A/N: First of all, I apologize for the long wait on this chapter. I was away for quite a while and couldn't write. Anyway.When I say I value your input, I mean it. There was a lot of reaction to Michelle's refusal to attend the meeting with the lawyer, and hearing it, I agree that it was OOC. Read on; her motivation is explained midway through the chapter. Please keep up the criticism, good and bad.
Chapter Three: Cold
Work that day was an indistinct blur to Michelle. A blur of remaining resolutely stoic as she gave orders. As she managed data flow. As she worked up intel. As she communicated with other agencies. As she dealt with massive amounts of paperwork.
But there was something comforting about the emotionless coldness of it all. Michelle found that while she worked, she was able to focus her mind in its entirety on the tasks at hand, forming an impermeable barrier of impassivity that allowed no room for her own thoughts and feelings to seep into her consciousness. That was why she was still in her office, working furiously and stubbornly refusing to go home, late into the night.
There was one thing she knew for absolute certain: that the moment even a tiny section of her brain stopped focusing on her work, her emotions would rush in to fill the void. Michelle continued to torture herself with work long past the time she should have gone home simply because she wanted to avoid the torture of letting pain clench its cold fist around her heart.
But even Michelle had her limits. She could only work so many eighteen-hour shifts before exhaustion overcame her. And so she reached a point when she just couldn't do it anymore, simply hadn't the energy to stay awake and alert anymore— she had to go home to sleep.
For the drive home, determination allowed her to keep her thoughts focused on work: how she would deal with this problem or that, which protocol a situation necessitated, whether it was worth trying to effectively coordinate with certain agencies. She didn't let herself think about how Tony, while he drove home after a particularly stressful shift, would rub his thumb on her palm in slow circles. She didn't let herself think about how he'd unexpectedly kiss her at a stoplight for no reason at all. She didn't let herself think about the soft, intimate conversations ranging from what to have for dinner to what it felt like to kill a person that had all transpired within this car.
No, in the car, she was still in a zone somewhere between work and home. The emotions couldn't reach her yet.
She couldn't drive forever, though. Pulling up in front of her house, Michelle was not, as last time, afraid to enter. She was still numbed from work, still too cold to let herself think about what entering meant.
She opened the door. She stepped inside. And the pain hit.
She wasn't angry anymore. The anger had reduced to a dull ember that, while still there, wasn't really part of her consciousness anymore. She just felt… lost. And cold. Something about the house seemed to thaw her. It must have been all the warmth she and Tony had given this home. But now that same warmth was melting her.
There was just enough lingering warmth in the house to break through the numbness. Just enough that she could once again feel the cold. Because the cold could not be penetrated by the warmth; only the real, tangible warmth of Tony could do that.
It was cruel, what being at home did. It made her aware of her pain, and then intensified it with reminders of the life they'd built here. The feeling of loss was overwhelming, the fear of what was happening to him even more so.
Michelle Dessler was scared.
This was not a woman who frightened easily. This was a woman who wouldn't bat an eyelash at taking down a terrorist or two in hand to hand combat. A woman who remained calm as she handled crises that threatened to change the world as it was known. A woman who could do her job unfalteringly even as she stared death in the eye.
But she was scared now. She felt lost. A thousand people had died before her eyes, and she'd been helpless to stop it. She'd been the one in charge, the "Agent Dessler" to whom hotel staff and guests looked to for reassurance and help. And she'd been the one to tell them that they were all going to die.
If nothing else did, that had the power to leave Michelle traumatized. Not much could traumatize a CTU agent; that could. And she was frightened. She needed someone to comfort her. She needed the husband she'd come so very close to losing to comfort her.
But that husband— the man whom she loved and needed so much—he wasn't there to offer comfort. He was in prison, because he'd loved her. Prison. Michelle had put a lot of people in prison. She'd felt a grim satisfaction that the monsters would be locked away, never to see the light of day, and reduced to the most lowly, degrading, and miserable life. That was where her Tony was. That was where all the warmth in her was. That was where the man she loved with a love she hadn't known possible was. That was where Tony was being locked away. And why? Because of her.
Michelle Dessler was scared.
She was scared of her thoughts, and scared of herself after all that had happened that day; no one was there to help her through it. She was scared about what was happening to Tony, and scared of what would become of him. Of them.
Because she didn't know what would happen to him. She didn't know if he'd ever be a free man again. She knew that the chances that he'd ever hold her in his arms again were slim. If she was so scared, so empty without him to comfort her these few nights, what would happen to her when she'd be without him for a lifetime?
Michelle Dessler was scared.
Feeling sick to her stomach and exhausted out of her mind, Michelle was not pleased at the prospect of having to eat a meal. But she knew she had to; it had been days since she'd really eaten.
Michelle glanced at her watch. Ten-thirty. If she ate dinner, she could still be in bed before midnight and get six hours of sleep. There was no denying it: she had to eat.
Mashed potatoes. She wanted mashed potatoes. There were good reasons for this. Firstly, there wasn't much else to eat in the house. Secondly, she needed comfort food. And thirdly, cutting potatoes was one of the few culinary tasks Tony allowed her to undertake.
Michelle could even peel a potato. Well, sort of. Not with a knife, like a normal halfway-competent adult, but a peeler worked. And then she could cut the potatoes; that, at least, was a simple task.
Clearly, however, it wasn't simple enough because as she Michelle was cutting, the knife slipped. "Damn!" The sharp blade sliced through her hand, reopening the gash, just beginning to heal, that she'd used to fake a nosebleed two days ago. And it hurt. "Ow, goddamnit!" she choked.
She wasn't sure why the pain was getting to her so much. She'd experienced physical pain a hell of a lot worse than a cut on the hand throughout her years at CTU. But for whatever reason, the pain sent her crashing onto the couch dissolved in tears. "Damnit!" she said again.
She was crying, crying and hysterical. She realized, as blood flowed out of her, that she was so upset because no amount of physical pain could ever come close to the pain wrenching her heart.
She was still crying when she heard her phone ring. Gasping for breath, she fought to control herself enough so that her voice could remain emotionless over the phone. Running her hand down her face a final time, Michelle answered, "Dessler."
"Joyce Patterson here."
Michelle sat dumbly, trying to recall who that was. After a few moments, it hit her. The defense attorney. "Thanks for calling."
"Yes. Well. It certainly would have been preferable for you to meet with my staff and me today."
The tones of contempt and blame in the woman's voice were cutting deep into Michelle. It was the accusations being hurled at her from this outsider, this woman who had no idea of the situation she'd been in, that had the power to push her over the edge. "I was dealing with the aftermath of a serious national security crisis. I couldn't. I lost dozens of agents over the past three days. That includes four of the top five ranking officers from the agency, and the regional director. Wait until you are literally the only one left to run a government agency. And you have more body bags than you can count. And there is citywide panic. And you're still trying to find out whether or not there is more of the most deadly threat ever faced still in the wrong hands. And you have your agency working insanely to find out if you're still at risk. All this while you have bureaucrat assholes on you about goddamn paperwork when you're trying to keep any more people from dying than already have. When you have been in that position, then talk to me about what is 'preferable.'"
Silence ensued. Michelle was frozen, horrified at her outburst, but unable to say anything more, because she simply didn't know what to say. It was nearly a minute before the other woman spoke.
"I'm meeting with Tony tomorrow. It would help if you were there."
Unnerved by Patterson's total lack of comment on her explosion, Michelle found herself suddenly unable to fight any longer. "I'll do everything I can to be there," she said softly. And then she hung up.
Michelle was numb as she tossed the phone onto the counter and slowly made her way to the bathroom to deal with the cut on her hand. As she'd been shouting into the phone all the reasons she hadn't been able to get away long enough to meet with the lawyer, it had been on the tip of her tongue to cry that there were hundreds of thousands of lives on the line, and she was responsible for protecting them.
But that wasn't true anymore. Her own words from the day before rang through her head: "Every person in each quarantine zone has been tested and either released or isolated." Why had she not understood those words when she told them to the president?
It was over. The aftermath was massive and serious, but the threat itself was over. Every move she made was no longer going to spell life or death for thousands of innocents. And yet the urgency remained, the feeling that every second counted, the feeling that everything she did was pivotal.
Michelle was too far gone to understand it at the time, but the utter intensity of that single day had traumatized her more than she'd known. Its residue was strong, prevalent; it was that residue that kept her state of mind trapped where it had been when the virus threat was imminent.
As she'd hung up the phone, it had hit Michelle that if she'd left to meet with the lawyer the day before, CTU would have managed. The thought made her so ashamed that she wanted to cry, and even though she was all alone she could feel her face growing hot. CTU would have been okay if she'd gone. She could have gone. She should have gone. And she could have.
The weight of the idea was overpowering. She could have been there. But she hadn't been. She'd still felt—honestly and thoroughly felt, with everything in her—that her presence at CTU was categorically necessary to innocent life. She'd still been trapped in the state of mind she'd had during the threat. Though the threat was gone, her mind hadn't reacted to that.
Numbness overtook her as she stood there and the reality of the present swept over her tired mind.
That night, Michelle had a dream. In the dream, she was holding a baby in her arms, and it was Tony pointing the gun at the child and pulling the trigger. She'd screamed, but then felt the bullet melt through the infant into herself, embedding itself into her abdomen, but leaving the pure life unharmed. She'd dropped to the ground in pain, keeping the baby clutched tightly to her. Tony had run up to them and wrested the baby from her arms, holding the tiny body up triumphantly and looking down at Michelle. "This is how you wanted it, isn't it?"
When she woke up, she was shaking uncontrollably. Throwing back the covers, she pulled herself into the chill air of the bedroom. She ignored the tears trickling down her face and began searching in the very back of the closet.
Finally, she found it. The worn cotton bunny, dubbed Memee by Michelle when she was all of fourteen months old, looked up at her with knowing button eyes. Michelle buried her face in the rabbit, and then, squeezing it to her chest, went back to bed.
Michelle zipped the charcoal-gray skirt of her suit, and then slipped the coordinating jacket over her black top. She looked in the mirror. Neat. Attractive. Professional. Completely and utterly impersonal.
Exactly the way she needed to be.
At CTU forty minutes later, that was what she was. "Just do it, Chloe." "Adam, I need that search completed now." "I've got my people working on it, Brad." "Just do it, Chloe." "Kim, I need you focused." "That's confirmed? I'll work it up." "Just do it, Chloe." "Would you please just get it done?" "I appreciate your good work." "Just do it, Chloe."
Barely in her office at all, Michelle was out on the floor giving orders and overseeing subordinates and turning the nearest workstation when something needed to get done. That was how it was at CTU. She was needed a hell of a lot more on the floor than locked away in a glass box, and so that's where she was.
Brisk, efficient, and above all cool, Michelle kept the office running smoothly—well, as smoothly as CTU was capable of running. Well aware that she was restoring to CTU the order so desperately lacking in her own life, Michelle reasoned that some good might as well come out of her screwed-up life.
The product was remarkable, Michelle found. Under her direction, CTU was already pulling itself up by the bootstraps, already functioning again. Still on active protocol, it was too soon for the restructuring that was sure to follow. But Michelle had things running beautifully under the circumstances.
"Damnit…" Michelle muttered indistinctly as the bobby pin slipped from her mouth. After reaching for another, she stabbed it through her hair, trying to tame her hair back into its bun. It never stayed in place for a whole day. It was getting to be too much damn work….
Securing her hair, Michelle took a final glance in the hand mirror. She looked pale and tired, despite her last-minute efforts with mascara and blush. This was as good as it was going to get.
As she stepped out of the car, Michelle straightened her skirt and wished she was wearing anything but this cold, gray business suit. Not exactly heartening. But she'd been in a hurry, having barely managed to pry herself from situations constantly needing her attention in order to be here at all.
Getting past security was easier than it necessarily should have been. Apparently, guards are more yielding to those who outrank their superior's superior.
After Michelle had gotten through the outer layers of security, she was met by a blonde woman, tall, with an air of confidence that matched Michelle's own. "Michelle Dessler?"
"I'm she."
The other woman extended a manicured hand. "Joyce Patterson. Nice to meet you."
"You too. I'm sorry I couldn't meet with you earlier.
Patterson nodded. "It's fine. I've been doing a lot of research on CTU for this case, and I'm starting to see that it takes professional obligations to a whole new level."
"We do what we have to do," Michelle replied with a small but genuine smile. She appreciated Patterson's peace offering— it would be necessary for the two of them to have a decent relationship if they were going to make it through this trial.
"Indeed we do."
A short, uncomfortable silence followed. Michelle broke it. "Let's head in." With a short nod of agreement, Patterson stepped back and allowed Michelle to enter first.
They both knew this was an unusual arrangement. At that point, Tony wasn't technically allowed contact with anyone other than his defense counsel, and how Michelle had managed to authorize her presence Patterson did not know. But she had, at any rate, and now she was entering the small, barren room containing two guards and Tony Almeida.
A small sound escaped Michelle's throat as she saw him. She froze in the doorway as he lifted his eyes and locked them on hers. She felt something tear inside of her as she saw the defeat and desperation in written there.
"Michelle?" he said softly, and tears filled her eyes.
"Tony…." she whispered, still frozen to the ground.
"C'mere, sweetheart." The next thing she knew he had his arms around her. Oh my god. She was clinging to him tightly, clinging to him with everything in her. She could feel the tears wetting his neck, but she didn't care. The tears made him ache—not a dull ache, but a deep, swelling, overpowering ache. His hand, which had been running hungrily through her hair, pulled her head into his shoulder. "Baby, I'm here."
"Tony…" her voice was choked. "Tony." Damnit, why couldn't she make her lips form any words but his name?
"Michelle baby… sweetheart… I love you."
"I love you, Tony. I love you so much," she managed to say into his neck. "Oh god, Tony, I love you so much."
"Michelle…"
"Oh god, Tony."
Finally, they separated, and he put his hands on her shoulders. "No matter what happens, sweetheart… I will always love you."
"I'll always love you," she whispered. And then they had to pull apart.
To call the meeting depressing would be akin to calling hell a bit warm. Michelle's legal vocabulary was no more than proficient, and she didn't follow all of what Patterson was explaining. The gist of it, though, was clear. What she understood all too clearly was that Tony's chances of acquittal were slim, but that he had enough going for him that if he was convicted, it would be on the lightest possible terms. Twenty goddamn years. How very comforting.
But Michelle was not going to give up hope so easily. She was hanging on to the possibility, however slight, that he might not be found guilty. And if he was… well, there was always the chance of a presidential pardon. She knew that Tony— and she herself, for what it was worth—were most definitely on Palmer's good side, and then, too, Palmer respected Jack more than maybe anyone, and Jack was on their side... yes, their chances of a pardon were decent.
Oh, who the hell was she trying to kid, anyway? Tony had planned a major sting operation behind the president's back. Behind her back, a voice inside her head added. She vehemently willed it to shut up. The point was, Palmer was pissed. Sure, he was happy about the final result, but he was still pissed. Hell.
There was no chance during the meeting—they had a time limit—for them to talk about anything personal. It was all business. But more emotion could be expressed in the looks they exchanged than in any words they'd have been able to say.
He didn't ask her how she was holding up, because he could tell. After her initial breakdown, he'd seen her emotionless, professional mask go up, and he knew that was how she was getting through the days. And underneath that, he could see the pain in her eyes. He could tell that she felt guilty by the way she held her hands more rigidly than usual. He could tell that she was still upset and inwardly vulnerable by the way she held her back just a little straighter than necessary. He could tell that she resented the choice he'd made by the way she blinked every time the action itself was mentioned. He could tell how much she missed him by the way she kept glancing from her wedding ring to him, assuring herself that he was really there. He could tell how scared she was by the way her fingers lingered on stray curls as she tucked them back in place.
She didn't ask him if he was okay, because it was abundantly clear that he wasn't. She could tell that he was defeated by the way he held his head straight instead of at a tilt. She could tell that he was afraid about what was going to happen because he didn't once scratch his neck. She could tell he was worn down by the way he leaned to one side of the chair. And she could tell he missed her just by the aching gaze of his eyes.
The subtlest of signs, they all were, but signs Michelle and Tony knew how to read instinctively. They'd been so intimately close that these subtle things, contradictory signs were things that they could understand. All this information could be taken in, all these emotions understood without thinking, without processing. They just knew.
But there was still more to say. Years at CTU had taught them how to concentrate fully on two things at once. So as they were actively listening to and participating in the discussion with Patterson, they were carrying conversations with their eyes.
A raised eyebrow and slightly accusing look: You're sick.
A glance at the wrists she knew he'd felt for a fever earlier: Yeah. An intent gaze: I'll be fine.
An observation of Michelle's finger touching her wedding band: Sweetheart, I will come home to you no matter what.
A pair of sad eyes straying to handcuffs and then back up to his, pleadingly: I hope so.
An intense stare locked on Michelle: I love you.
A glistening tear: I know. A firm setting of the jaw: We will get through this.
A glance at his surroundings: Yeah.
A tightening of neck muscles: We will. We have to.
Leaving the room, Michelle again shook hands with Joyce Patterson. "We'll be in touch."
"Of course."
Clearing outgoing security, Michelle struggled to hold it together until she'd left the building. Finally, finally, she was safe in the confines of her car. There, she put her head in her hands and burst into tears.
The sobs wracked her body; she didn't even try to stop. Seeing Tony like that… seeing him degraded like that, in prison… she couldn't stand it. He'd handed his life over to this job, sacrificed everything... everything except for her. Don't think about that. How many years of his life had he given up to CTU? Ten? Eleven? And five years in the marines before that? All those years handed to the government on a silver platter. All those years robbed of security and freedom and any sense of normalcy.
They had taken all that… no, it wasn't taken. It was given. Tony had willingly given up fifteen years of his life now, willingly given it over to the common good. And now they were putting him in prison. Now they'd locked him up just like they locked up the people he'd devoted his life to stopping.
That tore apart Michelle more than she could bear. It was killing her to see Tony like that. It wasn't fair. In her line of work, Michelle knew more than anybody how unfair life was. But that did nothing to take the sting away. It did nothing to salve the open wound of what was happening to Tony.
And what of what was happening to her? Her life felt so…pointless without him in it. Tony made her feel alive in a way she never had before. And he… he understood her, and he understood her life. They lived together in this mad world of CTU. But without him… without him, why bother? She was cold again. She was so cold. She shivered and rubbed her arms.
With a shuddering sigh, Michelle finally began to calm herself down so she would be able to drive. It took her a few minutes before her breathing was regular and her eyes were clear of tears so that she was, at last, able to pull out of the parking lot and go home.
After Michelle had eaten and stripped down to her panties and a tank-top, she plopped herself on the bed with her back against the headboard and drew her knees up to her chest. Wrapping her arms around her legs, she stared blankly into the emptiness of the room.
Seeing Tony had been both wonderful and awful, and the intensity of it all had left her drained. She'd been relieved to see him again, had felt everything in her giving way as he wrapped his arms around her and she sank into his chest. But at the same time… at the same time, it was chilling. To see what he'd been reduced to had shaken her more than she'd have liked to admit.
And she missed him. After getting that brief glimpse of him, she just needed him more. She was so cold, so tired, so scared. Tony was the only person who had ever made her feel safe, the only person who understood her and what CTU did to her, because it had done the same to him.
And so, wallowing in her own loneliness, Michelle stayed silently, drawn into herself, upon the bed. When some minutes had passed, she dropped her head onto her knees; it just felt too heavy to hold up anymore. Hot tears dripped from her eyes, dampening her bare legs.
From the table, Michelle heard the ringing of her phone. She was horrified— she could only imagine what she must look like to someone else right then. Some poor, pathetic woman sitting on her bed half naked, hunched down like a child, crying. What had happened to the polished professional of just a few hours ago?
Trying to bring herself back to a halfway-acceptable state, Michelle disentangled her limbs and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. With a final attempt at drying her tears, Michelle concluded that this was as good as it was going to get and picked up the phone.
"This is Dessler," she said evenly.
"Michelle, it's Jack."
"Jack."
"Yeah. You saw Tony today?" Michelle paused for a moment as the memory washed over her. Fresh tears stung her eyes, and she struggled to blink them back. Jack's voice came over the phone again, a little concerned this time. "Michelle?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm here, Jack. I saw him."
Quietly, Jack asked, "How was he?"
Michelle briefly considered lying, but what was the use? Jack was a hard man to deceive, and in truth she didn't really see the point. It was what it was.
"He looked…" she paused, searching for the word. "Defeated."
Jack exhaled. "Yeah."
"He… it was like… he'd just given up, Jack. I… Jack, I thought when I was with him I'd be warm again, but I was just as cold as…" she trailed off, realizing how strange that must sound.
"What?"
"Never mind. I just feel like… Jack, I was happy to see him, but it seemed like a light inside him went off. Or something. God, I'm not good at this."
"Michelle, it's okay."
"No, it's not. Look, I'm really sorry I'm such a mess right now; this isn't how I'd have wanted—"
"Michelle!" He cut her off. "Michelle, it's fine. You're in a tough position. You just deal with it the best you can."
Unable to form a response to that, Michelle was silent.
"Look, Michelle. You holding up okay?"
She considered. She was tired; exhausted, really; and still feverish. She had absolutely nothing left to be happy about. She was miserable and cold and lonely and there was no one—no one—who could reach her. She was alone and scared and sick and more devastated than she'd ever felt in her life.
"Yeah. I'm fine."
He accepted the answer for what it was "I'm god-awful, but I'm holding myself together, okay?" and chose not to press the issue further. He knew a breakdown was the last thing Michelle could handle right now, and he let her keep her composure.
"I called because I wanted to talk to you about Tony."
Her voice stiffened. "What about Tony?"
"First of all, I want to tell you that I'm going to testify at his trial and do everything I can for him. And you. Michelle… you call me if you need anything, you understand?"
Michelle smiled faintly. If there was one man who always had to be helping someone—preferably several thousands of someones— it was Jack Bauer. But she knew he really cared about her, too, and he meant what he said. "Yeah. Yeah, I will Jack."
"But there's something else. You know he's probably going to get convicted; we both know that. He did what he did."
Hearing a sharp intake of breath, Jack felt his muscles tighten and knew what Michelle was thinking. It was obvious that it was not a subject she was comfortable with. Not that she was comfortable with much of anything any more.
"And here's the thing: I can work on Palmer. He's gonna be unreachable for at least a week, probably more, because of Sherry, but I give you my word that as soon as I can, I will do everything in my power to persuade the President to help Tony."
She should have been touched by this. She should have been grateful. She should have thanked him. She should have said anything but what she did: "What the hell is that going to do, Jack?"
He sounded unmistakably offended. "Michelle, I just thought you'd appreciate it if I could get the most powerful man in the world to help your husband get out of treason charges, but—"
Horrified at what she'd said, Michelle backpedaled. "Jack, I'm sorry I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that, I just…" her voice broke. "I'm scared, Jack," she admitted.
He was taken aback. Over the three years he'd known her, Jack Bauer had seen Michelle repeatedly go through increasingly terrible situations. And she'd never betrayed fear even in the subtlest sign. Now, here she was, tearfully telling him that she was scared.
Voice softening, he said, "It's okay to be Michelle. It's okay. I'm sorry I yelled at you."
Though he couldn't see her, she shook her head. "No. No. I deserved it after what I said. I'm—I'm sorry."
"It's fine, Michelle."
"So… so do you think… what do you think Palmer's going to do?"
Jack sighed. "I'm afraid he might still be upset about Tony and me planning the operation without his consent. But he was happy with what we were able to do, so that'll work in his favor. Michelle, I don't want you to get your hopes up, but I might be able to get a pardon."
She was silent, struggling to keep her breathing in check.
"…Michelle?"
"Yeah. Yeah. Thank you, Jack."
"Hey—it's okay. You know that."
"I really appreciate it, though."
"Yeah." A long pause followed. Finally, Jack said awkwardly, "I'll let you get some sleep then."
"Okay. I'll talk to you later."
"Yeah."
The connection clicked off. Michelle sat staring at the phone. Don't think about it. Don't you dare think that he might get a pardon because if he doesn't you'll just be disappointed. Damnit! Don't think about it!
Shaking, Michelle stood up slowly and, bit by bit, pushed the idea of a pardon out of her mind. At length, she went to the dresser to find something warmer to wear. If she was so cold, why hadn't she attempted to warm up?