that his assistant is going over the edge. It’s your job to make sure he has nothing to worry about. Be stronger, Donna. Never let ‘em see you sweat. Just relax, your life is NOT spinning out of control.

"Donna!" Josh spies me as I am returning to my desk.

"The shouting, Josh." I say. "It’s got to stop."

"Well, I tried to send out psychic messages to you, but apparently it wasn’t working."

He’s trying to provoke me but I’m just not in the mood right now. Not after emptying the contents of my stomach into the toilet bowl. My knees are still quivering slightly. I notice that my hands are shaking, so I hide them behind my back.

"What do you need, Josh?"

"The thing for Senate Oversight."

"The memo?"

"Yeah," he says. "Is it done, yet?"

"Not quite," I answer. Damn! Why does he need it now? His meeting with Senator Hawkins isn’t for another four hours.

"Well, are you gonna get it done on time?"

"Your meeting isn’t for another four hours, Josh. It’s under control."

"Well, I just wanted to be sure that you–"

"I’ve got it under control," I snap. I’ve snapped at my boss. He’s looking at me like I just killed his puppy. I take a deep breath and it burns my lungs. "I’m sorry, Josh," I say, but the apology burns even worse.

"I didn’t mean to imply that–"

"It’s fine, Josh."

"Okay."

"Now go away, Deputy Downer. I’ve got work to do. I’m very busy with the making you look good, and all."

"I can see that," He takes one last look at me. He’s searching for something, but I don’t think he can see it. He can’t see that deep inside of me — I won’t allow that.

I glance up at him, and turn the corners of my mouth into a smile, hoping that will appease him long enough for him to go away. ‘Go away, Josh,’ the voice inside my head screams. It’s so draining to not let him see me.

I avoid him now, more often than not. I’m wrapped up in my work — his work. I get it all done in record time. I anticipate his every need. The less he has to ask of me, the better I’m doing my job. That’s how I read it, anyway. If he has to ask, then I’ve failed him. I’ve just failed him. While I was self-indulgently vomiting in the bathroom, he needed the Oversight memo.

A moment later, my fingers are again flying across the keyboard, as though I’d never been interrupted. ‘That’s right,’ a comforting voice inside my head says, "nothing happened. Everything is just fine." The only time my hands don’t shake is when I’m typing.

But the whole time I’m transcribing the information I’d researched into a neat memo for Josh, I’m thinking about him. In the last few weeks the old Josh had begun to resurface. He smiles more now, and gets frustrated less. While he sometimes startles at loud noises, he no longer denies the reasons why. He’s able to shake it off without it becoming an issue. His eyes don’t glaze over anymore, and he doesn’t insult me with cruelty. For a while there he was infecting the entire White House with his pain, though he wasn’t aware of it. I wasn’t even aware of it until the ranting began. He said things — about me — that really, really hurt. I know he didn’t mean to, he was just hurting. He’s doing better now, but I can’t forget the things he said. Occasionally, at the most inopportune times, the words play themselves over and over in my head.

And I think — if I could just be better. If I could just make it to the end of the day without antagonizing him, I’ll be okay. If I could just make sure he has everything he needs.

When he was…unwell, I could feel his rage boiling just beneath the surface. It scared me. He scared me. I tried to pretend that he was the same old Josh by alternately stroking his ego or shooting him down.

God. Bad choice of words.

Anyway, my timing was never right. My uncomfortable attempts at witty repartee only seemed to frustrate him. He didn’t have time for it anymore. His nonverbal message was loud and clear -- no more messing around. I tried to remember all the sweet things he’d said to me over the years. I tried to remember that we had chemistry. I tried to tell myself that we made a good team. But I couldn’t even convince myself.

I came to the realization that, as it turned out, he didn’t need me as much as I needed him. Not as a person anyway. Josh needed things to get done on time. He needed things to get done correctly and efficiently. My emotional attachment to him was only making him worse.

So, I’ve pushed it deep down inside of me. I’m the assistant to the White House Deputy Chief of Staff. It’s my job to see that he has everything he needs to perform his job to the best of his abilities. That’s my job description. My job description does not include things like providing witty commentary, or getting him to explain, in detail, the latest political machinations. Research, typing, filing, schedule-keeping, expense reporting, errand-running — that’s my job description. That’s who I’ve become.

I concentrate on completing the memo. There are a hundred things I need to do before he asks for them. I know he’s going to want to meet with the new guy in Defense Spending. I’ll have to set up that meeting. Lunch, maybe. I need to remind him that he has an appointment with his therapist tonight. He needs to be prepped on the Medical Childcare bill.

I type the last few words at the end of the memo, carefully placing a signature block for Josh’s name and title. I hit the print icon, and listen to the whir of the printer as the document spools. I turn in my chair and flip open Josh’s appointment book. I have neatly printed his scheduled appointments for the next three months. Even Joshua would not find fault with my handwriting. I have taken to writing his messages in this manner -- with all of the technique of a first grade teacher. I see that he has the next forty-five minutes free. He must be hungry by now. As soon as the memo is printed and placed in his hands, I’ll run down to the Mess and pick up a hamburger and fries for him.

See? I have everything under control.


TBC