A/N: Thank you for all the response tot he prologue! Several people commented on how emotional those scenes were-- and that is so, so true. If you have access to the DVDs, go back and watch them again. Nothing I write will ever compete with Reiko. And to answer the question about how long this will span: it will end before S4 begins, but I see no reason why there shouldn't be a sequel. Honestly, though, that's a long way away and I'm nowhere near ready to be thinking about it. So let's get this baby started! Bear with me through the first couple paragraphs until we hit the meat of it. Please review.
Chapter One: Aftermath
"Thank you, Ms. Dessler."
"Mr. President." Michelle switched off the videoconferencing unit and glanced around the table to the department heads assembled in the room.
"I know you're all tired, and I know today has been incredibly stressful for all of us. But we are still working to contain the quarantine zones and we have yet to begin filing reports for all of what has gone on today. We've been on active protocol for twenty-four hours, meaning that we have that much more paperwork to deal with in order to catch ourselves up. So…"
Michelle continued with an explanation of the procedures she was putting in place to begin to clean up the mess of the day. At long last, she drew the meeting to a close. "Thank you all for the work you've done today, last night, and yesterday. By six tonight we'll be releasing this shift, but until then we need to focus. I expect progress reports sent to my screen in thirty minutes."
Gathering her laptop and notebook, Michelle stood, nodded to her staff, and turned. As department heads rose and made their way towards the doorway, Michelle moved out of the room and towards her office. Reaching her desk, she dropped into the chair with a shuddering sigh and typed an access code into her system.
For about twenty minutes, she was intent on her work as her fingers flew over the keyboard and she dealt with CTU's internal issues over the phone. For the moment, at least, she didn't have to worry about coordinating with other agencies; Hammond was handling that. But although Michelle was relieved that she didn't have to worry about bureaucratic tussling, she was nonetheless a little resentful that he was speaking for her office.
Finally, Michelle lifted her hands from the keyboard and sat back. She could feel physical and emotional fatigue washing over her in waves. As the dizziness began to blur her thoughts, she dropped her head into her hand. Fighting back tears, she struggled to gain control of her erratic breathing.
She couldn't do this. She couldn't handle this—not now, not ever. It was too much—her body was crying out for sleep, but it was her overworked emotional restraint that was truly falling apart. How much longer could she keep it together? Could she really do this for four more hours? No. No, she couldn't. She couldn't do this…
The ringing of her phone jerked Michelle back to reality. She inhaled a long breath, and lifted her head from her hand. Keeping her agency running smoothly was her responsibility, and no matter how tired she was, it was a duty she could not shirk. Picking up the receiver, Michelle steeled herself to get through the rest of the day.
"Dessler," she answered automatically. The last traces of discernable strain evaporated as she reached for her keyboard to continue her report and spoke into the phone, sandwiching it between her ear and shoulder.
"Yeah, I know you need it; I just sent it to your system….volume four…. That's where that class of data always goes, Adam…all right, I'll tell her to get it to you... but in the future, this should be interdepartmental… yes, I realize that, Adam…good. I'm glad were on the same page."
She hung up the phone and turned her full attention back to the report. Reports… how many reports would she be filing over the days to come? The irony was not lost on her. Filing reports… How fitting, she thought bitterly, that when I have no idea how the hell my life could be so thoroughly and completely destroyedin the last twenty-four hours, I'm the one explaining toe veryone else what happened.
She was past the point of taking it. It didn't matter how much resolve she had—after thirty hours of non-stop work, dealing with everything from repeated brushes with death to carrying the sole responsibility for preventing a deadly pandemic—her body was giving out.
By four-thirty that afternoon, Michelle's headache had gotten so bad she could barely see straight, and even as her fingers moved unfalteringly over the keyboard, her mind was slipping in and out of consciousness.
Finally acknowledging that she needed to take a minute, Michelle stood up from her desk and made her way across the floor to the ladies' room. Pushing open the door, she inhaled sharply severaltimes, trying not to cry, as she dropped her head into a limp, shaking hand. Michelleplaced one hand against the corner of the wall, leaning all her weight against it, and struggled to suppress sobs.
It was while Michelle was standing like that, chocking back tears and drawing ragged breath into her exhausted body that she almost jumped out of her skin. The sound of a door unlocking reverberated unnecessarily loudly through the room as Chloe stepped out of the stall.
Turning on the faucet, Chloe glanced with unmasked incredulity at Michelle. Michelle— eternally composed deputy director of CTU Los Angeles whom efficient professionalism characterized just as much as her brilliant work— was crumpled in a corner, crying.
"You're a mess," Chloe observed flatly.
Surprised, Michelle glanced up. "What did you say?"
"I said, 'You're a mess.'" Chloe repeated slowly, as if she were talking to a small child.
Michelle looked at her curiously. "Yeah. I guess I am." She certainly hadn't been expecting that kind of comment from one of her subordinates— but she was not, as she would have expected, angry. On the contrary, Michelle felt a little relieved and the lump in her throat loosened a little. "I really am, aren't I?"
"Well, yeah," Chloe agreed amicably, reaching for paper towels, "I mean, look at you. You're an emotional wreck—I mean, your husband gets shot— in the neck—and then you end up inside the Chandler Plaza Hotel, and then you get kidnapped, and he commits treason to save you? I mean, how the hell are you supposed to deal with that?"
"Chloe…"
"Like, he's arrested for treason and you're still in charge of running this agency even though you kind of look like you're going to pass out, even if you're not crying."
"Uh…"
"Pretty much sucks to be you."
"Uh…. Chloe?" Michelle questioned, perplexed. She didn't know exactly what the other woman was driving at, but she was, strangely enough, a little relieved. Everyone, all day, had been tiptoeing around her, acting as if she might break if someone said the wrong thing, Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing to have someone lay it all out there for her…
"And, Michelle, I just wanted you to know that if you ever, you know, need someone to talk to? I'm here for you. I mean, I know you're my superior and everything but technically I'm in Jack's department, not yours, and I just thought you could probably use a friend. Especially since you're not going to be able to tell anyone without clearance what happened today, it just seemed like…" Chloe trailed off and reached for the door.
"All I'm saying is that you're probably going to need someone to talk to, and I'm willing to listen." Without meeting Michelle's eyes, Chloe shoved open the door and hurried out, embarrassed by her rambling.
Michelle stared incredulously after her, saying softly, "Thanks."
And thus began the unlikeliest and oddest of friendships.
Standing on her doorstep, key in hand, Michelle found herself unable to lift her hand to the knob. It wasn't just that the weight of her briefcase and purse were taking an unnecessary toll on her truly exhausted body, and it wasn't just that she was shaking so badly her hand could barely keep the key from dropping.
No. She couldn't… couldn't bring herself to defile the home that she and Tony had built by entering it alone. Never mind the countless times she'd been there alone, or when he'd been there alone if one of them was working late or away. That was different.
But tonight… she was all too aware that after tonight, it was entirely possibly that Tony might never again walk over the threshold with her. Entirely possible that if she stepped into their house without him, it might force her to mark the beginning of her life without him.
And she couldn't do it. She looked down at her trembling hand, and she couldn't do it…so the floodgates burst. All the tears she hadn't cried that day came pouring out of her in torrents, and she found herself sinking onto the cold step and letting the tears come. Tears. So many tears. Tears she should have cried before. Why hadn't she cried when she was inside the Chandler Plaza Hotel? When eight hundred people were dying in agony before her eyes? Why hadn't she cried then?
Why hadn't she cried when she found out that because her teams hadn't sealed their perimeter quickly enough, William Cole started off a citywide epidemic? Why hadn't she cried then? Why hadn't she cried when a prison riot was killing scores of guards? Why hadn't she cried then? Why hadn't she cried when dozens of agents and Delta teams were killed in Mexico? Why hadn't she cried then? Why hadn't she cried when Nina killed her medical personnel? Why hadn't she cried then? Why hadn't she cried when so many hapless civilians throughout the day had been caught in the crossfire of their ruthless mission, and been killed? Why hadn't she cried then?
And now, here she was, crying because she couldn't see her husband. What kind of horrible, selfish person was she? Crying for her husband who was alive when so many had died. Who was she to think she was suffering? When she had so narrowly escaped death from the virus, what right did she have to cry?
Why was she crying now?
Her cell phone was ringing. It took full three rings for it to register in her mind that her phone was ringing. Trying to stifle the sobs long enough to answer, Michelle flipped it open. "Dessler."
"Michelle, it's Chloe."
Standing up, Michelle could feel her alerts awakening. "What's going on?" she asked apprehensively.
"Nothing."
"Nothing?" repeated Michelle, confused. If there wasn't another situation, why in the hell was Chloe calling her when neither one of them had slept in days?
"No. I just—are you okay, Michelle?"
"I'm fine," she said shortly, standing straighter and gripping her purse.
"I just... you were such a mess when you left; I wanted to make sure you got home okay. Did you?"
Instinctively defensive, Michelle shoved the key into the lock and pushed the door open. "I'm home. I'm fine."
By the time Chloe, suspicious of Michelle's tear-choked voice, asked "Are you sure?" Michelle was dropping her keys and bags onto the table and moving towards the kitchen for a glass of water.
"I'm sure. I'm fine, Chloe. Get some sleep."
"Fine," Chloe sputtered, clearly embarrassed as the connection clicked off. Michelle snapped her own phone shut, and then stood, staring at it in her hand, in the middle of the kitchen. When the hell did she get in here? In Tony's kitchen? And what was she doing in there without him?
Allowing the cell phone to drop onto the counter, Michelle pulled high-heeled boots off her aching feet and felt herself moving mechanically towards the bedroom. Without realizing it, Michelle was already tossing her leather jacket onto a chair and pulling the v-neck top over her head. She stared down at the black lace demi-cups of her bra. Tony loved that bra. Well, actually, he loved taking it off. She was the one who liked this bra… because Tony liked to take it off. And because it was comfortable and… well, because Tony liked to take it off.
She reached into a drawer for the tank-top and cotton pants she liked to sleep in, and the she was unhooking her bra and tugging at her pants and slipping into the pajamas with a kind of detached meticulousness that almost frightened her. Glancing toward the bathroom, Michelle vaguely considered brushing her teeth but dismissed the idea without ever having really entertained it. Instead, she pulled the earrings out of her ears, unclasped her watch, and let her hair down in a practiced fluid motion, all the while coming nearer and nearer the bed. And then, all of a sudden, she was under the covers.
And she longed for Tony's arms. She was cold. Michelle was often cold, but tonight a deep, bone-chilling cold seemed to penetrate her every extremity. How could she be so cold when she was in her warm bed, under her warm blanket? How could she be so cold when she was alive, and safe in her own, soft bed?
But she was cold, so cold. Tony knew how she got cold and his warm, strong arms would wrap around her body and fold her into him, and she would go limp against his warming touch and feel comforted.
Tonight, though: what was there to defer her cold? She needed Tony's arms. She needed his arms to wrap around her and keep her warm. She needed to feel his hot breath against her neck, his voice whispering softly that everything would be all right. She needed his hands to cup her face and wipe away her tears. She needed to feel his body next to hers as she held him close. But mostly, she needed his arms to keep her warm.
But Tony's arms didn't encircle her cold, shaking form. So she lay there by herself: cold, so cold, and finally fell asleep as exhaustion managed to overpower the unyielding pain that was desperate to keep her awake and afraid.
It was midmorning the following day when Jack Bauer knocked on the door of Michelle Dessler and Tony Almeida's house. Not really expecting Michelle to answer, he waited only briefly before determining that it was useless. With the key that Tony had given him not long after the couple had bought the home, Jack let himself into the still, quiet building.
He could see evidence of where Michelle had come in the night before: her keys, her laptop, and her purse left a haphazard trail through the house. "Michelle?" he called softly, entering into the living room.
She wasn't there; in fact, no lights were on and as he moved into the kitchen he saw no traces of the coffee upon which Michelle was so hopelessly dependent. So he went uneasily down the hallway to the master bedroom, knocking quietly on the not-quite-latched door.
When Michelle didn't answer, he pushed the door open so he could see her disconcertingly fragile-looking form under the covers, her flushed face half-turned into the pillow. Uncomfortable, he approached the bed and said again, "Michelle?"
She remained asleep, and he put a hand on her shoulder. "Michelle," he said, more firmly this time. In response, she shifted, rolling onto her front and moaning softly as she pressed her fingers to her temples.
"Michelle, you okay?"
"I'm cold," she whispered, not looking directly at him—or at anything, for that matter. She seemed unfocused, out of it.
"You gonna be okay?" asked Jack gently.
"I'm fine," she muttered, shoving back the blanket and sitting up, "Is Tony… where is he? Do you know if…" she trailed off, not wanting to finish the question that, she knew, would become a statement— a sentence—all too soon.
"That's why I'm here," stated Jack simply as he offered a hand to help her up. She reached for the proffered hand and lifted herself into a standing position, grabbing her bathrobe as she asked impatiently,
"So what's going on with him?"
"They took him over to Federal yesterday afternoon. They got their paperwork in order and he's officially under arrest for treason."
"Oh my god," Michelle breathed as she made for the kitchen in search of coffee. Jack followed her, concerned, and reached for her elbow as a moment of dizziness caused her to pause. Steadying her, Jack and guided her into the kitchen.
When she reached the room, Michelle turned to look him directly in the eyes, though tears hovered perilously close to falling from her own. "Can I see him?" she asked, her voice sounding strangled and choked.
"I don't know," he admitted. "You're gonna have to talk to Hammond."
" Hammond," she said with distaste, "He's held our relationship against Tony ever since we got married, and now…." Unable to finish, Michelle sank into a kitchen chair and dropped her head into her hand. Eyeing her with apprehension, Jack turned toward the coffee maker to start it for her.
"Look, Michelle. Tony asked me last night… he told me to make sure you were okay. That's why I came so early…" he paused; it was a rare moment of vulnerability for them both. "I was worried about you," he finished finally.
"I'm fine," she said tightly, and a little too quickly. "But, uh… thanks."
"You said you were cold…." He stated uncertainly, his words dangling in ambiguity between statement and question.
"Yeah, it's just that…I… I'm not… I've felt better in my life."
"Yeah," he said unaffectedly, and the ensuing silence was entirely uncomfortable, neither one of them sure what they should be saying. Michelle was reluctant to admit her vulnerabilities to anyone but Tony, and Jack was just as much a coworker as a friend. But then, he was among the closest friends that she and Tony had— for no reason so much as that he was a coworker—because he lived in their world.
Michelle was the one to break the silence, at last. "I, uh… I should make some phone calls. Find out what I can about what's going on with Tony."
"Good. If you're okay with it, I'm going to stay a few more hours, just to… Tony just asked me to…"
With a weak smile, Michelle managed to nod and cut in, "Yeah. Yeah, I'd appreciate that, Jack. Thanks."
Clearly relieved that she wasn't viewing his presence as an intrusion, Jack turned back toward the kitchen. "So… why don't you make those calls and I'll see if you keep any food in this house…"
"I don't," she called over her shoulder as she went into the study with her cell phone, "Tony does," she whispered softly, willing the tears not to fall.
Jack, in the next room, remained silent. What the hell did you say to something like that, after all?
Ninety minutes later, Michelle was finally hanging up the phone. She'd spent the entirety of that time locked in the study with her cell—her cell, because its caller ID read "Agent Dessler" instead of "Michelle and Tony Almeida"— maneuvering delicately with bureaucrats of whom she was not particularly fond.
She entered the kitchen with a sigh, sipping idly at her coffee and looking with uncertainty at the food on the table. Though hardly in the mood for it, it had been far too long since she'd gotten anything into her body at all, and she knew she had to eat.
"Well?" Jack asked quietly.
"It's going to be three days before I can see him," she choked out resignedly, "Before his arraignment."
"Why so long?" Jack asked without thinking, and then immediately kicked himself for having said what could only make Michelle feel all the worse.
"Interrogation," she said softly; Jack nodded and looked away. They both knew how it worked. No physical torture would be involved; that was reserved for truly dangerous hostiles with mass casualty capabilities and time-sensitive situations. But intensive interrogation, however "traditionally" done, was never pretty.
"It's not going to be a drawn-out trial," she continued, ignoring the implications of her previous statement as best she could. "Almost everything related to the case requires at least a level three or four clearance, so it's going to work differently." Jack nodded, warily taking note of then uncharacteristic dullness in Michelle's face and voice. "But there is good news," she added.
"Yeah?" Jack murmured questioningly.
"Because it's all tied up with the sting operation and the sensitivity of all the information relative to the case, everything's going to be kept under wraps. So at least we're not going to have to deal with public reaction."
Relaxing into a smile of relief, Jack nodded approvingly. "That's good." The truth was that he'd been most worried about what the publicity of the case would do to Tony and Michelle. They spent their careers in the thick of dangerous, explosive situations, stopping everything from potentially massive civilian casualties of the more serious terror threats to the almost equally dangerous business of fabricated "evidence" that terrorists used to wreak havoc among the government. But whether they were stopping a deadly pandemic or a major war, Michelle and Tony—and, for that matter, the whole of CTU—forwent getting any credit at all for anything that they did. So Jack had been truly disgusted at the thought of Michelle and Tony, two people who had, time and again, gone through hell for the American people with no acknowledgment whatsoever, would be dragged through the mud for the one time things went wrong.
The ringing of Michelle's phone pulled Jack from his thoughts, and as she read the text message Jack looked at her inquisitively. " Hammond wants the two of us at a meeting in forty minutes," she explained, "You should be getting the call in—"
Michelle was cut off by Jack's phone. Reading his own message, he nodded. "Guess this is when we find out what the hell happens to us after yesterday."
Michelle nodded silently, taking another sip of coffee. "You should probably go, then."
"Yeah," he said, rising. "I'll see you soon, then."
"Okay."
Jack turned to leave, and his hand was on the knob by the time Michelle called out, "Jack?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you… for coming by."
"Yeah," he said simply; and, making his goodbye with the slightest nod of the head, left. Sighing, Michelle dropped the coffee cup in the sink and went back to the living room, where she found herself collapsing onto the couch, drained with effort of appearing relatively stable.
She knew that Jack was there because Tony had asked him to—mostly, she knew, he'd been sent to make sure she was okay. But she also knew that what Jack told Tony about how she'd been holding up this morning was what Tony would take for how well she was handling things.
And she was the last thing he needed to be worrying about right now. So she'd managed to maintain her façade for Jack. But he was gone now, and she tucked herself under the blanket on the couch, trying not to shiver any more than she could help. Her head ached and she was cold, colder than she had ever remembered being before.
She knew that in part, at least, it was physical—it wasn't unusual for her to end up with a fever for a few days following an extended period of unrelenting work and suffocating pressure. But the cold she was feeling was partly just that—coldness.
The warmth of her soul lay in Tony, lay in whatever relative security he offered her. The warmth of her heart lay in Tony's, where she'd given so much love. And she knew that all the warmth in her had gone with Tony—leaving her with nothing more than the hard, professional shell and a scared, lonely, empty interior. Hollowness is cold, and the coldness seemed to radiate from the innermost depths of her being and penetrate to her feverish body so that coldness was all she could feel—coldness and numbness; for along with her warmth, Tony had taken all her feeling with him.
But it was a deep cold, so deep that she let it freeze her. Let it numb her. And how much easier that was! Not to have to feel this chilling cold of loss. To take a shower, and pull back her hair, and step into the slim-cut navy blue suit. To slip on her shoes, and take her purse, and drive to Division for the meeting that would determine her future. To deaden all emotion, and succumb to the blessedly hard-cut world of her work.