(A/N) Warg, here. It's been a long time, eh, folks? While we can't promise a return to form, we are returning to updates slowly, and we will get Phase Two done someday. That puppy's already twice the size of P1 and only about two-thirds of the way published, but it's rolling on. As a bit extra while Nick and I edit the main series, Bramble brings us back to a moment in the first finale, balancing on the edge of a happier could-have-been... Thank you again to all our reviewers!

One More Chance

Agent California

Written by Bramblestar14

"If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop your story." - Orson Welles

Silence permeated the waiting room, not a sound breaking the echoing, deafening nothingness and it was all California could do not to lose himself in that silence, the unknown truth of the room beyond that closed door weighing down on him and pressing him until he felt as though he couldn't breathe. None of the other Freelancers were waiting here alongside him; most of them had joined the Mother of Invention's security teams in their pursuit of Arkansas and Pennsylvania's escape pod. It wasn't likely that Freelancer would catch their newly branded traitors though; the duo and their newest ally (he gave an angry hiss inside his own head, unwilling to break the silence that had fallen over the waiting room) had far too large a head-start. He, on the other hand, was stuck outside the emergency theatre, waiting desperately for any possible news on the condition of Agent Michigan. He wasn't an idiot; he'd seen Massachusetts pass away before the eyes of the stunned assembled Freelancers, the defeat in the eyes of the medics as they slowly shook their heads, packing up the only equipment that could have saved the woman when even it failed in its expressly designed purpose.

Alaska had pulled through, mostly likely due to sheer tenaciousness, leaving the Freelancers with one dead and one wounded Freelancer so far. He gritted his teeth at the thought of the stiff, cold form of the Australian lying there, still and peaceful in what was a very violent death at the hands of their local brute and shuddered as his thoughts turned back to Michigan, lying on her own bed, the uncertainty hovering over him and the grief-stricken Freelancers as they wondered if they were losing a second teammate today. And California wasn't an idiot; he knew the statistics of headshot fatalities, saw the despair in the eyes of Florida and North, the unspoken grief in Carolina's eyes at the loss of a subordinate and roommate, even the stiff fury of Maine's towering form when he asked quietly how Mich was doing. He knew that they didn't expect her to survive. He couldn't bring himself to agree with them. It'd take too much from him if he lost her, not now, not after everything they'd been through to get to this point. Not after she, of all the people, knew his whole story and could still stand the sight of him.

There was so much he still had to say to her. He grimaced, clenching his hands and stifling the sob that threatened to escape by biting down on the back of one of his fists, only relenting when his blank, wide-eyed stare into nothing was interrupted by the taste of copper in his mouth. He quickly removed his hand, watching the trail of red flow over his skin absently, wondering whether at that very moment the woman he loved, the woman he hadn't even told that he loved her, was bleeding in exactly the same way, except from a significantly worse injury. He felt like he'd taken the bullet himself, every time he thought back to her still form, the medics rushing around her prone body in desperation that he felt just as keenly. He couldn't do anything to help the people he loved once again and it was killing him as surely as it was killing Michigan.

Even Sota seemed to have given up. Cal closed his eyes, haunted by the vision that flashed behind them, the silent tear tracks running down Minnesota's normally closed-off face as he silently voiced his grief for everyone to see and hear, even without words. The look of desolation on his friend's face was etched into Cal's brain as he recalled his own slack feeling of incomprehension, of how was this happeningthiscouldnotbehappening-

And Minnesota, who hated showing emotion of any kind in public, hugged him around the middle, burying his face into his roommate's shoulder and shaking silently as Cal slowly returned the gesture, eyes finding the injured woman over his roommate's shoulder and he just couldn't do anything. With all the promised power the Freelancers had, why were they all so helpless, out of armour and stood there, watching each other silently without any hope?

The door into the room beyond finally slid open with a hiss of pneumatics, an ominous silence pressing outwards from the operating theatre, several medics and surgeons that the Director had on call at all hours for apparently justified paranoia-based reasons spilling out, walking past the stricken Freelancer until he was finally confronted with the too-stiff Killian Jay, who met California's eyes after a few seconds of tense, oppressive silence and Cal nearly crumpled at the look in the medic's eyes, one that spoke too keenly of loss.

The man gave a long sigh and gestured over his shoulder at the room beyond, inviting Cal inside cautiously. "We've done what we can for her," he said quietly, glancing uncomfortably at Cal's shaking form, before moving on, leaving the Freelancer to stare after him in slack-jawed astonishment and fury. After everything, Massa, Alaska, Mich (he tried to contain his anguished cry at the thought), the man was just walking away? Was he that numb to the suffering the last few hours had instilled on previously unstoppable soldiers?

He turned back to the room beyond the door, the barrier between him and Mich that had slid aside, leaving nothing between them, so why did he feel so afraid of entering, of seeing what was beyond?

Because you think she's dead, supplied the uncomfortably honest voice in the back of his mind. You think you've lost the only person left for you to love and you think it's your fault that you never told her.

He opened his mouth slightly, perhaps to say something, to let out an unknown sound, before pausing, his breath coming ragged and uneven, face locked in his fear, before he shook himself and went to move into the theatre.

"Agent California." The southern drawl was surprisingly quiet and if Cal hadn't recognised it, he would have completed his reflexive motion of removing the hand on his shoulder by force. Instead, he found the Director's face, perhaps paler than usual, though whether that was due to blood loss or the deaths of his agents, Cal didn't know or care. His face was tight, a juxtaposition to his eyes, which were unusually soft as he took in the tremors running through California's body, the emotions boiling away beneath the surface that were close to breaking through the surface. "Are you going in to see her?"

The question was what set Cal off, the tone so understanding, as though the Director needed any reason to believe that he'd go in to say goodbye to the woman he loved so closely. He bared his teeth at his employer, a silent challenge of 'what do you think, old man?' before he turned and entered the room, not wanting to see the pity in Church's eyes, the sign that another person had given up on Michigan.

"I would advise you give her space, California. Crowding will not assist the recovery process."

He stopped dead, a jolt of lightning running through his system as he turned back to Church, his eyes flaring wide as the emotions shone through, the unshed tears finally making themselves known as something filled his chest, an unknown feeling that he didn't recognise, before he turned from the Director and tore into the room, his movements slowing to a standstill as the silence was finally broken. By the sound of a heart monitor, pulsing steadily. And he finally recognised the feelings that were rushing through him, that were changing the emotions filing the tears streaming from his eyes from pain into disbelief, the feelings of hope re-inflating his lungs that had felt compressed and unable to take in oxygen.

He took a few more steps towards the bed at the side of the room, towards the unconscious, but still alive form of Agent Michigan, his eyes drinking in the rise and fall of her chest, the soft sound of breathing that only sleep could induce, the deep sleep of life, not the rattling, empty silence of death.

He could hardly even register that he had fallen to his knees, that he'd finally released the strangled, broken noises from within his chest and that footsteps had followed him to stand beside him, a hand reassuming its position on its shoulder as the Director looked upon the survivor of Arkansas's attack, his eyes bright and a very small, sad smile playing at his face.

"How?" Cal managed to choke out, drinking in Michigan's form, the bandages covering the right hand side of her head, the unhealthy shade of grey her skin had turned and the fact that she looked so small in the bed, a million miles away from the woman that could lift a heavy machine gun and unleash a barrage of fire in any direction she wished. She might look as close to death as it was possible to look, but she had somehow survived.

"We do not know," Church said quietly, his eyes on the heart monitor, the rhythmic pulsing the definitive sign of life that every other Freelancer seemed to have given up on before. "Perhaps a reflexive movement upon seeing Arkansas pull the trigger. Perhaps he did not have the conviction to go through with his first act of rebellion. Whichever is the case, he did not succeed in keeping up his usual degree of accuracy, as my shoulder is also a representative of."

Cal slowly got to his feet, staggering to the end of the bed and staring at the woman he thought he had lost, his world that had collapsed around him ceasing in its self-destruction as he choked back a half-sob, half-laugh, which seemed entirely inappropriate for the situation, but he couldn't stop himself as a stunned smile formed on his face, the smile of a man who could not quite believe that the universe had decided to finally throw him a bone, to allow him this one spark of happiness in his life, rather than dousing it in cold and freezing, lonely chill like it had every other time.

"Congratulations, Agent California," Church continued, turning away. "I once stood where you do now. I understand how you were feeling until a moment ago. I know how it is the loneliest feeling imaginable, to lose that which you love most without being able to control or prevent it. Enjoy your time together while you can, Jason."

He hardly heard the footsteps as they walked away, leaving Cal alone with the sleeping Mich, for he was already moving around the bed to kneel beside her head, a hand reaching out to gently brush her hair from her uncovered eye, revelling silently at the heat under her skin, rather than the chill of death, the rush of air escaping from her nose and the twitch in her fingers as his hand took a gentle hold of hers.

He didn't know how long he sat there, taking in the fact that he wasn't going to be left alone once again, that he could keep what he loved for once, that he didn't need to say goodbye, or be left with the empty ache of being unable to say goodbye. Finally, his thumb gently running over her fingers again and again, he began to speak, not knowing what he was saying or why. He could still picture Alaska opening his eyes and turning to see Massa's cold form in the next bed, the pain that flashed behind his eyes and the dull groan of agony that erupted from his throat as he forced himself to roll onto his side, to reach out and take a hold of her hand. He could see Wyoming's eyes, devoid of amusement, or joy, or empathy as he turned and walked away, and Florida slide to the floor, pressed against the glass separating the Freelancers from their downed colleagues. And he knew just how lucky he was, that he hadn't loss Michigan in the same way that they had lost Massa, that they wouldn't have to bury a second friend.

"I guess Ark couldn't do it, Mich. Or you were quicker than he was, I imagine you'd like that," he managed a quiet chuckle, watching her in her restful, very much alive sleep. "We'll get him, together. Because that's how we'll do things. Together. I'm not losing you again, Mich. I can't." He leaned forwards and pressed his lips to her forehead for a moment, leaning into her warmth just to reassure himself that she was really here, really still with him. "I love you," he whispered into her hair, closing his eyes and giving a small gasp to avoid sobbing once again. "More than anything. I want you to know that, no matter what happens." He'd said it.

She gave the smallest of murmurs in her sleep, her head tilting ever so slightly to rest against his shoulder, and her fingers giving his the slightest reciprocal squeeze. He gave an astonished start, before relaxing against her and allowing her to use him as a recovery pillow. It wasn't like he was going anywhere, after all.

And when Sota found them like that an hour later, a look of joy breaking through the grief on his face as he looked up at his roommate and friend, Cal couldn't help the returning smile, even after a day like this. He looked back down at the woman he loved and back up at his friend, who was feeling the earth-shattering relief that was still flooding Cal's veins. The three of them were together once again, despite the odds.

And Cal knew everything was going to be alright.