A/N: This is a follow-up to "Hurricane" because as much as I actually love that one, I feel like that wouldn't be the emotional state Michelle would be in for long before she would start missing Tony and regretting not being with him anymore; while at the same time, starting to build-up those walls. I also wanted to add some justification for why she was so cold and angry without her coming off as completely enraged or hateful. Anyways, hope it's well-received. :)

Aftershock

Michelle sunk into the chair at her workspace. As her elbows came to rest on her desk, she buried her face in her hands and sucked in a breath. The day had been long. Working at Division was so much different than CTU. Generally her days were even more stressful. But if she was honest with herself, it wasn't really the difference of working here opposed to working at CTU that was bringing out the awfulness she was feeling. It wasn't the bigger responsibility she had now. It wasn't the fact that her days seemed to grow longer and longer. She was the one determining some of those factors, anyway, burying herself in work by choice to some extent. No, it wasn't anything that had to do with the job, really. It was the matter of being completely alone in it all.

There was something missing from the picture of her work day that she desperately missed and wished for right now. It was that set of arms she could fall into when she was tired or overwhelmed or scared. Or even just a voice to reassure her. Or ears to listen. But not from just anyone; from her husband. He was the only one who could ever really make it better and the only one she'd give into—by choice or natural, involuntary surrender.

Even after he came back from prison he had been there. Whether or not he was emotionally there was one thing, but his physical presence was better than nothing. She realized that now. There were moments and days now she questioned her choice. She not only questioned it, but regretted it. Moments like this revealed the truth to her that deep down she was more angry at herself for letting him go than angry at him for the things that had caused her to do so.

She missed him. So much that it hurt. It made her ill.

A tear began to slip from her eye, and she moved her fingers to her cheek to brush it away before it could slide even an inch down her face. She wouldn't cry. How weak would that be? In her office, no less?

The effects of the divorce had begun hitting her. The anger only rose to the surface as a defense mechanism now for times she needed to protect herself against the things his memory and absence could do to her. It could destroy her. If she didn't stay angry at him, she'd lose her justification for why things had turned out the way they did. If she wasn't angry at him, then why wasn't she with him? She didn't have the energy or power to figure that out, or change it. Therefore, she had to be angry at him. That's what made sense. But, although she would never consciously admit it, it was just as much—or more—her fault as his. That's what killed her the most. She'd have to live daily, conscious of the truth that it was so much her fault, too. That knowing and shame would torment her, and she wouldn't be able to handle it. So it was easier to place the blame on the circumstances and develop an animosity towards him. She could normally take due responsibility head on, but not for this.

Truly, however, deep inside the anger had lifted. All that was really left was an ache and longing and sadness for her loss. Their loss.

The phone on her desk rang, and she took a breath before answering. "Dessler."

Once the phone call ended—it was something about the current protocol change—Michelle thought back to the CTU days when he would call her from his office just to say that he loved her or missed her or couldn't wait until the day was over and they could go home... together. Sometimes when she closed her eyes she could trick herself for a moment into believing that it was still like so, that the ring coming from her phone was him. And the other kind of ring was still on her finger. She'd go to fiddle with it sometimes before devastatingly realizing there was nothing there anymore. When reality unwelcomely sucker punched her, she felt worse than she did before. It was all or nothing. She couldn't be so fickle with her regard and emotions toward him. So another wall would go up.

Why the hell did she leave him? Why did he have to change? Why did everything have to change? Those were the questions that her subconscious screamed out to her on the lonely drive home. A few months ago she was livid. She was so angry at him that she just wanted him away from her. The new, messed up version of him was too much for her to put up with... Now she just wanted him. Any part of him. She hated living like this. She couldn't love. She couldn't smile. She couldn't sleep in her cold, empty bed. She couldn't even breathe sometimes. When the nasty hurricane was crashing around her a few months ago, she thought—hoped—it was just a moment of ugly time that would pass. The decision to leave her husband seemed inevitable, a necessary thing to do in the midst of the earthquake that shook up her once-beautiful life. But now she was feeling the aftershock. She was feeling the repercussions now. She was lonely and breaking apart and in dire need of a certain former-agent, once-friend, once-lover, whose name was Tony Almeida.

His first name slipped off her lips in the form of a cracked, desperate whisper. And a single sob followed without warning. Would she ever be over this? Could she be? How would she ever love anyone else? She couldn't let him do this to her. She willed the thought of him to leave her head, and even her heart. But in that moment there was only one, simple, yet utterly complex, thing that filled her.

Regret.