Talk to me
A/N: Hopefully this chapter won't disappoint! I've been a bit critical over it, but figured I'd post it anyway! Hope you like it.
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She opens the door slowly, just looks at him without saying anything.
He's waiting for her to tell him to go away, to get the hell off her property.
After the way he argued with her only a few hours ago, he wouldn't be at all surprised.
His stomach is somersaulting and his palms are damp, as he hesitantly meets her eyes. Uncertain of what he will see when he looks at her; he is surprised to see she is wearing a fairly neutral expression. Not one trace of anger or resentment is evident on her pretty face.
Instead, she holds open the door for him to step into her house. "Come on in," she says simply.
"Thanks," he says weakly, following her into her hallway and feeling his breath escape him in a little whoosh of relief. His eyes drift downward to her Snoopy slippers, and despite himself he raises his eyebrows.
"You want a drink?" she offers without missing a beat as she kicks them off, "tea? Coffee? Diet soda? Water?"
"Um, a water would be good thank you."
"Living room's through there," she points, her eyes lingering over his distressed face, "I won't be a second."
He nods silently as he sits down on her sofa, moving a bright throw pillow out of his way carefully taking in her home. Her house is a little larger than his, and her living room is decorated in vibrant shades of terracotta and red, giving it a real earthy feel. On the wall are reproductions of famous artists work- he recognises one by Kandinsky, another by Rembrandt. Evidently she likes colour. He is a little surprised- she seems so demure at work with her tailored pinstripe suits. Houseplants are scattered around in front of a big window leading onto an open patio covered in roses and trailing bougainvillea. A bookcase that stands in the far corner is filled to bursting with books, but from here he can't see the titles.
She returns a moment later with a glass of iced water for him, and a diet cola for herself.
"Thanks," he says quietly, as she sits down opposite him.
"You ok?" she asks. A stupid question, she knows, as he is clearly not. He is so tense his shoulders are rigid, as he sits ramrod straight on her sofa. She can tell he is uncomfortable to be here, but she knows why he's came.
She realises he's nervous as hell, she waits for him to speak. Instead, he shakes his head mutely in answer and stands up, walking over to the window and looking out at the patio. "I like your house," he ventures after a moment.
"Thank you," she says with a small smile as they sit in strained silence for a couple more minutes. She knows that whatever he's came here to say will be hard for him, difficult. She doesn't push him; instead she figures that if she shares something with him, maybe he'll open up to her a little more.
"You know, I didn't speak to my mom and dad for more than ten years," she says after a couple of moments.
He stills and looks down at her. Finally she seems to have his undivided attention. "You didn't?"
"Nope," she shakes her head a little sadly.
"How come?"
"My dad mostly," she replies, running her little finger over the rim of her glass. "When I was sixteen, they tried to get me to marry some guy, back in Pakistan."
His eyes widen a little, "like an arranged marriage?"
She nods.
"That still goes on in Muslim households?" he asks, sitting down in the chair opposite her again. Curiosity at her circumstances briefly takes his mind off his own situation and the reason he came here.
"Not all of them. But my dad is pretty old-fashioned about things like that. We'd been living in the States since I was six, but his mind-set was still back in Pakistan."
"What did you do?" he's interested, despite himself.
"I refused to marry a guy I didn't know and didn't love," she said simply, "so they disowned me. I left. Went to stay with some cousins out in California, and I've been in LA ever since. End of story I guess. They never really approved of what they considered to be my 'Westernised' lifestyle right from when I was a kid."
"They just cut you off, completely? Just because you didn't want to get married?" he's a little surprised by the story, and the fact that she's been through something like that. Maybe she does know a little something about pain and anger.
"It hurt," Nadia admits, "I missed seeing my younger sister's growing up, and I missed my parents, despite what they did to me. We started talking again about six years ago, but even now I think my dad resents that I don't embrace a fully Muslim lifestyle like they do."
He's silent as she finishes telling her story, but his eyes ask her: Why are you telling me this?
She meets his eyes and it's like she's reading his thoughts. "I guess I'm telling you this to-- to try and make you see that things happen, that sometimes when you're young you don't really have any control over them, that bad things can happen to you, and it's not your fault. Despite what other people tell you. For ten years, my dad made me believe I brought shame on our entire family.." she breathes out a little: "I guess what I'm trying to say--- is that I know something happened to you a long time ago, and I know that whatever it is, is still messing with your head now."
She looks at him imploringly. "And if you want to tell me Mike, I meant what I said: I'm here to listen."
He's silent, just looking blankly at her for a few moments, gazing into those emotional brown eyes of hers. Thinking back to earlier when he got mad and yelled at her, told her to leave him alone. After the times he's insulted her, shouted at her, pushed her away, she's sat here willing to talk to him, and for some reason, god knows why, she still seems to care.
"Why?" he stammers, at loss for words.
"Why what?" she asks, looking a little puzzled.
"Why are you still offering to listen to me, after everything I said and did? I've been horrible to you Nadia, right from the start. God, I interrogated you… I hurt you… and since I've been back at work I've been a complete asshole to you. I shouldn't be allowed out into the public…I'm a complete liability...They're right: I'm nothing..."
"You always put yourself down like that?" her calm voice brings him back to himself.
"What?"
"I've noticed you have pretty low self esteem Mike," she says gently, "but I'm wondering who 'they' were who told you that you were 'nothing.' Nobody should ever be made to feel like that. You aren't nothing. You could never be nothing."
He's startled at her observations, by the fierceness in her voice, and swallows hard.
"You didn't answer my question. Do you always put yourself down like that?"
"You didn't answer my question," he retorts, his voice faltering a little; "why do I even matter to you?"
She lifts her head, and her beautiful smile is surprisingly gentle. "Why do you think?"
Panic wells in him as he suddenly realises.
She's telling him she has feelings for him.
For him.
After everything he did to try and push her away she's still here and she's admitting she cares. He doesn't deserve it. He doesn't deserve someone like her to be nice to him.
The realisation that her feelings go deeper for him than that of a colleague fills him with wonder, but also fear. Kind of like the way he felt earlier when he realised he was falling in love with her- he'd never ever expected her to feel something back. He abruptly stands up and pushes his hand through his hair, realising that he is shaking. His hands tremble.
She's sitting there silently, not saying anything, not pressurising him to speak. Her brown eyes regard him softly and to his horror he feels tears springing to his eyes. He bites them back and rubs the bridge of his nose defeatedly.
"You can't…" he finally says, meeting her eyes.
"I can't what?" she supplies.
"You can't possibly care about me after the way I've treated you."
"Don't tell me what to feel, Mike," she says simply, standing up and facing him. He towers over her petite frame, but suddenly feels like he is shrinking from the intensity in her eyes, "I've cared about you right from the start, and the feelings aren't going to go away, because God knows, I've tried to ignore them, but I just can't."
She reaches out and runs her palm down his jaw, as he starts at the unexpected contact with her. Her skin is soft and warm, and whilst every iota of his being is telling him to run, for the first time he doesn't.
"I'm messed up…" he whispers, closing his eyes as she brushes a strand of hair from his eyes, revelling in the feel of her gentle fingertips.
"I know," she admits with a rueful smile, "I kind of figured that out from day one..."
He opens his eyes and this time instead of ice they are a vivid blue, she is overcome by the emotion she sees there as he looks down at her. He is frightened by his feelings and his voice shakes as he speaks, it takes him every ounce of courage he possesses to tell her what he knows he needs to and something he's never told anyone else before; "I—I care about you, too."
She smiles and her heart sings in relief, even as her eyes well with tears. "Then please just talk to me."
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They sit on her sofa and she can see he doesn't know where to begin. He opens his mouth to speak a couple of times, stops, and then runs an aggrieved hand through his hair in frustration. He feels hot, flustered.
Anxious.
"Take your time," she says softly, "I'm not going anywhere."
As he looks at her, he realises she means it. His feelings for this woman overwhelm him and suddenly he can't comprehend the situation. Is he really contemplating telling her everything?
I've cared about you right from the start…
Yes. He'll tell her. Because she's right. It's messing with his head, and sometimes things get too much for him to deal with on his own. Maybe, for the first time ever, he doesn't want to be alone anymore.
She is the first person he has ever trusted.
And for some insane reason, despite everything he's said and done to her, she has feelings for him.
"My dad--" he begins, then pauses, he looks at her and her eyes are encouraging him to continue, so he does; "my dad used to beat me."
Tears sparkle in her eyes as he continues; ".. when I was ten years old, my mom walked out on us. He used to hit her, and when she left, I became his new punch bag."
"You were ten?" she asks carefully. She'd guessed of a story in a similar vein, but she'd had no idea he'd been abused from such a young age. No wonder he was messed up, didn't like people getting close to him, had issues with trust… her heart breaks for him as he resumes his story.
"I was ten," he confirms, the expression on his face bitter. "He was an alcoholic.. typical scenario I know. I used to hide under the bed when he started ranting and raving, my mom would always hide with me, but she'd left and I was on my own. She—" he takes a deep breath, "she always used to promise that she'd never leave me.."
"Where did she go?" Nadia asks him softly. She'd known it would be bad, but had never expected something like this.
"I don't know," he replies, "she left a note on the mantle one day and I found it when I got in from school. All it said was 'sorry, I can't take this anymore' or something to that effect. I never heard from her again."
"Ever?" Nadia is shocked to the core that someone could abandon their own child, vanish without a trace… leave their own son with someone so violent.
"Ever," he confirms with a frown, "even to this day." His voice falters a little again, "I figure now, that it got so bad for her that instead of just running, maybe she went away and killed herself," he contemplates this scenario, "there was no reports of a body or anything though, but I guess I wouldn't blame her, I used to think about it myself all the time. That's why she's listed as 'dead' in my file, because to me, I guess she is."
A tear spills down her cheek as she imagines the pain and confusion he must have gone through at having his mother leave him like that; to know that he was completely on his own with a deadbeat father who would hurt him. "You've never tried tracking her down?"
"I didn't want to," he admits, "I know he hit her, but I was her kid, and she left me with him, so he could hurt me too. She'd know that, what he would do to me. I—I guess I can't forgive her."
She nods, not judging. Understanding.
"The first time he hit me was the night she left, I was hiding under my bed and he dragged me out and started laying into me. After that, the beatings just became more and more frequent…"
"What set him off?" Nadia asks in horror, her heart aching for him.
"Little things," Mike replied, "once he kicked me and broke three of my ribs because he said it was my fault he got fired from his job, but mainly it was the booze I guess- it turned him into some kind of animal. He used to spend whatever money he had on alcohol, and he used to gamble too. Some times I went days without eating anything. I had to get a paper route and I cleaned cars, just so I could buy food so I didn't starve."
"Oh Mike..."
"I was pretty messed up at school. My grades slipped and stuff for a couple of years, I lost all my friends, I just didn't want people to know what was happening to me. Even though he was hitting me, he was still my dad, y'know? I guess I always hoped he could change," his smile is bitter again, "but he never did. He just got worse."
"Didn't you tell anyone what was happening to you?" she asks desperately, "I mean, the bruises—"
"He was pretty good at hitting me in places where the bruises didn't show so much, he hardly ever marked my face. I think maybe some of my teachers figured what was happening but I always made out I was fine. Even in July I wore sweaters, just to hide the marks- the cuts and the bruises. One time he lashed my back with his belt buckle so many times that I probably should have had stitches but I was scared to go to the hospital in case people asked questions. I always used to try and clean myself up and try and forget about it- at least until the next time--- but I still have the scars. I---I think most of all though, I was ashamed and that's why I didn't tell nobody. I didn't want anyone to know about what he was doing to me."
She wipes at her damp cheeks. His face is impassive as he's telling her this, but his hands are shaking. "You had nothing to be ashamed over," she tells him fiercely, "you still don't."
He shrugs but she can tell with a pang of sadness, that he doesn't really believe her, "after a while, I think I just got used to the beatings. They became a way of life. Sometimes I managed to get away from him, but more often than not he used to drag me out of bed and just lay into me for no reason. Once I ran away, but the cops dragged me back, and that night he laid into me and broke my arm. I did go to the hospital this time and he told the doctors I'd been in a car crash-they believed him because my injuries were so bad. "
She gasps in horror; "Oh god..."
"The last time he hit me I was fifteen," Mike says quietly, taking a deep breath, "but this time I hit him back. He made me so angry, I just lashed out, I couldn't help it... after that, he never laid a hand on me again. He was still a negligent parent and he still yelled at me, but he didn't touch me. I left home at eighteen and went to college, managed to get a scholarship and worked two jobs to get by... I think I only saw him once more after that, right after I graduated, when he turned up drunk at my apartment, asking for money. Then I got the job training with Field Ops and moved out to Denver to get the hell away from him."
"What happened to him?" Nadia asks. She wants to hold him, soothe away his pain but a part of her is scared he'll back away from her, and she can't stand the thought of that- not when they're making so much progress.
"He died," Mike replies tonelessly, "of alcohol poisoning. His liver gave out three years ago."
"Oh." She doesn't say she's sorry, because she's not, and she knows he isn't either. He hurt him, and he should have been made to pay for what he did. Dying was too easy. She realises there's still things Mike's not telling her, but she knows that in time, maybe he will.
"I didn't go to the funeral," he ventures after a moment's silence. He feels exhausted, drained after getting so much off his chest in one go. She can see he's tired.
"I wouldn't have gone to the funeral either," she tells him, and he instantly feels relieved, not to be judged. How is it that she always knows to say the right thing to make him feel better?
"I argued with Milo over it back in Denver," he confesses, ashamed, "I regret that now."
"Did Milo know the circumstances and what your father did to you?" Nadia asks.
"No."
"Then he couldn't possibly understand," Nadia tells him simply. "I don't think anyone could, unless they've been through it themselves."
"I feel bad for it though," Doyle admits, "I never told him that I regretted that, and I know you guys were close... h—he saved your life."
"He was a good friend," Nadia says carefully.
He lifts his head and looks at her, a little confused, his mind whirling; "just a friend? I thought…" his voice trails off uncertainly.
"He had feelings for me," Nadia replies with a sad smile, "but I didn't return them the way I knew he wanted me to. Maybe in different circumstances, I could have because he was such a sweet guy, but I didn't. I've felt bad about that ever since. He sacrificed himself for me, and I didn't deserve it."
"You guys weren't… together?"
"No," she tells him honestly. "He kissed me, but that was as far as it went." There is a look in his eyes now and she can't read it. She wants to tell him that all thoughts about Milo flew out of her head the second she set eyes on him, but she doesn't want to freak him out. Instead she waits, can practically see the wheels turning in his mind as he ponders whether or not to tell her something.
"I was jealous of Milo," he admits eventually as her heart thuds a little more quickly. "That first day at CTU… what I said about you two wanting to—about him wanting to get into your pants—" his voice trails off, ashamed, "I was mad, because I thought you guys had something and I wanted it to be me."
She gapes a little at this unexpected confession; "you were jealous?"
"As hell," he says wryly, standing up and gazing out the window again. Suddenly it is easier to be honest with her and it helps if those gorgeous eyes of hers are not distracting him. "I was attracted to you right off, then I had to interrogate you…" he swallows, "I'm so sorry I had to hurt you. You have to believe me; I never wanted to make you feel like that. I hate myself for what I did to you. I was ready to quit after that day--- the way you looked at me when I had my hands on your throat—" his voice cracks a little, "and what you said about me liking hurting people? I can remember it even now."
"You were doing your job," she is still staring at him in amazement, never ever expecting him to say the things he has. "You said you regretted it at the time. I don't hold it against you."
"You should," he says more clearly now, "I've never forgiven myself for it."
"Mike..." she stands up and stands behind him, seeing a mixture of emotions so clearly etched out on his face reflected in the glass, the flush that has risen in his cheeks.
"I'm not using what happened to me as an excuse," he finally says, biting his lip. "But you asked me to tell you, so I am. Nadia, I'm screwed up- I'm in the habit of throwing my weight around and I can be selfish. I'm not great in relationships. I've dated two women my whole life and neither seriously. I feel self conscious because of these scars on my face and I'm not so great with people anyways, especially now I figure they're looking at me thinking I'm—ugly I guess. I'm argumentative, stubborn as hell and I get angry. Little things set me off. Like today- Johnson? I hit him because he said I was nothing. That's what my dad always used to call me: nothing. I guess it triggered memories or something, but I was so mad with what he said about you and that comment, that I just couldn't stop myself from lashing out. I've been on this downward spiral for a long time, now I've quit my job over it, and I'm worried that one day I'll really hurt someone, maybe I really need to go to counselling or something.." he breathes out and she sees how distressed he is, as he continues: "I just don't want the person I hurt to be you."
"I know you'd never hurt me," she tells him softly. "I trust you." With a gentle smile, she runs her fingers lightly over his reddened skin around his eyes; "and your scars certainly don't bother me. I barely notice them anymore; right from when I first met you I thought you were the most handsome guy I'd ever seen," a shy smile creeps across her face at the admission; "everything else I figure we can take one step at a time…any other reasons why you figure I wouldn't want to be with you? Any other get out clauses?"
His eyes look a little watery, bright from tears that he tries to hide. His heart beats a little faster at her sincerity as he shakes his head mutely. He's run out of excuses, but maybe he doesn't want or need to make them any more.
"And for the record?" she says with a little smile, "Johnson totally had it coming when you hit him. Morris has said that you have to get your ass back to work because he can't run Comms without you. If Johnson does press charges, which I think is pretty unlikely after a load of dirt I just managed to uncover about him at Division, then Morris is more than willing to testify that Johnson goaded you and deliberately provoked you."
"He is?"
"Yup, and I can testify to Johnsons mood in my office. I know he came to CTU today expressly with the intention of getting you fired. Don't let him win."
"You want me to come back too?" he asks, looking down at her.
"I kind of like having you around," she says with a small smile, the expression in her eyes moving from solemn to teasing.
"I—"
Whatever he is about to say is cut off by her kiss. She has to stand on tiptoe to brush her lips against his, and she does so very hesitantly, as if fearing he'll pull away from her.
He jumps a little at the unexpected contact, but he doesn't resist her.
Not now.
His lips are soft and warm, and she can taste the cool mintiness of his breath, smell the alluring scent of his aftershave. As if by mutual understanding, the kiss is deepened and he tangles his hands in her hair, pulling her closer to him, their lips clashing urgently. Passionately. His hard shoulder blades tense under her hands as she reflects a little dizzily that no kiss has ever made her feel like this.
And the way she feels about Mike?
It still hurts her heart, but this time it's a good kind of hurt.
Because she loves him so much that her feelings overwhelm her.
And she figures that maybe in time, he can love her too.
Mike's head is spinning as he kisses her, feeling her small hands clinging tightly to his shoulders and tasting the pleasant fizziness from the diet coke lingering sweetly on her lips. If he'd have known kissing Nadia Yassir would have made him feel like this, he would have done it a hell of a lot sooner.
Well, maybe not. But he sure hopes he'll get the chance to do it again.
And again.
Because he can't think of anything else that's ever meant so much to him as the woman who fits snugly in his arms and he figures that maybe this is some kind of dream and pretty soon he's going to wake up and he wants to get in all the kisses that he can.
When they pull apart for air, she smiles up at him as he just gazes down at her, something not dissimilar to awe in those amazing eyes of his, and then, for the first time ever, she sees him smile. Is astounded by the way it lights up his handsome face.
"You're still here," he murmurs softly, running his hand gently down her jaw with a tenderness she'd never expected him to possess as he looks wonderingly at her.
"And you're smiling," she says happily; she can't help stating the obvious.
"Yeah," he says with a shy little grin that fascinates her as he pushes a lock of her brown hair out of her eyes, his own eyes searching her face for any kind of regret. To his relief there is none. She looks as blown away by the kiss as he feels. "Um, I was thinking that that was a pretty amazing kiss. Just what I needed after today…"
"Me too," she replies, a little timidly, cheeks flushed as she looks up at him, her heart beating a little faster at the way his eyes have lit up when he looks at her- there is a happy expression on his face that she never dreamed she would see and it melts her heart; "So what happens now?"
"Well," he says a little nervously as he bites his lip, "I'm not so experienced in all this kind of stuff, but um, maybe I can take you out to dinner sometime? I mean, if you wanted to, that is…"
"I got a better idea," she says with a smile, knowing how he feels about social situations, but liking the fact that he wants to take her to dinner, despite his own anxieties. She doesn't want to push him- just one step at a time is fine with her. One brick falling one by one. "Maybe popcorn, a movie and curled up on the sofa with you on Friday night?"
He can't stop the grin from spreading right across his face this time. "I'd like that a lot."
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Feedback will make me smile- cheesy? I know, but I thought they deserved some kind of happiness. Have two more small chapters after this, which I will post ASAP.