Six Days

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The news wasn't good, although all concerned would freely admit it could have been much worse. Michele was unable to speak. Somewhere between her brain and her mouth, the neurons would misfire and left her unable to articulate anything of value, even though she could and did understand at least a dozen languages. The problem also carried over to her ability to read and write. She could actually do both, but poorly, as if she had reverted to the level of a kindergartener, and it was unknown how much of those skills she would be able to regain. It had been less than a week since she'd regained consciousness so no one, including Michele, saw the situation as hopeless. Frustrating, yes, but not hopeless.

They'd also learned that standing for her produced the equivalent of severe vertigo, complete with nausea; her miniscule height suddenly seeming as if it were a thousand times greater and the floor beneath her feet a bottomless pit away. Her coordination was less than perfect, which only added to the vertiginous effect and often left her leaning heavily against the nearest stable object, eyes closed and gulping to keep down the little that was in her stomach. That condition had begun to improve after a series of mild seizures - something that still made no sense to the doctors who were caring for her, but it was difficult to argue the fact that it seemed to work. She was still shaky and weak, but within two days, she managed to stagger the few steps from the bed to bathroom and back with the aid of a walker. She wasn't thrilled with the accomplishment, plainly wanting everything to be normal, but she kept going. Pushing herself as much as she was able.

They had cautiously filled in her missing years, giving her broad strokes of information instead of the fine lines she wanted. So, she knew her husband had passed away and was out of her life for good, but not how he'd died. She knew she'd worked for the Agency, but not how that had come to pass. Met her children, a tearful reunion for all concerned, as Michele couldn't help but be upset about not seeing her children grow up. Met friends she had forgotten - Bobby had been his smooth and sexy best, charming her within minutes. Claire had even made the trip from LA, where she now lived, in hopes of triggering some of those lost memories, but with no obvious effect.

It had been more difficult to explain to Michele about what she was. She was aware of her empathy and the fact she was most certainly communicating with people without speaking. She handled the Cliff Notes version of the story without laughing out loud, though it was obvious she had wanted to. When the subject of the Quicksilver had come up, she had shown nothing but disbelief, wanting them to quit with the joking - until Mike injected something into the IV line, which caused her to Quicksilver. Somehow, some part of her remembered what to do next and she had triggered it to fall away, and when she reappeared it was Darien she was staring at and not Mike, although even she could not explain why.

Darien had developed a routine that worked for everyone, as during the day the doctors tended to want to poke and prod her near constantly, tests and questions and who knew what else as they tried to determine the extent of the brain damage. Because she was, in many ways, unique, the damage was not matching the known standards, so treatment was hit or miss as they rewrote the book on brain function. He would go to work in the morning, keeping his business running and in the black - he'd finally explained exactly what was going on to his employees, who surprised him by being completely supportive, especially when they figured out this was The Girl that their boss had been mooning over for years.

Lunchtime was spent with Michele, who was slowly learning to eat solid food again. He would bring something different every day and share tidbits with her while she partook a variety of protein shakes and meat broths about which she was totally unenthusiastic. Sometimes the foods he brought would trigger memories, which she would share. He would then head back to work for the afternoon, while she got to experience that day's round of physical therapy, which often left her achy or in outright pain when he showed up after dinner to spend a few hours with her in the evening. Sometimes he'd read to her, other times they'd talk, him carefully filling in some of the blanks about her, but more often than not just telling her about the changes in the world since 1996. The late news was always useful for starting a topic of discussion.

Darien improved steadily at being able to 'read' her, both with and without touch. That spot in the back of his head that used to be reserved for her presence woke up, and within days, he was able to feel her from a couple yards away. And today what he could feel as he approached the room was building anger and the desire to be left alone. He paused in the doorway as Chele weakly pushed Mike away from her as she attempted to make her way across the floor towards a nearby table that held a few of her personal belongings that had been brought in recently.

"Damn it, Michele, I'm just trying to help," Mike snapped, plainly at his wits end with the stubborn streak she was letting run wild today.

As Darien strode into the room, ignoring the argument between the siblings, Michele spun about and growled inarticulately at her brother. However, the movement was too much for her fragile sense of balance and she swayed, on the verge of falling over and onto the floor. Darien reached out a hand, set it on her shoulder until she had steadied and then let go. She shot him a grateful smile and continued on her way to the table, where she picked up what looked like a travel kit and then made her way back to the bed with her prize.

"You are no help at all," Mike complained to Darien.

"Looked like I was just the right amount of help," Darien pointed out as he took up his usual seat next to the bed, picked up the remote, and turned on the TV.

"She's not ready to..."

A low growl emanated from the bed, as Michele waved a hand sharply to put an end to Mike's statement. Darien caught the wash of righteous anger and indignation that came off her. A low hum also began to build in the room, signaling that her extra abilities were waking up and choosing to get involved with the situation. Mike had already mentioned the need to retrain her once she was stronger.

"So, any luck with alternate communication methods?" Darien asked casually as he surfed through the channels for something to distract her.

"No," Mike stated, tearing his eyes away from Chele to look at Darien. "She can't even form words telepathically. It's leaving her a bit short-tempered."

"I noticed," Darien agreed, earning a glare from her, followed by a huff of discontent. He'd come up with an idea the night before and done some research on the Internet, but hadn't gotten around to suggesting it. Now was as good a time as any, he supposed. "Have you tried signing? From what I've read it uses a different part of the brain than regular language and Michele knows it." He gave her a grin. "You taught me the basics."

Mike thought about the suggestion for several minutes before shrugging. "Can't hurt to try," He then signed, ::You are a stubborn brat.::

::And you are an ass,:: she responded without even pausing to think about it. Her hand movements were choppy and uneven, but understandable even by Darien.

"We have a winner," Darien commented with barely restrained glee, not bothering to point out that electronics were no longer contemplating going all Exorcist on them.

She didn't take notice of his words and went into a rant at her brother that was surely impressive, but far beyond Darien's ability to translate. He caught the gist of it though. Something along the lines of her not wanting to be babied by Mike any longer that he eventually interrupted with a few choice words of his own.

"You cannot do this on your own," he barked, truly angry for the first time.

::I have to:: she signed. ::I am the one who is broken and you cannot fix me no matter how much you may want to::

Darien held his tongue, knowing that the truth of her statement was not what Mike wanted to hear right now. He'd spent so much time worrying over her, trying everything in his power to encourage her to go on living only to, in his eyes, fail and watch Darien succeed.

"Broken?" Mike's voice was choked. "You're not broken." He moved towards the bed, but stopped short, suddenly unsure of himself.

She shook her head. ::I am, and you are afraid I always will be,:: she asserted and Mike gaped at her. ::You know as well as I do this might be it. I might not get any better, might never learn to read or write, never walk without help, but... but I have to try. On my own.::

Mike sighed heavily and sat down on the edge of the bed, one hand running roughly through his hair. "Well, you are as damnably logical as ever. Just... there's no hurry. You don't have to try and do everything now," Mike reminded her. "Another day, or month won't make any great difference."

"He's right," Darien said softly, not certain he had any right to toss in his two cents.

Chele turned to face him. ::Technically, we both are,:: she corrected with a hint of a smile lighting up her eyes.

Mike chuckled. "At least she still has her sense of humor." He patted her on the calf and stood up. "We'll talk about it tomorrow, okay?" She nodded in response. "Enjoy your evening," he said to the two of them and then left the room, swinging the door shut behind him and giving them some privacy.

"You all right?" Darien asked, one hand stroking along her arm. She was wearing the bracelet; the one he'd discovered under his bed and brought along that eventful day when he walked back into her life.

She gave him a brilliant smile and nodded. ::I want to wake up from this weird dream, but, yes, I am all right.:: She scratched the side of her head and then grumbled under her breath. ::Could you give me a hand?::

"With what?"

She ran her fingers along the bandages, searching for something, and when she found it began tugging at the tape that held them in place. She had to stop when her hands refused to cooperate any longer. ::I want them off. I want to see me.::

"Are you sure?" Darien asked, wondering how long she'd been arguing with her brother over this.

::Yes,:: she assured him.

"Okay." He stood up and she shifted so that he could easily get to where the gauze ended at the back of her head. He'd been curious as to why the bandages were still in place given the stitches had been removed long before. Her face appeared just as it always had, but he knew there was a chance that what lay beneath could look far from normal and not just due to a lack of hair. Bobby's comments about what a sniper bullet could do had led to also sorts of images being conjured up in his mind, many of which were any thing but pretty.

He slowly unwound the gauze, revealing more of the top of her head to his sight. Her hair was little more than a soft fuzz, just beginning to curl, but the same brilliant red he remembered. Where the bullet had entered was obvious, a slight indentation of her skull, where the bone was still rebuilding, the scar still raw-looking and hairless, but he was pretty sure once she had healed and her hair had grown longer it would go virtually unnoticed. Her hands went to her head as soon as the last of the bandages were gone; fingers tracing delicately across her skull, along the surgical scar above her right ear and the entry wound.

With shaking hands, she opened the travel kit, removed a small mirror, and slowly raised it until she could see herself. There was an audible groan of dismay and tears welled in her eyes.

"Hey," he said to get her attention. When that didn't work he cupped her chin and turned her head to face him, his other hand removing the mirror from her nerveless grip. "You are beautiful," he told her, and meant it. She was heartbreakingly lovely to his eyes, the short hair making her look even younger than before.

She wiped away the tears that had spilled, and then rested her hand against his cheek. A wordless wave of thanks tickled his mind; followed a moment later by a sudden feeling of apology. Her hand dropped, her eyes rolling back as she went into another seizure, this one easily a grande mal, if he were any judge, her entire body quaking with it. He hit the emergency call button and then did his best to steady her, talking to her as calmly as he could manage while she shuddered beneath him.

Within seconds, two nurses, Dr. Stanwyck and Mike were in the room and going into what had become routine over the last few days. Instead of having Darien move out of the way, they worked around him, his hand practically trapped in her grip. So, he sat on the edge of the bed and tried to think small and not interfere any more than necessary.

This seizure was by far the strongest they had seen yet, her readings way off the known scale, as her brain set off random neurons and wreaked havoc with her body. It went on for nearly five minutes, Stanwyck debating the merits of giving her a muscle relaxant to ease the stress, when she finally went limp; the numbers diving back towards normal. Still, Darien didn't move and listened as the foursome discussed the situation.

As had happened before, she didn't immediately wake up, the misfire plainly having exhausted her and taking her straight into a deep sleep. Darien made it clear he was going to stay until she awoke and took up vigil at her bedside once again. The only reason it wasn't a lonely were the plethora of people who stopped by the room to check on her. Everyone in the building seemed to worry over her, doubly so now that she had woken up.

It was three hours of waiting, with dozens of micro-seizures recorded by the EEG, during which time Darien did his best to distract himself. Eberts stopping by had been a weird experience. The brown-nosing pencil-pusher Darien remembered was possessed of a strength and composure that he had never suspected lay beneath the veneer of accountant. Not only did Eberts show his heartfelt concern for Michele, he made it plain that no matter what the outcome, he and the Agency were going to stand behind her, that she would not become another Charlie Fogarty. Proof that some things had indeed changed for the better with the passing of the torch.

Mike must have been watching the monitors in the viewing room, for he was at her side within seconds of her regaining consciousness. Darien had just enough time to set down the book he'd been reading and turn to look at her when she'd begun to moan softly, her eyelids fluttering as she tried to open them.

"Easy, Chele, you had another one," Mike soothed, one hand running lightly across her forehead as if wanting to brush nonexistent hair away. Then he turned to Darien. "We were leaving the bandages on for a reason, you know."

Darien felt a twinge of guilt for helping her, guessing the removal of the coverings had been one of many arguments between the pair during the last few days. "To protect the injury or her?" Darien asked, willing to bet it was the latter of the two.

Mike frowned. "Must you take her side in everything?"

"You're worse than Hobbes ever was," Darien stated, beginning to get tired of Mike's over-protectiveness himself. "This is not about sides. It's about what's best for her. She has a right to know what's going on. It's her life, after all, not yours."

"No shit," Mike hissed. "And I seem to recall you walking out of hers five years ago. What makes you even think you have any idea what is best for her?"

Darien sucked in a breath in shock. Apparently, Mike hadn't been as much a part of the bring Darien in to help' camp as he'd been led to believe. "I don't claim to," Darien said, his voice ominously flat. "I'm pretty damn sure she can make up her own mind."

Mike proceeded to turn a lovely shade of crimson, and appeared to be preparing to blast Darien with a scathing retort when a quavering voice stopped both of them cold.

"S...s...s...to...op, p...p...p...pleas...s...s...se," Michele struggled to say.

"Crap," Darien muttered, wondering how long she'd been listening to the testosterone-influenced posturing between he and Mike before speaking up. He felt his heart pause its beating before suddenly tripling speed. "You spoke," he squeaked in surprise.

She nodded. "P....p.....pl....ay n....n....n...ice," she ordered, tossing in a mock glare for good measure.

"We were," Mike said, glancing at Darien for an instant, his look hard. "There were no punches being thrown."

"Y...y...y...y...et," Chele pointed out.

Darien agreed, "Yet," suspecting that the cessation of hostilities was temporary at best. "How're you feeling?"

"T...t....t...ired," she admitted.

"Then sleep," Mike told her. "They're going to want to run more tests tomorrow."

Michele rolled her eyes and huffed discontentedly. "T...t...t...es..s...sts e...ev......vil."

"Tell me about it. Keepy used to get giddy running em on me. Just one more, Darien'," he mimicked in a falsetto, complete with awful British accent.

Chele snickered, giving him a smile that was quickly swallowed up by a yawn. "D...d....d...dar...ien," she began, making his heart jump with joy at hearing her say his name. "St....st...st...ay?"

Darien glanced at Mike, whose lips were nothing but a thin line, waiting for him to grant permission for Darien to remain with his sister. Be easier if he could sneak around behind Mike's back. Eventually Mike gave a curt nod.

"'Til you fall asleep. I have a meeting first thing I can't miss." Not a lie, but since Mike clearly wanted him out of the picture for a while, Darien would forgo his plans to reschedule the meeting and ignore his personal wish to stay with her.

She nodded and turned to meet her brother's eyes.

"Oh, all right, I'll leave you two alone," Mike grumbled, released her hand and walked from the room. This time he left the door open.

"He's worried about you," Darien explained, wishing that he believed it was only that.

She shakily signed, ::He is still being an ass.::

Darien shrugged. "I'd say it's allowed, given the situation." She surprised him by grasping his hand, dragging it over, and kissing his palm. "What was that for?" he asked, valiantly attempting to keep his composure.

She looked confused for a second. ::Because I wanted to,:: she finally answered. ::I apologize if it makes you uncomfortable.::

Apologize? Uncomfortable? Damn, he'd wanted her to do that for years, but right now, he wasn't sure how to handle it. He had all this knowledge about her, about them that left her with a distinct disadvantage. "'Chele... I care about you. I think you've figured that out," She nodded, "but... like with your recovery, we have time. All the time in the world."

She shook her head. ::What if we don't?::

It was almost as if she knew something he didn't, but he couldn't... wouldn't allow that to change his mind and try to rush things. "A'course we do. I said I wasn't gonna leave, remember?"

She dredged up a smile from somewhere and didn't argue, but he couldn't help but notice the trace of disagreement in her eyes.