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

Synopsis: Donna decides to return to work

Warning:

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

Series So Far:

Missing Breakfast 1/6

By Lacy

6:00 a.m.

Well, hell. Who needs sleep anyway?

I roll over onto my back, and stare numbly at the ceiling above me. The space beside me is desolate and all through the night I glanced over as though she would magically appear. I clutch the extra pillow tighter to my chest.

God, I’m pathetic.

I had a shot, and I did nothing. Have you ever been so terrified of screwing up that you do nothing at all, and realize later that by doing nothing, you’ve managed to screw up? Did you get that? It’s a vicious cycle. I was paralyzed by my fear of screwing up.

Used to be, I could plunge headlong into the emotional danger zone. Not anymore -- at least, not where Donna is concerned. She’s too important for such reckless behavior. My life with her is too valuable.

Limbo. That’s where I am right now.

I’ve been floating around in this dreadful limbo for days. Donna made an overture yesterday -- she brandished a white flag, of sorts. But I couldn’t accept it. It’s not wise to accept surrender unless you’re fully aware of the terms and conditions.

She threw her arms around me and I wanted so badly to wrap her in my embrace. I ached with the need to feel her in my arms. But I couldn’t be sure where she was leading me. The whole raise conversation threw me for a loop. I found it impossible to discern her seriousness on the matter. I can recall so clearly the near-desperation reflected in her eyes.

For the briefest moment it was all so…normal. As though nothing between us had ever gone wrong. More than anything, I wanted to play the game. Then she launched herself at me and suddenly the game had changed and I didn’t know the rules.

She’d said she missed me.

I’m a coward. I don’t know why I’m so surprised every time I come to this conclusion. It’s not like it’s anything new. Anyway, I’ve spent the last two weeks making sure she has everything she needs. Whenever possible I’ve personally fulfilled her every desire. So, why was it, when I looked her in the eye and denied her the raise, did she throw herself at me?

I don’t understand, and I’m not afraid to admit it. I feel like I’ve been teased.

Her morning sickness was…well…it was a shock to me. Ever since she told me she was considering having an abortion, I’ve been trying to remain emotionally detached. It’s a defense mechanism. When I heard about the baby, there was this little piece of joy inside of me, made brighter by the surrounding darkness.

The best way to achieve emotional detachment for me was to do what I could to pretend there was no baby. Don’t get me wrong; it wasn’t easy by any means. Thoughts and reminders would continually creep into my mind. I just did everything I could to ignore them.

I know that she has to make her decision soon, but I can’t bring myself to commit emotionally until I know where I stand with her. Or rather, where the baby stands with her.

So, that’s why I’m in limbo. Just waiting.

My door bursts open, and Donna, dressed in one of my old t-shirts, strides confidently in. I’m sitting up straight in a fraction of a second.

"Is something wrong?"

"Get up," she orders. "You’re going to be late for work. You have a Senior Staff meeting at seven-thirty."

"How do you know that?"

"You think I don’t keep in touch? I talked to Margaret last night," she shrugs. "There've been rumors of a possible outbreak of bacterial meningitis in the southwest. You’re going to have to talk to your guy at the CDC."

"Still bucking for that raise, Donna?" I extract myself from the twisted sheets imprisoning my legs and swing my feet to the floor.

"Always," she chirps.

And it’s like we’re normal again, and I hate it because we’re not.

"You should be in bed," I inform her.

"Get dressed, Josh. I’ll be ready in a few minutes."

I notice that her hair is damp, like she just got out of the shower. "What are you talking about?"

"This could be bad, Josh. You’re going to need me there."

"Donna, you’re not ready," I announce with a shake of my head.

"I’m ready," she insists. "I’m raring to go."

"I think you should ease back into work," I tell her. Personally, I think she’s crazy.

"I’ll go easy. I’ll sit at my desk and make you come to me," she smiles.

"You will, huh?"

"We have to talk, Josh. We should have talked yesterday, but you threw up these walls." How does she do that? She makes me feel comfortable in a particular conversation and then she sweeps the rug right out from underneath me. How is that fair?

"I have to hurry," I step past her to open the closet door, effectively evading her.

"It’s not a national emergency yet, Josh."

"Donna–"

"At least at the White House you won’t be able to avoid me."

"Is that what this is about? I haven’t been avoiding you."

"I know what being avoided feels like, Josh," she captures my eyes with hers, and as much as I want to deny her assertion, I can’t.

"I just…it’s just that…I can’t talk about this right now."

"When *will* you able to talk about it, Josh?"

"I don’t know." I dress quickly in a comfortable suit, since I know I’ll probably be wearing it for the next seventy-two hours.

"Well, give me some sort of time frame here, Josh. Dr. Wilborn said we need to hash this out and come to an understanding."

"After this is over," I tell her.

"You promise?"

"Yeah, I promise. We’ll sit down and hash this all out after we get a handle on this outbreak."

"Good. I’m going to get dressed."

"Donna."

"I’m going," she tosses over her shoulder.

Picking up my shoes, I follow her into the master bedroom. "Why are you being so stubborn?"

"I got it from my grandfather -- it's a genetic trait. Get used to it."

"Donna, you almost died three weeks ago." My free hand clenches into a fist of frustration. She’s driving my up the wall with this. Can’t she understand that she should take it easy for the next fifty years?

"But I didn’t," she shouts back from her closet. She emerges from the boudoir and tosses a long gray skirt on the bed, followed by a navy blue shirt. "I’m resilient, Josh," she tells me. "I got that from my grandfather, too. I’ve decided that I can handle just about anything."

She sits on the edge of the bed and begins to go through the mysterious female process known as ‘putting on pantyhose’. A process that is as fascinating as it is mind-boggling. It’s incredibly sexy (something I didn’t realize until the first time I saw Donna put them on), but at the same time, you have to wonder why they do it. How comfortable can they be, after all?

"You nearly bled to death," I remind her, when I find my voice again. "You had head injuries."

"You think a little head injury and a touch of hemorrhagic shock can get me down? Need I remind you, as you’re so fond of telling me, that I have a skull of steel? I’m fine, Josh. I need to get back to work."

She removes her nightshirt and reaches for her bra. She doesn’t turn away from me as she did in the hospital, but instead faces me head on. I see what she’s trying to do. She’s trying to drive me crazy. God, her breasts are so beautiful, especially in the dim glow of the light. They’re bigger too, and she practically spills forth from her bra. Or maybe it’s just my overactive imagination. My mother always told me it would get me into trouble.

"W-Why can’t this wait just a few more days?" I’m pretty sure I just stuttered there. I avert my eyes from her incredible body — a body that is filling out in some not unattractive places. It kills me inside that she may put a premature end to that.

"Because I’ve only got twelve weeks in a year, Josh."

She buttons her shirt quickly, and I can’t help but notice how tightly it stretches across the bust. "What?" I’m afraid I really didn’t get that last part.

"According to the FMLA," she explains. "I’ve only got twelve weeks in a year." She steps into her skirt and quickly zips it in the back. The dove-gray wool skirt has a slit up the side that stops just above the knee. It allows for a tantalizing glimpse of her legs. Have I ever mentioned that the thought of her legs makes my mouth go dry?

"You’ve only taken three, Donna," I remind her. "Why can’t you take more?"

"Oh," she says, rolling her eyes, as she steps into her high heels. "So, I’m supposed to give birth and go right back to work the next day? That is so like a man!"

TBC

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