There are a lot of things she doesn't tell him.

She doesn't tell him that sometimes she can still smell burning
rubber and gasoline, that she can feel the explosion of heat on
her flesh and the fleeting sensation that her eardrums are shattering.
She doesn't reveal Fitzwallace's last words to her, that they were
about how everyone on the CODEL knew she was sleeping with
the rugged Irish photographer who lurked in their meetings. She
doesn't talk about waking up in the hospital that first time and for
a drowsy moment thinking she was lying next to Colin.

Josh thinks he wants to know all these things; she can sense it.
Part of him yearns to know every last detail, hungers to re-live it
all with her, but Donna knows there is another part of him, a larger
part, that doesn't actually want that knowledge. Details will only
make things worse, will give him more potent ammunition for the
gory conflagration that already smolders in his mind. Better to leave
part of it buried, to not burden him with it any more than she has
from the moment he hopped on a plane to be by her side.

The first time she and Josh made love, months after Gaza, she
couldn't help but flash back to the last time she'd had sex. For a
moment she vividly relived the pulse of Colin hard and rigid inside
of her, how his Irish brogue made his muttering about how tight
she was sound lyrical and erotic to her Midwestern ears. And then
without warning she smelled flaming rubber and felt agonizing heat
ignite her flesh. She pushed the memory away angrily, focusing
instead on the exquisite sensation of Josh filling her, on his achingly
sweet whispers in her ear, on the delicious texture of his toned
abdomen, the strong flexing muscles in his hips. When she came
her cries were of defiance as much as ecstasy, reassuring herself
that she was there, and alive, if not quite whole.

But as time has passed, the memories aren't as intrusive as they once
were, and now when she makes love to Josh it is with all of her senses
focused on the act. But different things will unearth wisps of
remembrance without warning: the smell of a gas station, the crunch
of gravel beneath tires, a wide-brimmed straw hat innocently displayed
in a store window. Her breath catches and acridness fills her nostrils.
She tamps it down, puts a smile back on her face, lips unnaturally
pulled back over her teeth. If she is with Josh when it happens she
may squeeze his hand a little tighter than normal, or pull him close
against her body for protection against her own whirling thoughts.
He doesn't question why she does it, although she's pretty sure he
knows. But just as she doesn't question it when she finds him
standing with his back straight against a wall, he doesn't push it
when she grips his hand a little too tightly, laughs a little too loudly
at a mildly funny joke. So much of their relationship has been
defined by talking, talking, talking, but there are some things they
don't discuss by mutual unspoken agreement. She thinks she would
find that odd if she ever allowed herself to dwell on it.

She has coffee with Andi about once a month. No Josh, no Toby,
just the two women, women who have little to nothing in common
except a hot Gaza morning that ended in fire. Their conversation is
strained and awkward and yet they keep meeting, drawn together by
that one tenuous bond that neither of them is bold enough to break.
She's often snappish with Josh after these encounters, her nerves on
edge, her mood brittle, and most of the time he lets her last out at him,
only flaring back if she says something particularly hurtful. And then
she's contrite and crying and he holds her and suddenly he's the one
apologizing instead of her. She thinks she hates both of them, then,
both Josh and herself, for being so weak.

For Donna has given a lot of thought, over the course of many months,
to the concept of being weak. She vows to never be so weak again, to
be so feeble and tragic as she was after the explosion, after her surgeries.
That person was so weak she couldn't lift a glass of water to her lips
without help. That person lived when others died and she will never
understand the reasons why, will never accept why someone as strong
and imposing and as larger than life as Admiral Fitzwallace was rendered
into ash while she was left to linger and languish helplessly in a
hospital bed. No can answer that for her; the few people she's asked
averted their eyes uncomfortably and changed the subject, refusing to
be blistered by her fire. But still she wonders, especially when she
wakes up crying in the middle of the night and Josh has to soothe her
back to sleep by smoothing her hair with gentle fingers.

How can she possibly be worthy of the time that has been given to her?

It is pure luck, she thinks, that the man she loves is one of the few
who can understand these fears and doubts and feelings, and she
knows that sometimes it's the only thing that keeps her from pushing
him away. She's not sure she could do that in any case; Josh is
entrenched in her soul, for better or worse, their lights and darks woven
together in a pattern that can't be unraveled no matter how hard they
may try.

Sometimes, no matter how much time has passed, in the depth of a
moonless night, she feels buried alive, trapped in a tomb of memory.
Fire rages around her and her leg throbs in pain. Just as she did when
she awoke from surgery, she whispers Josh's name wildly, praying
that he is there to lift her up out of the blackness. His strong arms
encircle her and she clings to him, her anchor in a sea of fear and loss.

He loves her, she knows. And sometimes it's the only thing that
keeps her from burning alive.

End.