Classification: I think this series went completely Alternate Universe long ago — although I’m trying to stick as close to canon as possible

Spoilers: Anything could pop up.

Archive: Sure, just let me know where.

Rating: PG-14 (mention of sex in one scene, but not NC-17)

Synopsis: Josh helplessly waits for word

Warning: Angst ahoy!

Series: This story is twenty-first in the 'Rocky Path' series.

Series So Far:

This Crucible’s Fire 1/4

By Lacy

Something happened to Donna, but nobody's talking.

The officers in the front seat of the cruiser remain silent, their attentions riveted intently to the squawking radio. Sam says nothing, because there are no more words. My thoughts are only now beginning to take any substantive form.

The Rock of Gibraltar seems to be lodged in my throat. God, something happened to Donna and it's my fault. I drove her away and she wasn't thinking clearly. When I couldn't think...when my brain was going into shut down mode, I thought that was bad. But somehow, with Sam's hand of support resting on my shoulder, I managed to rein in my rebellious cognizance.

Things have gone from bad to worse.

My mind fills with images of Donna. Soft light memories mix with dark visions of her demise. Against my will, I conjure a thousand assorted scenarios that result in her death. I can't shut them off and I can't close my eyes to just make them go away. I can hear her screams in my head. I can hear her calling for help.

When was the last time I told her I loved her? I know I wanted to last night, but decided against it. Why hadn't I listened to my instincts? When was it?

We've never been big on the actual words, preferring instead to find other means of expressing our feelings. Or, maybe that was just me. Maybe I was the one who couldn't say it enough. Not once did I utter the words when I proposed. And she left tonight. I hope she knows that I would do anything, pay any price, to fix the mistake I made. I hope she didn't drive off into the night believing that I didn't love her. I am a living, breathing tragedy.

The inside of my mouth is parched, but I have countless questions I need to ask. I attempt a swallow to clear the relentlessly agonizing lump in my throat. My hands are shaking. I grasp my knees to steady them. I must inquire, but I'm not sure where to begin.

Or, if I'm ready to learn the answers.

"Where are we going?" I ask. It's like a stage whisper. Not a full voice, but enough to be heard over the volume of the CB radio.

Please don't say morgue. Please don't say morgue. God, please don't let them say the morgue. Well, what do you know? There are no atheists in this foxhole.

"Central Precinct," the passenger-side officer replies. He says nothing more, offering no further information.

"I'm calling CJ," Sam speaks at last. He's still holding on to my cell phone. I can only nod at his declaration.

CJ should come -- I think. CJ should be there, no matter what happens. Because if it's bad...if it's the worst I can fear, it's going to take both of them to clean up the mess.

Fat raindrops splash unexpectedly against my window as I watch the neighborhood roll by. The rain is uninvited, but a perfect accompaniment for my sunless despondency, which is all that remains now.

Thirty-six hours. To the rest of the world this may seem like a wealth of time, but in this place of constant motion it passes in the blink of an eye. It’s only been thirty-six hours since I had a perfect life. Thirty-six hours since the first of the cards trembled with potential disaster. Thirty-six hours since I forgot to hold my breath.

My father was fond of giving me advice in matters of the heart. I would listen patiently, but believed that in the end I could find my own way. My parents fell in love when they were very young. They attended temple together as children, and knew each other for years before their relationship took a more romantic path.

Ideally suited to one another, they knew each other so well that sometimes I found it creepy. My childhood friends could only watch in awe, as my parents seemed to communicate without words. My parents wanted this kind of relationship for me, as well. I guess this is why loving Donna felt so right, because I had seen it before, growing up at home.

Of the portions of sage advice my father imparted, there's only one I can recall as I ride helplessly to an uncertain fate. I can see his face clearly in my mind’s eye as our conversation that day comes back to me.

"Never forget, Joshua," he’d said. "It’s never unquestionable. Love is never a lock. In matters of the heart, there’s no such thing as an open and shut case. Your mother and I have known each other since childhood, but we still have to work at keeping it together. That’s why they call it commitment, Josh."

"Dad," I’d protested. "Do I really need to hear this?"

"I’m trying to teach you something, son. There may be a time when you need advice, and I won’t be there to give it."

"What are you talking about, Dad?"

He never answered me, but only shrugged his shoulders. That had been my first clue that something was wrong. Only a few days later, he told me about the cancer.

"You can never take her for granted, Josh," he’d continued. "The moment you do…the moment you think your position is unimpeachable…it begins to fall apart. If you remember nothing else, Josh, remember that."

"I will, Dad. I will." I remember that we shared a moment then. A meeting of the eyes that held when I made my promise, although when I first thought to utter the words, it was meant merely as I measure of appeasement.

He was right. My life hadn’t begun to fall apart when I received the call from Joey’s assistant. Nor had it wavered when Donna and I quarreled over the dinner. My life began to disintegrate the moment I accepted my own standpoint as the absolute truth. I took it for granted.

For just an instant, in the time it takes to form a half-baked idea, I lost faith. I believed her capable of betrayal, I doubted her constancy, and now I will pay the piper for the tune I played. I took her for granted, and the center could not hold.

My father was a brilliant man. I’m sorry if I haven’t mentioned that enough.

The rain begins its deluge in earnest, beating down upon the cruiser’s windshield. The officer behind the wheel mutters something about the rain ‘making it harder’ and, for some reason I know he’s not talking about his driving.

Another memory flashes suddenly and I remember the answer to the question I asked earlier. Last week, it rained like this for three days, and Donna and I spent a leisurely Sunday morning in bed. She’d been my fiancée for less than forty-eight hours, and I couldn’t help but smile as she repeatedly studied her ring.

"It’s really beautiful," she told me.

"Not as beautiful as the woman wearing it," I replied, pulling her into my arms and kissing her on the shoulder.

"The others were very impressed with your selection."

"Well, the ring got the Presidential Seal of Approval."

"The champagne was very sweet of him," she sighed, turning around in my arms to face me.

"I think he’d had it on ice for quite a while."

"Did you ask Sam?"

"Not yet."

"Why not?"

"I guess I just wanted to enjoy this before we start bringing other people into it."

"Okay, but you will, right?"

"Of course I will."

"Okay, because I’d think he’d be disappointed if you didn’t ask him. And we all know how sensitive he can be."

"I don’t want to talk about Sam right now, Donna." I kept her from saying anything more by capturing her lips with mine. I remember thinking that her lips were soft and that her tongue tasted like honey -- and that nothing in life could ever feel as righteous as kissing her.

Her skin was silk and flames, and I kissed every part of her I could reach. We made love, using the rain’s pulse as it pounded against the window as a metronome to find a new rhythm. She made the most sweet-sounding commotion, as she writhed beneath me, begging me to bring her to completion. But I held off, wanting to say the words as she unraveled in my arms.

"I love you," I’d whispered into her ear. And I did. God, I truly did.

TBC

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