Drop in the Ocean by Dianora Rating: G Spoilers: ITSOTG Category: J/D friendship Summary: Josh returns to the campaign trail after his father's death. When I return to the campaign trail after my father's funeral, things are different. I show up at the Cleveland Ramada with a backpack slung over my shoulder and suitcase in hand and the way I am greeted ranges from CJ's tight hug and whispered condolences to Toby's gruff nod of acknowledgment. But the unifying factor in the way they all treat me is the circumspection, the fear that seeps from their pores, the worry that if they treat me too roughly I might break. As if my father's death has broken my bones, and not just my spirit. So I do what I always do: I overcompensate, being as brusque as possible for the next few days, brashly barking out campaign strategy and daring anyone to disagree with me. Even Toby only rises to the challenge once or twice, when I suggest something so egregious in his eyes that not even fear of an angry mourner can dissuade him from fighting back. It's a relief when he does it, a reminder that maybe someday my colleagues will go back to treating me the same way they always have, with all of the argumentative strife and affectionate mockery that might entail. One afternoon in Florida I find them having an ad buy meeting in Sam's room without me just so they can avoid any potential drama with yours truly. No broken people allowed. Acid builds in my throat as I splinter into pieces, blowing up at them in an impressive fireworks display that makes Sam wince and CJ pale, but deep down I can't really blame them for hiding from me. I've been hiding from myself for days. After my outburst there's no way Leo will relent and let me attend the meeting, so I find myself pacing angrily in the parking lot, just outside the front doors of the Marriott where we're staying. Mom used to warn Dad about wearing treads in the carpet from doing the same thing. My head hurts; I pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers and close my eyes. When I open them, Donna is standing there. Her hair is pulled back from her face and she's dressed in a sleeveless purple top and cropped khakis to cope with the Florida heat. I realize that I haven't seen her all day; she's probably been avoiding me. Smart girl. "I need you to take me somewhere," she says. I scrunch my eyebrows at her. "What?" She adjusts the strap of her purse on her shoulder and sunlight glints off the thin gold watch on her wrist. "I can't drive a stick shift." "What does that --" "One of the Secret Service guys -- you know, Daniel, the one who likes to flirt with me? -- is letting me borrow his car for a few minutes, but it's a stick shift, which means I can't drive it, which means I need you to drive for me." Speech over, she holds out the keys. It's easier to just give in, so I take the keys and fall into step behind her, letting her lead me to the car. "Are you making me take you somewhere to buy tampons?" I ask suspiciously. She glares at me over her shoulder. "Just checking," I say defensively. She stops in front of a black Pathfinder and waves at me to get in, so I do, starting the truck up and pulling out of the parking lot. Stale air conditioned air blows mustily from the vents. "Are you going to give me a hint?" I ask at the first traffic light. "Turn left," she says. We continue like that for a few minutes, Donna giving me block by block instructions as I pepper her with questions about our destination. Supermarket? Office supplies store? Nail salon? She wrinkles her nose each time, but I'm having too much fun teasing her, so I escalate my inquisition accordingly: Massage parlor? Bowling alley? Taxidermist? She laughs, but still doesn't give me an answer. Finally she has me pull into a mid-sized public parking lot filled with cars baking in the sun. "The beach?" I ask, realizing where we are. "Is this really the time for a tan, Donna? Don't you know we're running a presidential campaign -" "Get out of the car, Josh," she says, opening the door on her side. I shake my head but do as she says, feeling not for the first time like she's the actual boss in our relationship. She leads the way to the public beach access and soon enough we're standing on the beach, looking out at the ocean. There are people scattered here and there, lounging on towels, sleeping under umbrellas, running into the water and squealing with delight. It's an almost alien scene after days and days of nothing but hotels and highways, broken up only by lowering my father into the ground. "Why are we here?" I ask, looking over at her. The wind whips her blonde hair to and fro and her eyes squint against the bright afternoon sun. She gazes straight ahead at the water, doesn't look at me. She doesn't answer my question, either. "Before I started working for the Bartlet campaign, I'd never seen the ocean," she says instead. "Huh." It's a piece of information I never would have considered, growing up on a coast as I did. I don't know if I'd ever tell her this, but I think she was brave to leave Wisconsin, driving halfway across the country to take a chance on a new life. Even if she did give up for a while and go back to her jackass of a boyfriend. But I'm not supposed to make fun of her for that anymore. "What's that like?" I ask curiously. "I can't remember the first time I saw the ocean -- I was probably a baby. It's kind of just always been there, for me." "It's amazing," Donna says, crossing her arms over her chest and staring out at the waves. "You see it on TV, of course, see it in the movies. There are pictures in magazines and books. But it's not the same as seeing it in person, the way the horizon seems to drop off into nothingness, the sound that the waves make as they crest and fall, the feel of ground-up seashells beneath your feet." She looks at me, now, and her eyes are serious. Her teeth jut out slightly over her lower lip and out of nowhere I wonder why she's never had her overbite corrected, and then feel thankful that she didn't, because it suits her. "It gives you a new perspective," she continues. "It reminds you that you're part of a whole. That no matter how big your pain or your joy seems at any given moment, it's just a blip on the radar of the universe. The ocean was here before us, and it will be here after us, and in between all we can do is be a part of the cycle the best way we know how." And I realize why she made me come here. "Perspective," I echo. She nods. "Yeah." I walk toward the water's edge, feel her follow me after a moment's hesitation. The sand gives underneath my shoes and a small crab skitters out of my path. I stop short of the tide mark and take a deep breath, filling my lungs with salt air and blowing it back out. Donna comes up beside me and kicks off her sandals, digs her toes into the sand. "Nothing sounds better than the ocean," she says. "Yeah." I look at her out of the corner of the eye and realize something else: that somewhere along the way, Donna stopped being just my assistant and became a friend. The thought warms me, and I open my mouth to tell her, but then stop, knowing how stupid I would sound. It doesn't matter, anyway. She probably already knows. "I yelled at Leo and everybody today," I say. "I heard." I choke off a bitter laugh. "Great." "They're just trying to be considerate," Donna says. "It's hard to know how to act, what to say. They're trying." "I know." I scrub my hand through my hair and take another deep breath. "I guess I just wish they'd stop. Trying, I mean." "I know." We're both quiet for a moment, then she elbows me gently. "Hey, there's a snack stand a little ways up from here that sells ice cream cones," she says. "How do you know that?" I ask incredulously. She shrugs. "I know things." I can't help but grin. "So, the truth about why we're here is finally revealed," I tease. She grins back at me, playing along. "That's it. You've discovered my brilliant plan." "Okay, let's go." I wait for her to pick up her shoes, then start off in the direction of the snack stand, which I can see in the distance. "Vanilla or chocolate?" I ask. "Vanilla," she says promptly, no doubt knowing I'll be getting chocolate and assuming she can have some of mine. "And you're buying." I shake my head, feeling better than I have in days. "You know what I like about you, Donna Moss? Your reassuring predictability." "Oh really," she says, and there's a look in her eyes I haven't seen before, instantly proving me wrong. "Then how about this: whoever gets there last, buys." And with that she's off like a shot, bare feet kicking up sand in all directions. The ocean roars in my ears as I run after her. End.