Just one more chapter after this one! Thanks to everyone who's been reviewing :)
Chapter 4: The Final Steps
Almost a month had passed since Michelle's first therapy session. Tony had spent copious amounts of time checking out every therapist DOD had to offer, wanting only the very best for his wife. After hours of careful consideration, he finally picked out a psychologist named Susan Whitmore – mid-forties, an excellent reputation and lots of experience with sex crimes. It didn't hurt that she was a woman either.
Every Tuesday, Michelle left her station for one of the offices in medical, where she would meet the therapist for an hour of counseling. Later, at home, Tony would cautiously ask her about it, careful not to pry but not wanting her to feel like she couldn't talk to him about it, either. And at first she had been a little guarded about what she told him, but after a while she seemed to become more comfortable with the whole thing, started talking more and sharing more. He took this as a definite good sign.
It was a Monday evening; they had just finished their respective Chinese food cartons after yet another long day at work. She returned from the kitchen after having thrown away their leftovers, and joined him on the couch again.
Before he could reach for the remote control, she took a deep breath and quickly, "Tony, I've been wanting to ask you something… A favor."
He blinked fondly at her. "Shoot."
She hesitated for a moment, then spoke. "Well… I was wondering if… um… I'd really like it if you came with me tomorrow. To therapy."
He stared at her. This was the last thing he was expecting.
"Why?" he finally asked.
She shrugged, and he saw her eyes soften when they met his. "You're the most important person in my life. It would be great if you could come, just to… just to share some thoughts. I talked to Susan about it last week and she was all for the idea."
He shifted uncomfortably. "Well… we can't both be gone from the bullpen at the same time, Michelle. At least one of us always needs to be there, you know that."
This was bull and he was perfectly aware of it. In theory those were indeed the rules, but if was only for an hour and there were no really urgent matters they needed to deal with, Jack could easily handle all of CTU for a little while with Gael's help.
Unfortunately she knew this too.
Her face fell and she turned away slightly. "Oh. Okay."
She stood up from the couch and headed for the kitchen, and he immediately felt guilty.
"Michelle," he protested as he got up and went after her, "C'mon, don't do this."
She was dumping a few plates in the dishwasher. "No, it's okay. I understand."
But she couldn't – or wouldn't – look at him as she turned to put a carton of cream back in the fridge.
"You know all she would do is scrutinize our marriage," he argued, "We don't need that, Michelle, our marriage is fine. More than fine."
She made to go back into the living room without answering him, but he reached out and caught her elbow as she passed him.
"Michelle–"
"I just want to know how you feel about it!"
He was so startled by her sudden outburst that he let go of her arm. But she had started something now, and she wasn't going to stop.
"You keep telling me I need to talk about it! How dare you demand that of me when you can't talk about it either!"
"What are you talking about?" he cried out in disbelief, indignation snapping him out of the shock of her sudden anger. "I wanted to talk about it with you! For weeks all I wanted was to sit down with you and–"
"Oh, please." She let out a bitter laugh. "You wanted to talk about me. My pain, my trauma. That's always easy, isn't it? But what about you, Tony? What did it feel like for you when you burst into that room and saw me two seconds away from being raped by a man you knew and worked with a lifetime ago?"
This stunned him into momentary silence. He turned away from her, realizing he was shaking. "Don't, Michelle. Just don't."
"Tony, we need to talk about this!" Despair had suddenly replaced the anger in her voice. "And we can't do it on our own, it's just too painful. For both if us."
She came closer to him, running her hand down his back, trying to ease his trembling form. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean accuse you of anything, I know you did the best you could…"
She seemed on the verge of tears now but he was still in too much of a confused, panicked daze to be able to deal with it. He pulled away from her and went straight upstairs to the bedroom, locking himself in.
He barely spoke to her for the rest of the night.
--
She was right, of course.
He couldn't talk about it. He couldn't even think about it; it was too ghastly.
When it snuck up on him, it left him with too many feelings to control. Anger, Guilt. Pain. Hatred. Love. Fear.
So he pushed it all away. It was easier just not to deal with it at all.
Still, not a day had passed without it entering his mind: what if they had been just a little later in finding her?
Images of a broken body would flash before his eyes, almost making him sick to his stomach.
She would have never been the same again, that he was certain of. His beautiful, radiant wife – full of life, full of smiles. He could only image what would have become of her.
Such self-loathing coursed through his veins that for a moment he had trouble breathing. It would have been on him.
He watched her now from his office upstairs, determinedly walking across the bullpen with a few files tucked under her arm. When they awoke this morning there seemed to be an unspoken truce hanging between them. They were polite to each other, as if nothing had happened the night before.
He hated that. He'd rather have her mad at him that pretending everything was fine when it wasn't.
So pull yourself together and fix things, he told himself impatiently. She's the victim here. You're the one who's supposed to support her in whatever she wants to do.
He watched her go back to her station. She used her keypad to finish up something, then grabbed her jacket and her purse. His heart was suddenly pounding as he watched her walk away.
It's now or never. Do it… Do it!
Without thinking, he abruptly got up from his chair and headed downstairs. She was almost in medical by the time he caught up with her.
"Michelle!"
She turned around, looking utterly surprised to hear him call her name. He went over to her and reached for her arm, pulling her slightly to the side. He scratched the side of his face uncomfortably before clearing his throat.
"Look uh… I'll- I'll come with you. Alright?"
She looked stunned for a moment, then to his concentration, said in a small voice, "Tony, I'm sorry about last night. I shouldn't have screamed at you like that, I know it wasn't your f–"
"No. Hey…" He couldn't stand to hear her apologize. "You were right, I… I can't…"
She didn't make him finish and just and wrapped her arms around his neck. He felt himself hugging her back, his eyes closed, his nose buried into that spot where her neck met her shoulder.
"Thank you," he heard her whisper, barely audible against the collar of his shirt. He just held her tighter.
When she pulled back, she reached for his hand and gave it a gentle tug, her lips turning upwards into a tiny smile.
"You go on, I'll be there in a minute," he told her, squeezing her hand, "I just have to call Jack and tell him he's in charge for the next hour."
--
This wasn't so bad.
They were seated next to each other on the couch, across from the psychologist. It amazed him how at ease she was, how open – his resolute wife, who only ever showed vulnerability in the presence of a few select people.
Yet she had answered honestly, thoughtfully to every question the therapist had asked her. She talked of how she had excused herself to go to the bathroom, to check in with CTU. How they had ganged up on her, how she had refused sex and Welsh had lost his temper, saying she owed it to him because she'd led him on. How they had dragged her into that storage room. How she had managed to scratch one of the men across the face in the process.
Of course, he already knew all of this. He'd read the debrief. But it was the first time he heard it come out of her mouth, and the first time he'd learned not only the facts, but also about her fear, helplessness, humiliation. That utter loss of power that he knew was her worst nightmare.
"How do you feel about all this, Tony?" the therapist asked gently when Michelle had finished her story.
He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. There was no easy answer to that, and he didn't even know where to begin.
"Was it hard for you to hear?" Susan helped him after a moment.
He nodded slowly. "Yes."
"Why?"
Again, he struggled for a moment, not knowing how to recognize the answer he knew was deep down in his gut. Then he lifted his eyes to look at the counselor, realizing it was gloriously simple.
"Because she's my wife. And I wasn't there to protect her."
There was a stunned silence for a minute. Then Michelle said quietly, the disbelief apparent in her voice, "Tony… you saved me. How can you say you didn't –?"
"And I came this close to being too late!" he snapped at her, showing her an inch of space between his thumb and forefinger.
Another silence hung in the room, before Susan leaned forward and said gently, "Tony, what happened to Michelle was not your fault. You couldn't have known it would happen, and if my memory serves me correctly, you didn't even want her to be a part of the operation in the first place."
He took this in for a moment. It was all true and yet, there was still something he desperately needed to get off his chest.
"It's just…" He took a breath. "The thought of anyone hurting her, or touching her, or forcing her into anything she doesn't want… I just, I can't…" He shook his head. "I don't know how to deal with that."
It was quiet for a moment, the only movement in the room being Michelle gently placing a hand on his thigh. He lifted his eyes to meet hers for a second and then lowered them again. He didn't know how to respond to the love and gratitude he had seen her gaze.
"So you blame yourself," Susan concluded, and he noticed she didn't even pretend it was a question.
He ran his tongue over his teeth and nodded slowly. "Yeah, I guess so."
Susan watched him carefully. "And do you realize now how wrong that is?"
He took a moment to answer, wanting to be truthful. Finally, a ghost of a smile washed over his face before he spoke. "Logically, I think I do. But to actually stop feeling responsible… It's gonna take some time."
--
That evening, at home, they talked about it further. It was not something they had consciously planned, though both knew when they left the psychologist's office that their issues were not yet completely resolved. It was more a natural development their mutual therapy session had resulted in.
They sat at the kitchen counter, talking quietly. They were honest with each other, and she was at ease and willing to share, but after a while he still got the feeling that she was holding something back. He told himself more than once that he was just imagining it, but it was an inkling that never really went away.
And sure enough; after more than two hours and a short silence, she finally said softly, "Can I ask you something?"
He nodded. "Sure."
She took a deep breath and eyed him carefully. "It's just… When you talked today about how you couldn't stand the thought of anyone mistreating me… Tony, it scares me a little. What if he had raped me?"
"Michelle…" He shook his head. "Look, there's no use in–"
"No, I need to know." Her eyes never left his face and for some reason he had trouble looking back at her. "If he had raped me… Would you have ever gotten over it? Would you have ever been able to look at me the same way as you do now?"
His mouth was suddenly dry and he just sat there, frozen. His mind was spinning, worst case scenarios flashing through his brain a mile a minute, and there was no stopping them this time. Bursting in that room during the horrible act, bursting in afterwards, finding her half-naked, half-broken, half-delirious… He couldn't think about that, he couldn't…
He looked at her, watching her shoulders sag, and disappointment and pain slowly cloud her gorgeous brown eyes when his answer didn't come. She slowly got up and all but fled up the stairs, refusing to meet his gaze as she passed him.
He wanted to call after her but his voice caught in his throat, and he turned away, hating himself. He sat there for a moment, almost in shock.
What if he had raped her?
Amidst his confusing whirlwind of emotions, there was only one thing he was relatively certain of. He would have killed Nick Welsh. He couldn't imagine being able to live with himself knowing that his wife's rapist was still breathing.
But other than that? Would the rape have changed his relationship with her? Was the idea of someone forcing his wife to have sex so repelling to him that he would allow it to destroy the best thing that had ever happened to him?
He suddenly felt a sharp stab in his chest.
What's the matter with you?
Of course it wouldn't have changed anything. You'd still love her with the same purity as you do now. Unconditionally. She'd still drive you crazy, she'd still turn you on. She'd still be the love of your life, and the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. You couldn't stop loving her if you tried.
And suddenly he realized what an idiot he was. How he'd let her insecurities distract him from the most stable, most constant thing in his life.
He got up, knowing he had to square this with her before it was too late, before she had permanently printed the thought into her brain and he'd never completely be able to get it out.
She was sitting on the foot of their bed, one hand in her lap and the other wiping across her eyes. Pain and guilt overwhelmed him at the sight. She hadn't really cried since the night of the events.
"Michelle…" He went over to her and crouched down in front of her, his one hand resting on the back of her neck. "Aw, Michelle…"
"No," she said quickly, her voice thick with tears as she tried to brush him off, "You don't have to say anything, I–"
"Just shut up for a minute and listen." He gently pulled her hand from in front of her eyes and held in firmly in her lap. When he spoke his voice was hoarse with emotion. "If he had succeeded in raping you, I would have been… devastated. But only because it kills me to see you suffer. Not because some sick bastard could ever change the way I feel about you…"
She stopped shuffling her feet and slowly looked up to meet his eyes. "Really?"
He threw his head back in disbelief. "Honey…" And his voice would have sounded disapproving if it wasn't so filled with pain. "Nothing could ever make me not want you." His thumb gently ran across her tearstained cheek, holding her gaze. "Don't you know that?"
She looked at him for a moment before a tiny sound came from the back of her throat and she lowered herself into his lap. His arms automatically went around her, pulling her close and running his fingers through her hair. And as he felt her face press into his neck, he realized with relief that for the first time since that terrible night, he felt they were finally on the same page concerning what happened.
He slowly rubbed her back and let his lips linger against the side of her face, finally knowing with certainty that everything was going to be alright.