Title: Yes
Rating: PG
Summary: Amy knew the answer to the question before she'd even asked it. From "Commencement."
Disclaimer: Not mine. And if it was, I would have kept it. Forever. And ever. Especially Josh. Ignore this rambling please.
A/N: My first posted WW fanfiction. Please review. I might do a sequel.


"Yes."

The word slipped out of her mouth, past her white teeth and between her pink lips, falling flat onto the floor, as if swatted down by its own excruciating certainty. So softly it had been spoken, so quietly, that Donna thought—hoped—that she had quite possibly not been heard.

But Amy's head swiveled marvelously, swiftly, to face Donna—and there was no doubt; she had heard Donna's declaration. Nevertheless, Amy's mind had been expecting an adamant denial, if not a façade of confusion, and, when greeted with an admission, a confession, she went blank. The shock was momentary, however, and she recovered within seconds, demanding, "Excuse me?"

Realizing that she could not contradict herself at this point, realizing that she had gone over the edge of the cliff already and what she said as she fell was of little consequence, Donna said, slowly and purposefully, "Yes."

Amy pursed her lips and picked up one of the empty bottles of beer on the table in front of her. She toyed with it for a moment, and, after a second of contemplation, turned back to Donna. "Yes?"

Donna nodded, her blonde hair a curtain, the profusion of thin gold strands hiding her eyes. "Yes," she repeated simply.

The silence was a tangible entity between the two women. Amy's was a surprised silence, confused, but also knowing. There had been no doubt in her mind when she had asked the question as to what Donna's real answer was, no matter what she had planned to say. There was also a jealousy, petty and unnecessary, that all of Amy's instincts screamed for her to repress.

Donna's silence was expectant. She was waiting, waiting for admonishment, or laughter, or a statement demanding to know just what the hell Donna was thinking.

And then there was Amy's voice. It held no accusation, no amusement. But, Donna realized with a start, it was not Amy; it was the ghost of Amy, the memory of Amy. "Are you in love with Josh?" And, like the inevitable crunch of metal on metal after the screech of car tires across the highway, there was Donna's own voice, weak but undeniably sure: "Yes."