The halls of CTU had never seemed more labyrinthine. They were all the same mindless, drab gray scheme of stone and paint, and they twisted and turned and carried on forever. She would never get there. The anxiety in her stomach would never be alleviated. Her life was some sort of purgatory of dread, guilt, and fear.
And then, somehow, miraculously, she was there, standing at the doors to Medical. What would she find? Would she be directed to wait outside the surgery door as Mike Doyle fought for his life? Was it just a flesh wound? The cursory report from the field agents simply stated that he'd been injured.
Nadia had all but ran down to Medical when they brought him in.
She took a deep breath, focused on steadying the tremor in her hand and entered the clinic. A sigh escaped her when she saw the object of her concern was on his feet. And then she quickly turned her back.
"Sorry. I should have knocked."
He had just finished fastening his trousers and was reaching for his shirt. It shouldn't have made a difference. What was a little bare skin between friends? Yet she felt her cheeks flush at the sight of his toned arms and abdomen.
"I'm decent."
Nadia turned back around, still feeling the heat of shame in her face, now for being embarrassed in the first place. Because Mike Doyle had that damned amused twinkle in his blue eyes. He pulled a long-sleeved shirt on, obscuring the tee that had been hugging his body a little too snugly for Nadia's peace of mind.
What was going on with her brain? Well, brain had little to do with it...
"Are you okay, Mike?" she asked. She had seen bruises, large darkening patches of purple discoloring his fair skin. And his right shoulder had been sporting a bandage.
"Nothing serious," he said, literally shrugging it off and then wincing. "Took a little fire."
She gave him an arch look.
"My vest bore the brunt of it, but one grazed my leg and I took one in the shoulder. Clean hit. Through and through. I've been cleared."
With that, Mike's face returned to his standard stony expression and he headed for the door.
Conversation over.
So, that's how he was going to play this?
She grabbed his arm as he brushed past her, effectively stopping him in his tracks. When their eyes met, she froze. She couldn't say the things she had wanted to say, she couldn't be angry with him, for the seeming disregard that her friend had for his own life. And she knew it wasn't necessary to speak as stormy blue eyes bore into her. She knew it was apparent in her face.
And in his, a faint visage of confusion, wordlessly asking her why she cared, even shocked by her concern.
"We're friends, aren't we?" Her quiet inquiry was belied by an edge of anxious uncertainty.
He nodded his head.
Then why won't you talk to me? Why do you brush of my concern?
Sometimes she wanted to strangle the man she called friend. She wasn't used to struggling so much to attain even a basic level of confidence and intimacy with a person. Nadia never seemed able to glean but the barest facts from him, the vaguest outline of his mysteriously complex nature. Yet, he seemed to ease her into sharing everything, every detail of her history and character. And equally he seemed to pick the thoughts from her head simply by observing her with those astute blue eyes of his.
He did so now. His look softened. Well, as soft as a look from Mike Doyle could be, which to Nadia, who knew the subtle variations in his stoic expression, was plenty enough to satisfy her.
"I'm fine. Really."
He squeezed her arm reassuringly, capturing and holding her gaze for a long moment. Sometimes Nadia wondered if he'd forgotten how rude it was generally considered to maintain such prolonged, intense eye contact. Doyle was a trained interrogator, and resultant from such habit, he seemed to be constantly evaluating and reading people, probing for their motives, feelings and thoughts, conveying his own intentions with equal intensity. In this case, Nadia felt comforted rather than unnerved by his unwavering gaze. For in it was conveyed his appreciation and acceptance of her concern, the understanding that their friendship was important to them both, that she should accept the risks of his job for he had.
He released her arm and her eyes, striding out of Medical like he hadn't risked his life a matter of hours ago, like he hadn't been shot, hadn't been confronted by an upset and irate friend, like nothing out of the ordinary had occurred at all.
Nadia let out the breath she had been holding and shook her head as if it could dispel the confusion that arose from trying to comprehend Mike Doyle.
Dinner with Milo, tonight. A nice, quiet evening. That's what she needed. No complexity, no straining to understand the mind of someone that would not quite let her in. She knew exactly where she stood with Milo Pressman. And it was a good place.