The usual disclaimers:
Not mine, except the made-up people what add texture to my made-up
stories.
Spoilers: It's all fair game. All of it. But I suspect I've moved well into AU
territory by now.
Summary: What happens, after the story ends.
Rating: PG
Archive: Sure. Just let me know where so's I can visit.
Note: This is the twentieth, and final, installment in the "Crash into Me"
series wherein our favorite non-couple gradually became a couple. The
previous installments are:
"Best Served Cold" "St. Lawrence's Tears"
"There's Something About Robert" "Coincidences"
"Sweet Dreams & Flying Machines" "Between a Man and a Woman"
"Inside Me, The Time Moves" "Something Good Is Going to Happen"
"Limbo" "When the Stars Appear"
"Just Another Day" "How We Became Us"
"A Little Warm in My Heart" "A Moment That'll Never Happen"
"For All My Days Remaining" "Thunder in Our Hearts"
"Holding Out, Reaching In" "The Space We Fill"
"My Ability to Function"
--------------------------------------------------------------
Tied up and twisted, the way I'd like to be
For you, for me, come crash into me
-- Dave Matthews Band, "Crash Into Me"
"Epilogue" (1/1)
NOVEMBER [a year and change later]
-----------------------------------
Donna is a huge sucker for movies that have epilogues. She can be
ambivalent about a movie, but the minute a screen rolls by telling the
viewer what happened after the story stopped, she'll declare how much
she liked it.
Consider, if you will, the great comedy classic "Animal House." She sat
through it patiently, only gave me an incredulous stare once or twice
when I started laughing so hard I cried, and looked unimpressed during the
parade scene. But the minute we found out what happened afterward, she
announced her intention to sit through that movie with me any time.
"You didn't think it was that funny," I told her.
"I got distracted," she counters. "Otter looks like a very young John
Hoynes."
"You're kidding, right? Or giving in to some deep-seated desire to see him
get smacked into the middle of next week?"
"I think that's *your* subconscious talking, Josh. Otter is a younger
Hoynes."
"Yeah, but it's Senator Blutarsky in the movie."
"I saw what I saw. Let me know when you want to watch it again."
"Why?"
Donna got quiet for a moment, then admitted "It's the epilogue. I like
knowing what happens after the story ends. I like to think of the
characters continuing even after the rest of us have already finished their
story."
I had no good answer for that, so I only pulled her tighter into my side,
kissed the top of her head and made her re-watch the part where Kevin
Bacon gets trampled by a mob. Then we re-watched the epilogue for good
measure.
When you live with someone, you learn that they like watching movies with
epilogues. You also learn that they think a pint of Cherry Garcia is a
balanced meal, and hold strong opinions on whether or not one drinks red
wine or white with ice cream. You learn that they possess -- and use -- a
vast collection of refrigerator magnets to keep their life in order, and that
they have a deep, sentimental attachment to the eight hundred tubes of
lipstick currently occupying what used to be an empty bathroom drawer.
You learn that when you crawl into bed after an eighteen-hour day and
they turn to you in their sleep, instinctively wrapping themselves around
you, your heart feels as though it will burst with joy despite the fact that
you're bone-tired.
You learn that they are so tangled in your life that you can't imagine living
without them, and you don't want to try.
* * * * *
Eight months ago, Leo suffered a heart attack; for the six weeks following, I
was out of my mind with overwork and worry. He's back now, killer
instincts and cranky temperament intact, but working fewer hours. I have
more to do, and less time to do it; on the nights and weekends when it
looks like I'm not going to be home, Donna comes into the office and
studies as I work. It's not the same as having her work with me, but it beats
not having her there at all.
Sam and Mallory got engaged on the Fourth of July. They're currently
bickering over the merits of a large wedding versus a small one; who wants
what type of wedding varies from argument to argument. The only thing
they can agree on, however, is that it's not enough for them to occupy
the seven levels of wedding-planning hell alone; they want me to
experience it as well. I can't say I'm entirely averse to the idea.
Toby's long gone. Following a blowup over the contents of the most recent
State of the Union address, he left the White House to go work as the
communications director for Amnesty International's American office. He's
in Manhattan, but calls frequently to tell me how much better the food is
in civilian life, and to chide me on not doing more for penal reform in
America.
CJ flies frequently to New York City, sometimes only for the night.
Although she assures me that our red-hot love affair will never be over, I'm
pretty sure whatever's going on with Toby is the real deal.
After Leo's heart attack, the President began looking a little frailer and a
lot older. He and I talk alone more. I sometimes get the feeling that I'm
standing in for Leo; I sometimes get the feeling he and Leo are grooming
me for whatever's next. The President has recently joined Sam in ribbing
me about marrying Donna. The last time he started, I told him, "I already
plan on spending the rest of my life with her. It's not going to take an
Executive Order, sir."
The President smiled then, and told me to be sure to fill Donna in on the
news sometime.
====================================================
Moving in with someone is always the litmus test for long-term
compatibility. I learned that while Josh likes to sing in the shower, he's not
thrilled about sharing the space with the assorted toiletries I need.
"Donna, what did you do to the bathroom?"
"I moved my stuff in."
"You have more different shampoos than any four other normal people
combined. And why have we stocked Johnson & Johnson's entire first-aid
product catalog in the cabinet?"
"You weren't even using the bathroom cabinet," I argued.
"It's so nice to know that your habit of selective listening wasn't just a
reflection of my management skills," Josh muses.
"I'm pointing out why I organized the bathroom."
"Donna, you put in these wire things!"
"They're called shower caddies. Now everything's organized."
"Only you would organize a bathroom," he snorted. "It's a *bathroom*."
"I feel uncomfortable moving into your territory," I said.
"So you have to annex the bathroom?"
"I have to mark it as mine too."
"You couldn't have put up a sign?"
"Many members of the animal kingdom mark their territory through
urination," I replied.
Josh looked thoughtful for a moment, then mused, "Well, it *almost* applies
in this case ..."
Then I kissed him, and we established that kissing is definitely the best way
to end nascent domestic disputes. And when I finally got around to
organizing the closet so I could hang my clothes in it too, he didn't even
comment.
When you live with someone, you learn that they're fine with organization
so long as they understand why it's happening. You learn that they prefer
to store batteries in the refrigerator, and that they see nothing wrong
with eating a meal standing up next to the sink.
You also learn they're a cuddler. Josh has always been very physically
demonstrative -- something that I greatly enjoy -- but I had no idea that
he'd be so affectionate. Josh won't enter or leave a room I'm in without
kissing me hello and goodbye.
"I'm making up for lost time," he tells me sometimes.
"We've been sharing an apartment for a year and a half and you still think
you've got making up to to?" I always reply.
"Absolutely," he confirms, then kisses me again.
He puts his head in my lap and watches C-SPAN at midnight when he's
winding down from work; he stares at me when I'm doing something as
basic as studying for a test. It amazes me that I live with someone who pays
this much attention to loving me. It makes me fearless about loving him
back.
It's funny -- I feel like I can do anything, so long as Josh is there. There are
hundreds of things tying us to one another, and those bonds give me
everything I need to feel free.
* * * * *
Margaret, Cathy and I still get together for drinks regularly. Carol joins us
on the nights she's not giving a press briefing for CJ. It's hard to coordinate
all our schedules; even though I don't work at the White House anymore,
I'm still tied to Josh's work patterns. And now that Margaret's dating one of
Hoynes' Secret Service guys, it's difficult to find time when all of us are
free.
I got into the honors thesis program in the government department, but I
also added an art major. I'll be interning at the Smithsonian this summer.
Now that Leo's cutting back, Josh is working harder. One of the ways he
adjusted was by giving me a bookshelf in his office; I now study there more
than I do at home.
Gracie still calls whenever she has a question about government. Last time,
Josh explained the ins and outs of Seward's Folly to her before I realized
who it was. Cecelia keeps growing -- which, as Lucy's so fond of pointing
out -- is what kids do best. Tom's offered to host Christmas this year, but
we're still not certain if we're going.
Cindy and Robert settled in Marin County, California and ended up joining a
special-effects company that was just starting. The week after their
company was bought by ILM, they flew the Stray Cat Dinner club out to Las
Vegas and surprised absolutely nobody by inviting us along when they
exchanged vows at the Little White Chapel later that night.
To quote Josh, who watched while Cathy and I stood up for them, "the
bride wore the latest in post-apocalyptic combat gear, and the maid of
honor was absolutely radiant. Best wedding I've attended so far."
Later, I caught him eyeing the Chapel of the West with a speculative eye.
====================================================
Donna and I are cooking Thanksgiving together this year. She'd probably
amend that to "Donna is cooking most of Thanksgiving," but I insist that
procuring a pumpkin pie is a vital task in composing the overall meal.
Then, I figure we can throw away the dishes and collapse on the couch in
a turkey coma. We might watch football, we might talk about what's next.
"Are you sure you just want it to be the two of us?" Donna asks anxiously
on the Sunday before. "Don't you want to invite friends? Family?"
"That's why you're there," I assure her, then move on to the infinitely more
relevant activity of demonstrating how friendly I'm feeling right now.
Afterward, in the pleasant, wrung-out moments before drifting off to sleep,
I begin plotting how we can become a family of our own.
The Wednesday before Thanksgiving, I watch CJ try not to cry when the
unpardoned turkey gets taken out back, presumably to be given a tiny
cigarette and blindfold before getting executed in the line of national
duty. Then I make sure Leo and the President don't need anything before
slipping off and running an errand for dinner the next day.
On Wednesday night, Donna begins soaking a turkey in brine and I learn
much more than I thought possible about the perils of overchecking the
turkey when it's roasting.
On Thursday morning, I wake up alone. For a moment, I'm profoundly
disoriented, then I hear the mixer in the kitchen and I realize Donna's
started cooking already. Our apartment smells fantastic, and I grin as I
think about how settled I feel. I wonder if my dad felt this way when he
woke up on Thanksgiving; I assume I'll have the rest of my life to answer
that question.
Thursday afternoon, Donna rejects my suggestion to just throw out the
dirty dishes, but warmly receives the idea of sacking out on the couch and
watching football. We both promptly pass out.
When we wake up that evening, I bring Donna her coat and tell her we're
going to look at the stars.
"Outside and everything," she comments wryly. I check my coat pockets
before we leave. We drive the familiar route, lamenting how infrequently
we've come out here over the past year.
When we get out of the car, my heart is pounding so hard, I can barely
keep my hands still. Fortunately, Donna attributes my shaking hands to cold
and promptly wraps her gloved fingers around mine. We lean against the
car and look at the stars in silence for a while, until I remember that she
will always be what's next. I only have to ask.
My hands stop shaking and I untangle my fingers from Donna's. I pull out the
box in my pocket and open it, taking out the delicate gold chain and its
one small charm. The diamonds set in the lacy gold star gleam under the
moonlight.
"It's not a ring," I say, fastening the bracelet around her wrist, "because I
wanted you to pick that out with me, if you'll do me the honor of marrying
me."
Donna spins around and I reflexively lean back to avoid getting a bump on
the nose.
"You're asking me to marry you," she states, clearly stunned.
"I can do one knee, if you want," I offer, then move apart to do so.
"Oh, no! No! The knee, I mean. Everything else, yes. I'll marry you." Donna
amends hastily. Thank God; the cold has been hard on my knees lately. And
thank God: Donna's going to marry me.
We kiss, which seems to be the thing to do when you just get engaged,
and then I'm so overwhelmed by what we're doing -- by what we've done,
how we've become friends and lovers, and what we've shared along the way
-- that I just blurt out, "You know, you're the best thing in my life. You're
as constant as the stars."
"I believe the words were, 'forever fixed in my firmament,' Joshua," Donna
teases, but she's smiling radiantly as she speaks.
"Forever fixed in my firmament, Donnatella," I reply.
And that's it. We get engaged out under the stars, on a crisp night where
every time I look up, I see Donna smiling.
====================================================
We got engaged. For some reason, everyone we tell seems to think it's a
really big deal. I don't, not really. A lot of people talk about the
engagement as this period where you're preparing to spend the rest of
your life with someone else, and that absolutely does not apply to me and
Josh. We're not preparing to spend the rest of our lives together, because
we've already been doing it, even when we didn't realize we were doing so.
We're currently negotiating the wedding -- me and Josh versus everyone
else who wants to see us tie the knot. I like the idea of eloping, and so
does Josh, but everyone else seemed to agree with Sam when he said,
"We've already seen how long it took you two to come to your senses. I
think we all deserve some sort of dramatic climax."
I turned bright red and Sam quickly gulped, "poor choice of words." Josh
had a field day with the "dramatic climax" phrase for days afterward.
So we know we're getting married. But as for what happens next?
We don't know what's going to happen after I graduate.
We don't know what's going to happen in two years when President
Bartlett wraps up his second term.
What we do know is that things just happen. Sometimes they're terrible,
and sometimes they're wonderful, but you need to handle them all the
same way: by just living, and by holding on to the people you've tied into
your life.
Everytime I need a reminder, I wander by Josh, wrap an arm around him,
and murmur, "let's go look at the stars."
"Forever fixed in my firmament, Donnatella," he replies.
"Forever fixed in my firmament, Joshua."
And together, we navigate whatever comes next.
*FIN*