KnockKnocKnock

It was a distinctive Josh knock, three light raps in succession. "I'm coming, I'm coming," I muttered as I crawled out of bed and tugged on my robe - not for modesty so much as because it was cold, too cold for just boxers and a t-shirt. I padded to the door, and surely enough, Josh was on the other side of it. His hand had clean gauze on it, and he smelled like a hospital as he stood there, looking at me as though he, for once in his life, didn't know what to say. I stepped aside and he walked in slowly. "Josh?"

"Hm?"

"How'd it go?"

"The thing?"

"Yeah."

"It…It was okay."

"You wanna talk about anything?"

~*~*~*~

I wanted to talk about everything. I wanted to ask him what he'd gone through, post-shooting when I'd been isolated from everyone but Donna. I wanted to talk through everything and figure it out and try to deal with it when I wasn't all alone.

But I simply sat on the couch.

"You want a scotch or something?" I nodded, and he fixed it quickly, then brought it to me. He eyed me very cautiously as I slammed it down and set the glass on the coffee table.

"You don't have to watch me like a hawk, Sam, I'm not going anywhere."

He looked immediately guilty. "No, I just..I mean…I thought you might…y'know, with your hand…"

"I didn't break it putting down a glass, Sam," I sighed, leaning back against the couch.

"What?"

"I smashed a - I broke a window."

He stared at me. "You broke a window?"

"…IN my apartment, my - my living room. I smashed the window with my hand…"

~*~*~*~

"Josh…" I looked at him, not knowing what to say. "Is it infected?"

"The window?"

"Your hand."

"Nah…Donna just took me in, it's fine…"

I nodded. "You wanna…sit awhile…?"

"I…Yeah…" He looked up at me in that classic Josh way, his eyeballs seemingly looking ahead of the rest of his head. "I…Think there might be some things I should…say out loud…"

"O -Okay," I said quietly.

"And there may be long periods when I don't say anything witty."

"It's okay."

"And there may be long periods where I don't say…anything at all." I nodded and he sighed, hanging his head.

~*~*~*~

I'd been pondering all night what Dr. Keyworth had said about my brain and music. He was right - it made no logical sense.

And then I heard it. "Is someone…playing Schubert?"

Sam shrugged. "I dunno, probably. Dr. Green from next door likes to listen to classical when he gets in from his shift."

"It's beautiful," I whispered, as though I was hearing it for the first time. As though it hadn't played endlessly in my house until I was 8 years old.

And then it hit me.

The doctor was wrong. Well, he was right in the fact that the music was getting to me. But it wasn't the sirens it interpreted it as.

"Josh?"

"…It's the cry of the phoenix."

~*~*~*~

"What?" He was making no sense whatsoever. "Josh…Despite the risk of me sounding like a therapist…what did you mean just now?"

"The phoenix. Great bird of ancient mythology. Legend says he was born of his own ashes again and again." He smiled. "And the Schubert…the 'Ave Maria'…it's the cry of the phoenix."

“Josh -“

"You don't get it, Sam, I - I'm a damn immortal, reborn of my own ashes, not dying in the fires and traumas that kill my family…Literally." He looked down. "First Joanie, then my father…then me…"

"Josh -"

"I escaped the fire that killed my sister, Sam, I ran out of the house and left her to die!"

"How old were you?" I asked quietly.

"Eight."

"You weren't responsible for -"

"How would you know? You don't even know the whole story."

"Josh." He realized he was losing it again and calmed down. Slightly. "…It's okay…"

"I should've died back there, Sam."

"Don't say that."

"I should've died in Rosslyn that night. Or maybe at the hospital…but then. I should've died then."

"I said don't say that."

~*~*~*~

I looked at him, and for the first time I could remember, I saw tears in his eyes. "…Don't say you should've died, Josh. You came too close for that to even be remotely among the things you should say."

And it hit me all of a sudden that my friends must have been so completely -…I was just remembering the shooting here and now, six months later…they'd already been reliving it for long before that. They'd seen it all and heard it all and waiting in agony as surgeons dug around in my chest and stitched things up and reinflated my lung. "Sam, I…I'm sorry…I don't know what's with me lately…"

"Yeah, you do."

"Yeah, but that's - that's no excuse."

"No, it's not. But it's a reason."

"What difference does it make?"

"None."

"Okay."

"Really, Josh…You've gotta let go of the guilt."

"What?"

"The way you talked about you lived and your sister died…you did the same thing after your father died, you're doing the same thing because you lived through a shooting by a millimeter of a miracle. That's no way to live, Josh, thinking it's your fault."

"…It is my fault."

"It's not on any level. And it's gonna be okay."

"Sam, cut the -"

"I know it sounds like crap, Josh, I honestly do. But it won't be like this forever."

"…Feels like forever."

"I know. But it's already tomorrow."