I just wanted to say sorry about this in advance… it's just that after my recent attempts at fluff- which I honestly make more trouble than it's worth :p - I needed to write some angst, and now there's more of it than I've ever written before... You might want to bear in mind while reading this- as I did when writing it- that Tony and Michelle really do love each other, and are both just idiots who don't communicate very well half the time; it helps me accept the whole thing better, lol. Anyway, you don't have to review if you don't want to, but I would appreciate it; it would make me feel better about posting such a depressing fic… ;)
Five Days
She had the feeling he wasn't asleep, even though he'd pretended to be when the alarm went off and she'd peered over at him.
She sighed, watching him in lying bed through the bathroom door. He was a different man than he'd been six months ago, and she could hardly blame him for it. She'd watched him slowly withdraw until there was almost nothing left, tearing her own heart to shreds.
His eyes had tormented her the most, invading her dreams, never once allowing her even a moment of peace. They were dead, emotionless- completely unreadable despite her fierce, desperate attempts to decipher them. Once so open and expressive, they now wordlessly told her to back off and leave him alone.
He'd been out for five days, but his eyes were still the same.
She'd requested a few days off at Division when he was released, to help him adjust; and although in their eyes Tony Almeida was and would always be a convicted traitor, they had grudgingly granted her a few days to be there and try to fix what was left of him.
But now, her short vacation had come to its end, and she hated herself for the relief she almost felt over it. It seemed to her like she hadn't made any progress with him at all; he was still quiet, troubled, angry even. And although she knew he wasn't trying to deliberately hurt her, it still did, more than he would ever know.
She was ready to go now; dressed in a business suit, hair done, holding her purse in one hand and her briefcase in the other. But as she looked over at him one last time before quietly exiting the bedroom, she felt she couldn't just leave him there without saying anything.
Especially since she knew he wasn't asleep.
Carefully, as if not wanting to frighten him, she crawled onto her side of the bed, atop the covers. His back was to her, just like it had been all night and every night since he had come home. Like he couldn't bear to look at her when he opened his eyes.
"Tony?"
She put a hand on his bare shoulder, and tried to tell herself that she had just imagined him tense at her touch. She slowly raked her fingers up and down his upper arm, unconsciously trying to get him to relax.
"Honey, I'm leaving now, okay? I'll try to be back by eight."
She had hoped for a response, but all she got from him was a slight nod. Her fingers ran up his arm to his hair, crawling through his thick, dark curls. She gently pressed her lips to the side of his forehead, closing her eyes and lingering for a moment, just taking in his familiar scent. At least that hadn't changed.
"I love you."
There was a time when he would have smiled at that, cupped her face with one hand and told her that he loved her back. Now there was no reaction from him at all. She tried to swallow down her disappointment as she slowly retreated from the bed, almost surprised to find that a lump had risen in her throat.
Four Weeks, Two Days
It seemed like he hadn't slept at all since he got home from prison. Then again, it seemed like he hadn't slept at all since he was arrested.
So why would he even bother to try?
He might as well just stay here at the bar, where no one was aware of his past. Where he didn't have to face anyone's desperately pleading eyes for something he knew he was unable to give.
It occurred to him that he should probably call her- just let her know where he was and that he was okay. But what would he possibly say to her? It was already difficult to talk to her in person; it would undoubtedly be even harder over the phone.
Besides, he was drunk.
And not just a little bit, like he had been at his brother's birthday party last year. She had laughed at him then, teased him for not having outgrown his college years, good-naturedly grumbled when he'd dryly suggested she drive home. He had the distinct feeling she wouldn't be laughing now.
He automatically felt himself getting defensive at the mere thought that she would be upset with him. He was a grown man, for Christ's sakes. Couldn't he even go out for a drink without feeling guilty? She was treating him like a child.
It scared him that he always seemed to feel angry at her, even when she wasn't there- and it scared him even more that each time it took him longer to realize that she hadn't done anything wrong, that it wasn't really her that he was mad at.
He loved her. More than words could say. He always would.
But there were so many things she didn't understand; things that, if he was honest with himself, he didn't give her the chance to understand because he knew they would hurt her even more than she was hurting already. She didn't need to know that, being both an ex-agent and a traitor, he hadn't been too popular in prison. She didn't need to know that they'd forced him to share a cell with a man who had murdered his wife by stabbing her nine times in various places on her body, probably just to spite him. She didn't need to know that he still believed today that if the pardon hadn't come through when it did, he probably would have killed himself in there by now, leaving her behind to face the cruelness and injustice of the world all by herself.
Because how could he ever face her with all that?
He couldn't. It was impossible. She could never find out about all those ghastly things.
But she knew him too well, and that's what scared him. She sensed that there were many things he wasn't telling her, and although she hadn't really bothered him about it too much yet, he knew she would eventually. He wasn't doing it on purpose, wasn't even doing in consciously- but he was pushing her away, as if that would somehow make his turmoil invisible to her.
He told himself he was protecting her. She would recover from their mutual nightmare so much easier if he kept certain things to himself. In the long run, it would be better for her this way.
And he felt sure that once she started healing, he would too. He would be able to look in her eyes once he was certain that the guilt in them was gone. He would be able to touch her without his own guilt completely taking over, paralyzing him both mentally and physically.
Things would get better soon, if he just kept his distance for now.
Two Months, Two weeks, Five Days
She wanted to slam the door of her car shut, but since it was five-thirty in the morning and most of the neighborhood was probably asleep, she decided against it. She was exhausted, and after a twenty-hour shift concerning a threat towards the brand-new President Keeler, she figured she had the right to be.
She was startled to hear subtle noises of commotion around her, and stopped dead in her tracks when she saw who it was.
He had parked his car all wrong, and she could tell by the way he had been stumbling and the clouded expression in his eyes when he also froze to look at her, that he was drunk.
They stared at each other for a minute, and then he suddenly turned towards the house without a word, as if afraid to face her.
"Tony." She easily caught up with him and grabbed his arm. He reflexively pulled away, but he at least stood still, eyes on the ground.
"You promised me you wouldn't drive. I told you, just call me… I'll come get you."
He looked at her for a moment as if she had spoken in Russian instead of in plain, American English, then nodded and made to move inside again. Had he even heard her?
He fumbled with the keys, his motor skills weak because of the amount of alcohol he had consumed. She took them from him and let them inside the house.
Her legs shaking slightly, she went to the kitchen and poured them both a glass of water. She had managed to stay perfectly calm throughout the crisis at work, but now the thought that her husband had returned drunk from some bar at five-thirty in the morning, made her struggle to stay in control.
She should be used to this by now, she thought wryly. But she knew deep down that she could never get used to it. There was too much of a difference from the man he had been before.
She handed him the glass of water, and he looked at her a moment as of silently asking her why he deserved it, before taking it and mumbling thanks. It seemed he was suspicious of everything she did these days.
"You okay?" she asked him after a minute.
Again, he gave her one of those looks, then dropped his eyes and said shortly, "Fine."
She wanted to go over to over to him, take him into her arms, beg him to talk to her, tell her where he had been, why he kept doing this. But fear that he would pull away again quickly overrode this desire. She didn't know if she could survive his rejection yet again.
Instead, she told herself to be reasonable, get off his back, give him some space. She knew he couldn't have had much privacy in prison. He needed his freedom now.
She was just afraid that he needed his freedom more than he needed her. Because the way things were going, she couldn't get rid of the feeling that eventually she would have to force him to choose. She wasn't sure if she could live like this much longer.
But then, as she looked over at him, standing in a corner of the kitchen drinking his glass of water, suddenly reminding her of a little boy who was afraid of a thunderstorm- she thought her heart would burst with love and empathy for him, the ferocity of the emotions almost making her nauseous. She decided to cut him some slack, for her own sake as well as for his. Because she honestly didn't know if she could live as much as a day without him.
She went over to him, took his empty glass and placed it in the sink with hers. Then she hesitantly reached for his hand and gave it a gentle tug.
"Come on. Let's go to bed."
For a second, she felt his fingers squeeze her hand and she felt a small light of hope brighten inside her- but then his hand went limp again, so quickly that she almost believed she had imagined his reaction.
She fought to urge to press her eyes shut, made an effort to collect herself and started to lead him towards the bedroom.
Three Months, Three Weeks, Four Days
She was getting angry- impatient with him. Although she tried to hide it, he could tell just by the way she was ironing that she was upset. And he felt himself getting irritated as well.
"It wasn't my fault, you know," he told her.
She sighed, snatching another one of his freshly washed shirts. "Yeah. It never is."
For a reason that he couldn't quite explain, he suddenly found himself livid. "Michelle! The guy didn't have any reason to fire me! Compared to all those others, I'm probably the smartest-"
"Yeah, well, that's probably true, but he can't do anything with you when you're drunk, Tony."
He couldn't believe what he was hearing. She was his wife; she was supposed to be on his side. Not some stranger's that she had never even met.
"I don't believe this," he muttered, shaking his head and shooting her a dirty look. "I risked everything for you! I went to prison for you, and now you're giving me this crap?"
As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them- but it was only when he saw her eyes first widen with shock and then fill with tears that he really, truly hated himself. He had never said anything like this to her before- in fact, he had always carefully avoided anything that even came close to the subject, not wanting to add to her guilt.
He wanted to put his arms around her but he didn't know how, couldn't seem to make his feet go over to her. So many things that he had once done naturally, instinctively, now often seemed impossibly difficult.
She turned away from him, but he saw her wipe at her eyes just the same. And he couldn't take it, couldn't take the knoweldge that he was hurting her like this. Without another word, he reached for his jacket, his car keys and his wallet, and headed for the door.
Quick as a flash, she was in front of him, tears gone, blocking his exit.
"Where are you going?"
He couldn't answer her- hell, he couldn't even look at her- so he just tried to push her aside as gently as could. But she was strong and stubbornly stayed in place, a small hand pressing against his chest.
"Tony, I'm sorry, okay? Just- please don't go. Please." He flinched at the despair in her voice, but knew he couldn't stay.
He tried to move her away from the door again and this time she stumbled aside, her agony compromising her physical strength.
Her eyes locked with his just as the door was about to close, and he stood still for a moment, realizing that he was looking her in the eye for he first time in months. And after less than a second, he remembered why he never did that anymore.
There was too much pain there, too much guilt, too much sorrow. And this was nobody's fault but his.
He tore his eyes away from hers and closed the door, trying not to wonder what she would do, if she would be alright- trying not to think about the fact that he was turning his back on her once again.
Five Months, Two Weeks, One Day
She crawled onto the couch, wrapping a blanket around herself and cradling a cup of tea in her hands- all in vain because she was still shivering. He should have been home hours ago. He had promised her he would be home hours ago.
She felt the pain and helplessness in her heart mingle with anger and frustration, leaving her hopelessly confused and utterly alone. She had planned tonight weeks ago, got all her work done in advance so she could be home in time to spend some real time with him in a last desperate attempt to save her marriage. And he hadn't even bothered to show up.
Where the hell was he? At some bar? With some girl?
She despised the idea of this last thought even more than all the rest, but it was something she could no longer deny. It had happened before that he hadn't returned home for days on end- she knew he had to have slept somewhere. He'd gotten mad and defensive when she hesitantly questioned him about it, snapping that it was none of her business. So she could only conclude that he didn't want her to know the truth because he knew she wouldn't like it.
Tears had spilled down onto her cheeks without her even realizing it. She knew that she was the cause of all his misery, and that every time he looked at her he was probably reminded of how good things would have been if he hadn't given up everything for her- but didn't he know how much she loved him? Didn't he know much she was fighting to make things alright again for him?
She knew he resented her for nagging about his drinking, for insisting he get professional help for all his personal problems. She had begged him to, promised him things would get better if he would just talk about it, if not with her than with someone else.
"You don't know what you're talking about," he'd retorted angrily, "Just leave it, Michelle, alright? Goddammit!"
The anger was such a big part of him now- dominating all his pain, grief, despair, incomprehension; dominating the gentle person he was inside. His eyes were full of it, often making her almost frightened of him, though she always knew that he would never, ever lay a hand on her, no matter how drunk he was.
She jumped at the sound of glass shattering, and only realized he had dropped her mug when she saw it on the floor next to her; broken, hot tea spilling all over the place. And it seemed this silly, harmless accident made her lose her last pathetic grasp on self-control. She let herself fall down into the foetal position, the blanket still wrapped tightly around her, sobbing like she hadn't since done she was a child, her body wracked, spasms of an almost physical pain shooting though her.
At this point, she truly wished she didn't love him so, truly wished she could walk away without never looking back. It would make things so much easier.
Because now she knew that there was no avoiding it. She'd waited weeks, months, for him to show some sign of improvement, however small. Even stabilization would have given her hope. But he just kept getting worse and worse, sinking further and further into oblivion and detachment, and now she knew her emotional strength had come to its limit. She couldn't fight the changes in him anymore.
She decided to wait a few more days, just to give him one last chance- a chance she hoped against all odds he would take.
Six Months, Three Days
He knew something was off the moment he entered the house, though even later, he wouldn't really be able to explain why. The living room was dark, but it was almost four in the morning, so that wasn't unusual. Her car wasn't in the driveway, but that wasn't unusual either, he thought bitterly- it meant she was at work.
But there was an iciness about the house, and eerie stillness that manoeuvred its way through his drunkenness into his heart, almost frightening him. He shrugged it off, telling himself that his days as the alert, distrusting government agent were over.
He stumbled across the living room and up the stairs, making his way through the empty bedroom to the bathroom, desperately in search of aspirin. He knew that would lessen his headache from the hangover a little when he woke up in the morning (or, if he was honest with himself, more like the afternoon).
He was so focused on the medication that it took him a moment to realize that the bathroom looked different- paler, emptier. The small box with all her earrings wasn't on her half of the sink. The T-shirt of his that she usually slept in wasn't hanging on the rack. She hadn't picked up the cloths he'd left scattered across the room the last time he'd been home.
Confused and very much in denial, he hurried back to the bedroom, yanking open the door of the closet. His blood ran cold when all he saw were his own cloths. He stumbled back, his mind still refusing to accept what his heart already knew.
No. She couldn't have left. She was the only reason he was still sane, she knew that. He needed her in order to survive, she knew that. She wouldn't abandon him like that, wouldn't desert him. She loved him.
Frantic now, he ran around the house, desperately looking for some clue that this was all just some big misunderstanding. He blindly knocked things over, lifted things up, stubbed his toe against the edge of a chair but still kept going, searched the entire house, only to find himself back in the bedroom.
His heart pounding, he pulled back the covers, knees collapsing at the sight of what he found. Neatly folded, was the T-shirt she'd been sleeping in for years now, the same T-shirt he'd given her the morning after they'd first made love- she hadn't even taken it with her. His eyes blurred, and it was only a minute later that he spotted the note. He hastily picked it up, still waiting for her to explain that there was some kind of mistake, that she would be home in no time.
Her words were few and evasive, telling him between the lines to please let her go.
He sank to the bed, still staring at the note in shock and disbelief. He waited for the anger that usually protected him, but it didn't come- all he felt was hollowness. And then- without warning, like a sharp razor entering his flesh- the hated pain came, knocking the breath out of him, because now it was sharper, heavier than it had ever been before.
He gasped as the first tears came, no longer caring that crying was exactly what he had been fighting against for so long. Because nothing mattered anymore, nothing ever could. His heart literally broke to pieces as he realized he had managed to chase away the one person he'd believed would stand by him no matter what.
His head fell into his hands, loving and hating her all at the same time. He grabbed the T-shirt and clutched it to him as he curled up in a ball and cried himself to sleep, praying for God to kill him before he woke up.