Title: Numb
Author: A.j.
Rating: NC-17!
Spoilers:  Up to ‘King Corn’, although nothing specific.  Speculation future 
fic ahead, children.
Notes: Again, a huge *huge* thank you to Amanda, who stayed up to 4a.m. with 
chants of me going “IT’S ALMOST DONE!!!” and doing a great insta-beta. Oh, 
and again, a big yay to Portishead and their song “Numb”.

Summary: “I can't understand myself anymore, ‘cause I'm still feeling lonely, 
feeling so unholy.”

***

They meet in a bar in Tucson.  It sounds like the beginning of a joke, but 
neither of them is laughing.

He is the last person in the world she expected to see when she walked into 
the crappy bar attached to her motel.  It’s just after two a.m., and she’s 
too wired from the road and caffeine and life to just pass out for a few 
uninterrupted hours of shuteye.  So she figured she'd grab a few beers, eat 
some bar nuts, and go back to her room.

But Josh Lyman is sitting in her crappy bar on her shitty road trip to hell, 
and the universe is too excited about screwing her to stop her from sitting 
down next to him.  Strangely, she’s not very surprised.

"Crazy seeing you here," she mumbles before dropping onto the stool to his 
left and motioning for the bartender.  They're the first words she's spoken 
to this man in more than eight months.  She'd even sent him a bland, flowered 
sympathy card when she'd read his mother's death announcement in the Post.

She's perfectly aware how horrible that was of her.  If nothing else, she’d 
owed his mother more than that.  But there are a lot of things she doesn't 
like about herself right now.  One more doesn't make that much of a 
difference.

He’s staring at her in bald-faced disbelief.  If she weren’t so bone tired 
from three days on the road, she’d laugh.  Instead she orders a whiskey sour, 
changing it quickly to a gin and tonic because she can’t drink whiskey on 
nothing but a Subway sandwich and a bag of chips.

The bartender, a large black man in his fifties, is quick with a bottle and 
the pretzels.  The drink is cold to the touch and begins to sweat in the heat 
of the bar.  This isn’t a place that’s here for the tourists.  It’s obvious 
in the décor and lighting and the fact that it’s almost three a.m. on a 
Tuesday night and the place is still open.

She salutes the bartender with her drink and figures that she’s both too 
exhausted and numb to feel uncomfortable here, or that she’s world weary 
enough to fit in.

She’s not sure, but its probably both.

And she’s avoiding things again.  Her shrink said she had to stop doing that, 
or she was going to end up in a world of trouble.  As if quitting her job and 
taking off cross-country – again – wasn’t a world of trouble.

Fucking politics.

“Why are you here?”  His voice is low and harsh, and she remembers why she 
stopped talking to him.

“Fuck you, Josh.  Either be civil or I’m throwing this drink at you.”

“Mouthy.”

“Not putting up with your crap right now.”

She can see him twitch out of the corner of her eye, and sighs before turning 
to glare at him.

She takes a good look at him.  He’s gained weight in the last eight months.  
He’s also got a lot more gray hair, and a tan.  Weirdly, he looks healthy for 
a guy sitting in a bar at 3a.m. on a Tuesday.  Generally better than the last 
time she saw him.  Then again, those weren’t the best of circumstances.

Mostly, he looks tense and is avoiding looking directly at her.

Typical Josh.  Not that she really blames him at this point.

"Did you come looking for me?" he asks, drink suspended half-way between the 
streaked bar and his mouth.  His shoulders are rigid.  She has never seen him 
this bleak.

"No."  Her answer is honest.  It's all she really has left to give.  She 
turns back to the bar and runs her thumb around the rim of her cloudy glass. 
"I ran away."

In profile, she can see his mouth twist.  There is humor there, but mostly 
anger.  And defeat.  "No.  No one would come looking for me.  But it 
figures..."

She doesn't know what to say to that, so she shrugs and takes a sip of her 
gin.  It burns on her tongue, and she's reminded why she doesn't drink it 
normally.

“It’s still all about you, isn’t it?”  She’s surprised at her words.  She had 
no idea they were even in her until they came out, angry and low.

“What?”

“Me finding *you*.”  She lets that sink in for a bit.  Waits for him to 
realize that he’s still being an asshole before she continues.  “You aren’t 
even asking why I ran away.”

He doesn’t answer her for a very long time.  The mysteries of the universe 
are apparently floating in his glass.  When he finally starts to speak, he 
doesn’t look at her.  Doesn’t even really move except to turn the glass in 
his hands.  “You ran away because waking up hurt too much.  Breathing hurt.  
Moving hurt.  And finally, it wasn’t worth it to pay lip service to the pit 
of voles that was slowly crushing your soul.”

And right there is everything she needed to hear.  Donna wonders how, even 
after years apart, they can share the same brain.  She quirks her lip and 
clinks her gin against his glass.  “Okay, so you have some idea.”

His mouth flattens into a hard ironic line.  “You’re smarter than I was.  
Took me nearly thirty years to figure that out.”

“Yeah, well, women mature faster than guys.”  She is smiling into her drink, 
and the fuzzy blankness that has been so much a part of her brain for the 
last two years is slowly starting to dissipate.  His next words stop her 
cold.

"I miss you."

She flinches, just a little.  Two years ago, she would have given her left 
arm to hear those words from this man.  Hell, if asked, she probably would 
have admitted it earlier this evening.  But coming from that mouth in this 
place, said in that tone, all the words cause are a strange sort of fear.  
And weariness.

"I miss you too."  Because it’s true.  Despite everything.

“We’re completely hallucinating this, aren’t we?”

She shrugs and takes another sip of her gin.  The tonic is strangely bitter.  
Then again, maybe that’s just her life.  “Some people say that reality is 
nothing but one long dream.  Hallucinations are a sort of dream.  It’s 
possible.”

He grunts and knocks back the last of his drink before standing and carefully 
turning her around by her shoulders to face him.  There is something 
dangerous radiating off of him, a frenzied energy she can’t remember ever 
seeing before.  It mingles with the traces of desperation on his face, and 
she wonders how much of his life she’s actually missed.

He is alone now.  No mother.  No father.  No Bartlet family.  No candidate.  
Just Joshua Lyman.

He scares her a little like this.  And for the first time in too long, she 
can feel the burn of arousal in her belly.

“Want to go back to your hotel room?”  He is staring straight at her, eyes 
locked on her own, apparently reading her mind.  He is asking to go back to 
her room and fuck her until they forget everything.

It’s the best offer she’s had all year.  To be fair, it’s only April.

“Let me pay for my drink.”

***

He tastes like whiskey.  Pressed up against the door of her hotel room, 
Josh’s mouth on hers, there is very little to distract from that rather 
intense bit of reality.

He’s a good kisser.  Not too much slobber, just enough tongue.

He’s also really, really efficient at getting her out of clothing.  In very 
little time, she’s naked of everything but her socks and he’s got his hands 
on her ass.  The cotton of his shirt is warm from his skin and tickles her 
chest as it flaps open.

The motel room is cold from the night air – deserts being cold, her brain 
puts in – and the air conditioner that’s still running in the corner.

“Condom?”  His question is asked along the skin of her shoulder, and she lets 
herself tighten her fingers in his hair just a little.  He feels so damn 
*good* right where he is.

“I’m clean.”

He leans back and eyes her, the question clear on his face.

She shrugs and runs her hand across the light stubble on his jaw.  “It 
doesn’t matter.”

Because right now, it really doesn’t.  And the way things are going, if the 
universe really wanted her pregnant and jobless in Arizona, all the condoms 
and pills and spermicides on the planet wouldn’t change that.

She says as much.

He just smiles a little sadly and nods.  “I’m clean too.”

Then she’s on her back, head dangling over the far side of the mattress with 
his face between her legs.  And okay, so he really can slobber when he needs 
to.

His lips are wrapped around her clit, teeth running over it slowly and 
steadily, and she really hopes she doesn’t have next-door neighbors because 
if she does, they better be sound sleepers.

Her skin is suddenly three sizes too small and the bastard is smiling into 
her sex and she doesn’t care because his fingers are doing gentle and 
interesting things to the skin of her hips, and his tongue and teeth are just 
*right there*.

She has no idea how long he stays down there doing what he’s doing but by the 
time he inches up her stomach, her voice is hoarse and she is so *fucking* 
ready she could cry.

A little voice in the back of her head is wondering why she’s being so 
passive in this.  Why she isn’t giving as much as she’s taking.  But the rest 
of her is a little occupied, so the question goes unasked.

She stretches under his hands, trying to loosen muscles that have been so 
tightly wound.  His fingers are strong and sure on the skin of her belly and 
breasts.  Callused.  Which is surprising as he's worked in an office of some 
sort for most of his natural life.  She knows - *knew* - that he hated going 
outside.  He didn't have control out there, and control was always very, 
*very* important to him.

She reminds herself that she doesn’t know him that well anymore.  And from 
the tan and the calluses, she knows that he has been working outside 
recently.  Or maybe it’s just from driving in the desert.

His teeth brush and scrape along her collarbone, and it's all she can do not 
to scream some more.

Gently, he coaxes her knees further open.  Levers himself up and rubs his 
cock over her before starting the push inside, using his fingers to guide and 
explore.  He feels thick and good, and because Mr. Vibrator’s been getting a 
lot of use in the last few months, it doesn’t take that long before he’s 
bottomed out.

When he starts to move, it’s more of a rocking than a thrust.  This surprises 
her, because she knows he’s pissed at her.  She knows she’s damn angry with 
him.  But no one could tell by the way they’re moving.  She thinks maybe 
their bodies know more than they do about what’s going on.  And that’s just 
fine for now.

“Why did you leave?” he shifts his arms so he’s staring straight down at her.  

She blinks and arches her hips a little higher.  “Because I wasn’t doing a 
job anymore.  I was shouting at walls, and no one was listening.”

He pushes into her hard and when he’s all the way in, he stops and just 
*grinds* himself into her; his pubic hair all rough and crinkly and perfect 
as her eyes roll back in her head and she can feel him all the way to her 
toes and beyond.

“It was never just about me.  Not ever.”

She’s kissing him then.  Hard and needy and kissing *Josh*, and the weight of 
what she’s doing finally settles on her shoulders, cracks, and falls off.  
Because while she’s DOING THIS WITH JOSH, she’s also doing *this* with Josh.  
And even with everything else, this is beyond important.

She’s close.  Muscles up and down her body are spasming and twitching and 
needing to let go.  Above her, he’s moving faster, grunting with each thrust, 
and she knows it won’t take much to send him over.  So, she reaches down and 
runs a careful nail over his perineum and ball sac.

He comes while crying into her hair and reaching to rub her clit.

He connects, and she thinks she’s screaming again, but she’s so incoherent 
she can’t be sure.

He rolls over quickly, doing his best not to crush her leg or topple them off 
the bed.  He flops down hard, causing the bed to vibrate under them.  

She feels spent.  Languid and relaxed for the first time in way too long.  
Sweaty and messy and rumpled in all the best ways.

“You okay?”  Her voice seems loud in the room.  Awkward somehow.  Slightly 
drunk.

“Yeah.”  His hand is still trapped under her arm, stroking the skin there 
absently.  It feels good.  So good, she lets herself roll over and onto him.  
She throws a leg over both of his and feels his balls brush the top of her 
thigh.

He grunts a little and shifts so more of her weight is on him.  His hands 
move to her back, and start stroking.  She thinks that maybe this feels 
better than the sex.

She knows it won’t last.  Nothing lasts.  Not friendships, or jobs, or 
administrations.  Not respect.  It’s a hard lesson, but one she thinks she’s 
finally learned.

His breathing is steadying under her palms.  She can see his chest expand and 
contract with the effort.  And she needs to ask him.

Her eyes start to blur, and suddenly she needs to see him.  Look at his face 
when she asks her question.  She shifts her weight and moves to straddle his 
waist.

“Will you stay?” she asks, voice quiet and fluttery in a way it hasn’t been 
in years.

“I don’t know.”

She stares down at him, trying to understand how everything they were has 
come down to this.  She is crying, big silent tears that roll down her face 
and make her sniffle.

He reaches up and wipes them off her face gently.  For a moment - just a 
single terrifyingly beautiful moment - she can see the old Josh.  See his 
vulnerability and pain and desolation like it's painted on a billboard.

She smiles, and the moment is gone.  He sits up, rocking her back towards his 
knees, and his mouth is on hers again, punishing and hard.  She pushes back 
onto him, forcing him down onto the bed again.  Pushes against him.  With 
him.  She's not really sure anymore.  She just knows that if she lets him 
take like this, if she gives him nothing, she will never see him again.

Donna can survive without Josh.  She can thrive.  She can even fail without 
him.  She's just realizing that she doesn't want to anymore.  Even if this 
Josh is a broken shade of the one she remembers.

His hands between her legs have none of the earlier gentleness.  Just pushing 
and friction that's only friction because she's still so fucking wet and he's 
grinding his knuckles against her clit.

She's never been a woman to injure a lover.  That's never what sex has been 
about to her.  Sure there's been some light bondage and the accidental 
chafing, but nothing visceral.  Nothing real.  She always thought her nails 
were too soft to do much damage.  But her nails are in his shoulders now.  
Scoring.  Raking.

And the way he's shouting into her mouth and sucking on her tongue leads her 
to believe that he's too far into this to care.

She unclenches her hands and nails and changes suction of her mouth slightly, 
licking up behind his teeth and just rubbing.  Her hands smooth down his 
sides, intending to give him some help.  She wants him inside her.  She wants 
to be fucked again, and hard.

Because she's just as angry as he is.

But nature is against her tonight, and as her hand runs over his cock once, 
again, and a fourth time, he breaks the kiss and *growls* at her, "Not again 
tonight.  Sorry."

She whimpers her displeasure even as his hands quicken on her clit and inside 
of her.  He is rubbing and stroking and just talking as her whimpers change 
into short screams.  He is swearing at her.  Demanding that she fuck his hand 
harder.

His eyes are wide open, and in the dim light of the bedside lamp, she can see 
all of him.  The gray hair and the scars and the wrinkles and the bitterness 
and everything that should make him unattractive to her.  This man is a 
stranger.  He should be nothing.  Nothing at all.

She should hate him for being here.  For losing himself and somehow, in the 
process, losing her.  But she can’t.  Even at her angriest and most 
frustrated, she never could.

Because he took a chance on her when he had no real reason to.  He cared for 
her and let her care for him.  And as he palms her in the dark hotel room, 
the only thought that pokes through the haze of lust and anger is that she 
has the book he gave her for Christmas in her trunk.

And then she's kissing him again, and crying and screaming and for the first 
time in *so damn long* feeling everything.

Josh is fucking her in a cheap motel in Tucson, Arizona.  Neither of them 
have jobs, or prospects they really want to explore.  They have nothing at 
all but this moment, this sex, and each other.

She collapses on top of him, weak and empty.  She is panting and can barely 
stand being in her own skin.  Flushed and damp, she snuggles down into his 
chest, laying one openmouthed kiss on his collarbone before slumping 
sideways.

They say nothing, but Josh leans over to shut off the lamp before they shimmy 
under the cheap hotel bedspread and sprawl out.

Donna drifts off to sleep listening to this Josh breathe.

***

She wakes up to the sight of his back as he stares out the grimy window 
overlooking the parking lot.  He's in the jeans he wore yesterday and nothing 
else.  The morning light is harsh even through the industrial sheers, and the 
result is a strange chiaroscuro.  Light and shadow melt across his skin 
without any specific shape.

The overall effect is one of anger and fear and loneliness.

She thinks it's better than defeat.

It's his turn to flinch when she puts her hand on his back.  His skin is warm 
and just a bit scratchy against her cheek as she winds her arms around his 
waist.  Over his shoulder she can see the parking lot and the bar and, in the 
distance, the mountains.  He has her smell on him.  Coating him.  Marking 
him.  She likes it.

"You're still here."  Her voice is rusty and thick with the dry air.

"I didn't want to be."

She clings a little tighter to him, and after a few seconds his hands drop on 
to her forearms.  She doesn't breathe for a moment, waiting to see what he'll 
do.  If he'll hold or push away.  In the end, he just begins to stroke the 
little blonde hairs on her wrists.  His touch is light and leaves little 
pinpricks of sensation behind.

"I'm glad you are."

She can feel his muscles shift and bunch as he nods.  Randomly, she realizes 
that he hasn’t said her name yet.  And she hasn’t said his.  She kisses his 
shoulder and picks out her rental car in the parking lot below.  The yellow 
exterior is dull with dust and dirt.  She's pretty sure that's a metaphor for 
lots of things right now, but she really doesn't want to think about it.

She is naked and pressed against Josh in the desert sun.  They are broken and 
more than a little lost.

But they’re together for now, and that's better than nothing.

-fin-