Disclaimer: I am not Aaron Sorkin or John Wells. I merely dabble.

Rating: PG

Note: A good ole' Josh angst drabble, set in some random time after Donna comes back to work. I'm not sure this is Josh's voice at all, but hopefully it captures his (theoretical) thoughts. I usually don't beg for feedback, but I'm wondering about this one.

Paying Attention

I forget sometimes how thankful I am to have her back. It's funny how just a couple of weeks ago I was concentrating every ounce of strength I had on being able to stay in the room when they took her blood. She told me she was scared, and those words stayed in my brain, echoing with this hollow, painful sense of helplessness—hers and mine. I contemplated all my emotions, and I felt keenly the connection between those fears and the ones Donna had when I was the one in that doped-up world, terrified for those minutes between doses of pain medication. Now I see her in the bullpen, and it's like nothing happened. Yes, that would be easier. I told myself things would be different, that I would see her every day and thank God. I would smile when I walked past her desk, delighted in the beautiful blonde woman who could have been dead but is instead wasting her precious energy on snide comments and keeping my schedule on track. I was going to rejoice each day.

How quickly we forget.

It's easier to. I should know. I nearly went crazy until I put my hand through a window. Donna of all people was the one perceptive and stubborn enough to realize what was happening. What scares me deep down is knowing with absolute certainty that she will go through the same thing. So I have a little denial of my own. Part of me wants to ignore her near death so I can ignore the nagging fear that she'll do some serious damage to herself, because maybe no one will notice her spiral downhill. Except me. I should notice. That is the thought that keeps me awake at night, in a cold sweat. Yet, I don't always pay attention at work. My fear of remembering, facing those fears of hers and the ones I once had…that fear is stronger than anything in my life.

So I don't think about things too much. I've been doing that for years with Donna, so I'm a pro. I put the banter on auto-pilot so that I don't actually interact with her—smell her perfume or look into her eyes—although it seems like she stays lodged in my head and heart just the same. The status quo is the best I can do right now because I'm battling that same old flame that wells up every time she smiles at me or implies that I'm an ass, and I'm battling the memory of a weak and pained body in a hospital bed. So I pretend that things are the way they've always been.

I could pretend all day, except I see her wheel herself out from behind the desk. Those times, I force my eyes to rest on the wheelchair. She will need me, and I will have to learn to see her and pay attention, even if that means remembering what I almost lost and facing what I will probably never have.