A/N: Firstly, thank you for the reviews! They really do make me a happy author. This chapter, I should note, is the happiest chapter yet (relatively speaking, of course, which isn't saying much) but it's much less angsty and more... well, "regrouping." I felt that Michelle needed to "regroup" so we could get on with the plot. Feedback for this would be much appreciated.

Chapter Four: Regrouping

"I have no life," Michelle informed her bunny two nights after she'd visited Tony, sitting on the bed with a pint of Häagen-Dazs and a spoon. Memee's long, worn, ears flopped over her face, but not enough to stop her from staring at Michelle. The familiar gaze of trusting love was tainted with skepticism. Clearly, the rabbit wasn't convinced.

She plopped the ice cream down on the bedside table and lifted the bunny up to her eye level. "I'm talking to a stuffed bunny. Do you need any more proof than that?" Michelle let Memee fall back to the bed and returned to her ice cream.

In two days, things had already settled down—relatively speaking. She'd used her rank to wrangle her way into visits with Tony, but her best efforts still yielded her access to him only once every two weeks, for half an hour. She'd been used to working with him every day, and then going home with him after work. They were together almost literally twenty-four/seven. And now… half an hour once every two weeks? Michelle didn't know how she was going to deal with it.

So she didn't; she filled all her time with work. Usually, she was at CTU by seven, and didn't leave until after ten in the evening. It was exhausting, but her temperature had returned to normal and she preferred work. She preferred it to the alternative of coming home by herself and having to think about Tony's absence and the total nonexistence of her life outside CTU. It simply wasn't possible to maintain a social life when she was lucky to get one day off in a month. Not that she'd ever exactly been a social butterfly to begin with.

Things were simpler that way. She didn't have time for a life. Usually, she was working and that was how she got to spend time with her husband—because they were together. Once they were out of work, it was such a relief to be alone that they were either reveling in the blessedly mundane aspects of life—shopping, watching movies, going out to eat, just taking a walk together— or having sex.

Jack always insisted that it was impossible to have a relationship while working at CTU. Most CTU agents figured out fairly quickly that CTU wasn't just a job, it was a life. But Michelle and Tony both lived the CTU life, which meant they could maintain their relationship. But it also meant that Michelle's life consisted of exactly two things: CTU and Tony. Now Tony was gone, and CTU was her entire life.

The thought was immensely depressing. There was nothing to her life beyond work. At all. There never really had been, but as long as she'd had Tony she'd never noticed, and she'd guess that he hadn't either. Now, though, it was all too evident. Disheartened, Michelle dug her spoon into the ice cream.

Just then, she heard the distinct sound of the front door opening. She froze. The sound of the door closing and a person walking toward the bedroom floated down to her. Rigidly, she reached for the gun in the drawer by the bed and slowly rose.

Her mind was running through possibilities. A burglar. A rapist. More likely, a vengeful terrorist trying to kill her. Shit. She tried to remember the most recent and likely possibilities. There was that guy from a few months ago. She'd headed the investigation, and he still had a brother at large. But really, it could be anyone from her past. She wished Tony was there. Shit.

With her gun in front of her, Michelle moved to the door, but before she reached it the knob turned and it opened. "Don't move!" she shouted, weapon poised.

Michelle heard a female shriek, followed by: "Jesus Christ, Michelle, do you always answer the door like that?"

Her heart rate quickly returning to normal, Michelle lowered the gun and stepped back to allow her sister access to the room. Blushing, she silently replaced the gun in its drawer. Amanda was still breathing heavily, staring at Michelle. Suddenly, her gaze landed on the bed. "Oh my god, Michelle. Tell me that bunny isn't in the bed while you're having sex."

Mechanically, Michelle faintly echoed, "The bunny isn't in the bed while I'm having sex."

"When you were three, it was cute. When you were twelve, it was still cute. Hell, it was cute when you toted that thing off to college with you. Now? Less cute. Explain to me why a woman who answers her door with a gun is still sleeping with a stuffed animal."

"I didn't answer the door," Michelle said defensively, "you snuck in without knocking. What the hell are you doing here anyway?"

"Making sure my baby sister's still alive. Michelle, what the hell is going on?"

"What, they don't have news stations in 'Frisco?"

"Not stations that broadcast the details of my sister's life, no."

"Go home. Aren't you supposed to have a husband or something?"

"Oh, him," Amanda said dismissively, "A&E is running a marathon of Bond movies. It'll be another day before he even notices I'm gone."

"Realize that I'm gone sixteen hours a day."

"I care… why again?"

"Because that leaves me eight hours at home. And between eating, sleeping, and getting ready for my husband's treason trial that doesn't leave a lot of time for socializing."

"Well, you're socializing with that goddamned rabbit, so why don't you tell me why Tony got arrested for treason? You weren't exactly clear on that."

"It's classified."

"The gist of it?"

"I was being held hostage," Michelle recited dully, "Tony let a suspect escape to save me. That's treason."

"Damn."

"Meanwhile, my life consists of work and nothing else. Literally, nothing else. And frankly, I prefer it that way because I haven't had a life outside of work since I've been at CTU. So go home to your goddamn picket fence—" Michelle glanced pointedly at her sister's pregnant belly— "and let me do my job, because it is a matter of national security."

Amanda's voice softened immeasurably as she said, "This is still about the baby you lost last year, isn't it?"

"No, it's not," Michelle hissed, "It's about the fact that you do not, will not, and cannot have any comprehension of what my life is. You don't know what it feels like to kill a person. You don't know what it feels like when there's a very real threat to a city that has a lot of people you care about in it, and you can't tell them. You don't know what it feels like to have to deal with a crisis completely stoically when you and someone you love may be dying. You don't know what it feels like to get so paranoid you carry a gun when you run errands. You don't know what it feels like when it's up to you to literally stop the end of the world. You have no damn idea. So just leave and go back to your happy, normal life with your house in the suburbs and your husband who's not in prison and your baby who made it past nine weeks."

"It is about the baby."

"It's not about the baby. I'd be lying if I said I'm not jealous out of my mind, but it's not about the baby! You just…" Michelle's anger faded quickly and she simply felt defeated. "Look, Amanda. Stay here for a few days if you want to. But my world's not your world, and…" choking on her tears, Michelle broke off.

"My baby sister…" Amanda crooned softly, gathering Michelle into her arms. Michelle nestled her face into her sister's shoulder and simply sobbed. "Go ahead, sweetie, Cry."

"I—can't—I—"

"It's okay to cry in front of me, Michelle. Tony's not the only person in the world who's allowed to see that you're human. Cry." And so Michelle did. She let her sister hold her, and she cried.

Amanda kept her arms wrapped around her sister, pained that she wasn't able to understand. Pained that she wasn't able to help. So she just stroked Michelle's hair, letting her cry, because she could, at least, offer her sister a refuge. She could offer Michelle a shoulder to cry on—literally—and at least remind her that there was a world beyond that insane job of hers.

Michelle was still crying into her sister's cotton maternity top when she was interrupted by the phone ringing. Why did the damn phone always ring when she was in the middle of crying?

Pulling away from Amanda, Michelle gained control of her emotions— she'd done this so many times now it was practically a routine—and answered. "Dessler." She was silent, listening to the person on the other end, and Amanda watched in amazement as her sister seemed to almost flip a switch and in an instant became cool and alert. "How good is the intel?... Okay... I'll be there in half an hour."

Michelle snapped the phone shut and stood up, already at the closet looking for something to wear. "We have a situation," she said over her shoulder, "I'm going into CTU. There are clean sheets for the guest room in the linen closet by the bathroom."

Before Amanda had time to answer, Michelle had emerged from the closet and was tugging on pantyhose and had a suit tossed out on the bed. "There isn't much food in the kitchen, but I keep directions to stores and restaurants in the drawer of the desk in the guest room."

"Are your running a hotel or something?"

"No," Michelle answered as she pulled on the jacket and went into the bathroom, "I'm being organized for situations like this."

The women were silent while Michelle pulled back her hair with a minimum of frustration at its unruliness and then applied her makeup. As Michelle came back into the bedroom in search of her watch and a pair of earrings, her sister finally spoke.

"What kind of situation?"

"Nothing too serious," Michelle dismissed the question, "Just an issue that needs to be dealt with. I'll be home tomorrow night."

"They really don't let you sleep, do they?"

"No one is forcing me to do anything," Michelle responded curtly, slipping on her shoes, grabbing her purse, and rushing out the front door.

The next evening, Michelle stumbled tiredly into the kitchen, utterly exhausted. Michelle was shocked to be greeted by the homey aroma of… food. Since the Cordilla virus, Michelle hadn't eaten a single full meal. She'd been existing on yogurt, the crappy food from the CTU café, and frozen dinners.

"Amanda?" she called weakly.

"You keep no food whatsoever in this house," Amanda complained as she entered from the den.

"I don't cook."

"You mean you can't cook."

"That too." Micelle was too tired to even attempt to defend her culinary skills—or lack thereof.

"I've been keeping the lasagna warm in the oven. Let me just take it out… you go take off that godawful suit; I don't understand how you can spend your days in rayon and heels. That's just dumb."

"You're just dumb," Michelle offered uncreatively as she left in search of something more comfortable. As she made her way through the house Michelle, realized that her sister had cleaned. Was she being nice or just making some subtle dig at Michelle's lack of domestic skills?

As Michelle reached the bedroom and began opening drawers, she found that Amanda had done laundry. Nice, Michelle concluded instantly. Then, when she opened the closet to toss in her shoes, she saw suits, tops, and skirts that had been crumpled on the floor fresh in dry cleaner's bags. Definitely nice.

She returned to the kitchen a few minutes later. Before she could offer her thanks, Amanda shoved her into a chair before a table boasting actual, honest-to-god, cooked food. "Thank you so much."

"Hey. I actually like to cook."

"No. No, for… for everything. For cleaning and doing laundry and getting my clothes cleaned and… and for coming, I guess," Michelle finished.

"Sweetie, I wasn't just going to leave you here."

"But thank you."

"That's what I'm here for, Michelle."

Michelle bit her lip and looked away. Being nurtured was not something she was used to. At all. What she was used to was living a dangerous, stressful life—never relaxing, always putting herself last. The feeling of being taken care of so completely was unfamiliar, but tremendously comforting. Taking a bite of lasagna, Michelle paused for a moment before asking, "Is lasagna your answer to everything?"

Amanda laughed, relaxing Michelle. The pure, lighthearted sound was in stark contrast to the tension and stress that had surrounded Michelle for the past day, and hearing it was a relief. "Comfort food," Amanda explained with a shrug.

"See? Food is your answer to everything." Michelle rolled her eyes.

"So?"

Michelle pouted, "Well, if you hadn't taught me that chocolate makes everything better, I wouldn't go running for the extra-dark every time I'm upset. I'm hereby blaming you for any weight I have gained or may eventually gain from eating chocolate."

Reaching across the table, Amanda playfully hit Michelle's shoulder. "You can't blame me for everything, hon."

"I can, too," Michelle muttered sulkily, stabbing a piece of lettuce with her fork.

"And don't stab your food with your fork. Slide it under."

"I'm not one of your students!"

"For god's sake, I don't even eat lunch with my students. Can you imagine trying to teach manners to two dozen fourth-graders? My god." Amanda shuddered at the mere thought.

"So how are they, anyway?"

"Oh, they're all right, I suppose. Getting antsy. Did I tell you they're building an addition onto the school?" Michelle shook her head. "Well, the construction is near my room and the kids are always distracted by it. It's making me crazy, too."

"What are they building?"

"A new gym." Amanda rolled her eyes, and her voice was dripping with sarcasm as she asked, "Don't you think that's where we should be spending our funding? On phys-ed? My grammar books are all outdated—they don't even teach the oxford comma, for god's sake—and they're building a new gym?"

"There are worse problems in the world than oxford commas, you know," Michelle said quietly.

"Of course there are! And you spend way too much time worrying about them! If you're saving the world all day long, why don't you just relax once you're home?"

Michelle sighed. "That's the part you don't understand. CTU is not a nine-to-five; you can't just leave at the end of the day. You just don't know what it means to—"

Amanda almost spit out her milk. "Michelle, I'm a teacher. I spent half of today correcting projects. I'm always correcting and when I'm not, I'm planning lessons. Trust me, I don't clock out at the end of the day,"

Shaking her head, Michelle attempted to explain. "No. No, it's not… when you're an agent, you have to be on alert all the time. I always have to be ready to go in at a moment's notice. Bad things happen when agents aren't on alert. People die."

"Michelle, the weight of the world is not on your shoulders."

"A lot of it is, Amanda. I'm the one who's responsible for protecting the LA region from any and all terrorist activities. Tony's in prison, Jack's in rehab—don't ask—, his partner just lost a hand, my immediate subordinate is dead, our regional director is dead… there is no one else."

Looking troubled, Amanda was silent for a moment before saying, "That's way too much responsibility for one person."

Michelle shrugged. "Maybe. But I don't really have a choice. It's my responsibility. Anyway, Division's scrambling to get more qualified people… they're being transferred in from all around the country. We'll manage." Michelle paused only briefly before abruptly changing the subject. "So, what is it you have against Memee, anyway?"

With a laugh, Amanda answered, "Nothing. That dumb old bunny doesn't bother me; it's just my job to tease you."

Two days later, Amanda had gone home, leaving her sister with a clean house, clean clothes, a full refrigerator, and a residual sense of childhood comfort. The visit had recharged Michelle. Not only had Amanda taken care of all the household work Michelle had lacked the time, energy, and motivation to do, but she'd reminded Michelle that there really were still people who cared about her. She'd reminded her that beyond the hell Michelle insisted on living in, there was still an outside world. There were still people who did laundry and went grocery shopping. And there were people in that world who cared about her. Danny, even though he was too unstable to be any help. Her parents, even though they lived all the way across the country. And Amanda, who could still show up when she was needed.

Michelle stared at her cell phone's screen, where the number she'd dialed was displayed. Her finger hovered over the "call" button. Was she really going to do this? Well, who else was there to call? She pressed the key.

"Hello?"

"Chloe, it's Michelle."

"What is it?"

"I… I just want to talk to someone who knows what happened that day."

Chloe snorted. "I told you that you would eventually. I'm a better judge of emotional reactions than I get credit for."

"Chloe?"

"I'm just saying that I was right."

"I kind of figured that out, Chloe."

"Are you going to tell me why you finally decided to call, or are you going to sit there being sarcastic?"

"Chloe, for the love of God…" Michelle sighed. "My sister was here for a couple days—she left last night—and she doesn't understand."

"That's what I told you before. That no one outside of CTU would be any help."

"I know that you told me that. And in case I didn't, you've already refreshed my memory."

"I'm just trying to be a friend, Michelle. You don't have to sound so hostile."

Michelle inhaled and counted to ten. "Okay. Okay."

The silence that followed lasted a full minute. Finally, Chloe huffed, "Well, what did you want to talk about? Is it the treason charges that are bothering you, or was it the whole watching eight hundred people die thing?"

"Both, Chloe! The whole damn day!"

"Well, if you're not going to be specific, I don't know how you expect me to help you."

"I don't. I don't expect you to help. There isn't anything that can help at this point. I just thought…" Michelle trailed off. "I don't know. You know what went on that day."

"Well, if it makes you feel better, I do think it was admirable that you were still working after Tony got shot. I mean, I know you were pretty sensitive and that wasn't necessarily professional, but still."

Michelle was silent. Chloe rambled on. "And inside the Chandler Plaza Hotel… I mean, going in was against protocol and everything, and it was because of you that your whole team died, but it was still probably the right thing to do. I mean, I wouldn't want to be responsible for that, but it's personal, I guess. Sacrificing yourself to maybe save a hotel full of people isn't really black-and-white. But as an agent, I mean, it was probably the right call."

"I… I appreciate hearing that Chloe."

"It's just what I feel, okay?" Chloe said defensively, caught in the unfamiliar position of actually helping another person's emotional state.

"And I appreciate hearing it. Being inside that hotel… you saw the video feed, Chloe. I felt like… I felt so helpless. I felt like I had failed."

"Everyone felt that, so don't think you're anything special. I mean, I know I felt like if I'd done a better job those people might not being dying, and it's pretty damn horrible. Especially when we're used to saving lives. We know how high the stakes are, but actually seeing all those people bleeding and dying isn't exactly a confidence booster."

"Yeah," Michelle said, still slightly taken aback. She'd never have guessed that Chloe of all people would hit the nail so soundly on the head. But then, maybe it was because Chloe was always so brutally honest that she saw the truth so clearly.

"And I guess you also feel responsible for Tony being arrested, but that's different. I mean, it's not like you could have done anything to stop it. Tony was irresponsible because of you, but it was his choice, not yours. So blame him for it"

"Well, I have been, Chloe. And where does that get me? What's the point of being angry with him when he's in prison because of me? He's in prison, Chloe. Damnit, my husband's in prison."

"I didn't say to be angry at him; I said to blame him," Chloe said in a voice most people reserved for small children, "There's a difference between holding someone responsible for their actions and getting mad at them about it. He did it; it was his fault: end of story. You can resent the choice without resenting him. Jeez. And I'm supposed to be the one with no social skills."

"You have social skills," Michelle assured her, "They're just more perceptive than interactive, that's all."

"Whatever," Chloe said, her eye-roll almost audible. "Anyway, I wanted to tell you that I don't think Tony should be in prison. He shouldn't have this job anymore, but there should be some kind of law karma thing. I mean, he's given the greater good a hell of a lot more than he hurt it by letting Saunders escape, and as long as he's not in charge of CTU it's not like he's a risk to society. And since he doesn't deserve punishment because of the non-existent law-karma thing, there's no real reason for him to be there."

"Well… I… I appreciate hearing that."

"You said that exact same thing before."

This time, it was Michelle who rolled her eyes. "Because I meant it. Really. Thank you."

"Whatever." For a time, no words were spoken; both women were unsure what to say. Finally, Michelle managed to break the painfully awkward silence. "Well, I'll let you go."

"Bye," Chloe said shortly before the connection clicked off.

Michelle continued to sit in kitchen chair she'd been in, turning the phone over in her hand. She had not expected that. At all. Her sister's visit had driven home to Michelle how much she needed to talk to someone who knew what she'd gone through. In the past, that person had always been Tony. But when most of the problem was his lack of presence, that left Michelle utterly bereft. With Jack in rehab, Chloe had been the only person Michelle had known to call. She'd simply needed to connect with someone who shared the experiences of that day.

The insightfulness of Chloe's rambling explanations was the last thing Michelle had expected. And she'd been shocked by how much it helped her just to hear the other woman talk. It was clichéd, but knowing that she wasn't alone made her feel so much better. Chloe knew what she was feeling, and that meant everything.

Chloe was blunt. Brutally honest. Insensitive to the impact of her words. But in a world full of people who measured every word carefully, there was something relieving about listening to Chloe. Chloe, who, through her uncensored speeches, could express in words the thoughts that were tangled and foggy to Michelle. And because Chloe was so candid, it was clear that what she said was sincere.

Bolstered by Chloe's awkward support and by her sister's nurturing, Michelle steeled herself for the trying months ahead.

Slumping back dejectedly, Tony could see his wife approaching, clearing the final layer of security. She looked tired, and was still wearing the skirt and jacket she'd obviously chosen for work. Her hair was coming undone, and she brushed loose strands from her face as she impatiently watched the guard examine her ID.

A few moments later, he had given her the okay, and Michelle swept past the remaining men and over to where her husband was seated. With an anxious sigh, she bit her lip and sank into the chair on the other side of the glass. She put her hand against it, wishing desperately that she could touch him. "Tony."

He leaned forward a little. "Sweetheart."

Her eyes were brimming with tears as her hand pressed still harder against the glass. "Tony."

"Michelle, it's alright."

"…Yeah," she managed, biting her lip again.

"Sweetheart, I'm fine."

Her eyes focused unwillingly on the bruise extending out of the side of his collar and the cut below his eye. She slid her hand off the glass and twisted her wedding band around her finger, unable to meet his eyes. "Tony, this isn't right."

His voice was bitter when he said, "'Right' doesn't mean a hell of a lot, Michelle."

Not knowing how to respond, Michelle was silent. She felt completely and utterly powerless. Finally, she managed, "I wish I could do something."

"I do too, sweetie," he said tiredly. It was clear from his tone that this was a thought he'd turned over all too many times before. He, like Michelle, was used to taking control of situations and finding solutions. His own helplessness was as infuriating to him as it was frustrating, and the more he searched for a solution to his own situation, the more depressing the reality of it became.

"Tony, I miss you."

A look of pain came over Tony's face. "I'm sorry I can't be there for you."

Michelle lifted her eyes and met his. "I'm not the one we should be worried about."

"I'm fine."

"Tony," Michelle's voice was suddenly hard, "Don't lie to me."

"Okay, I'm not fine."

She let her eyes drop again and she could feel her lips trembling. Her gaze darted around the room, but her husband's face, with its heart-wrenchingly bleak expression, never left her line of vision. "Tony, we're going to get through this. We have to."

"Sweetheart," he slouched back again, "There's no point in setting yourself up for disappointment."

"Tony, don't tell me you've given up already."

He was silent.

"Tony, I love you," she half-pleaded, desperate for that to mean something.

"I love you, too." Though his words were sincere, Tony's voice was so disheartened that Michelle wanted to cry.

Suddenly she asked, "Remember that time, right after our wedding, when you tried to teach me how to make pancakes?"

A smile flickered across Tony's face. "It should be illegal for you to come within twenty yards of a stove."

Michelle laughed, ostensibly at his comment. But really, she was laughing in relief that her Tony was still there.

"Or maybe any kitchen appliance that requires turning on."

Giggling, Michelle questioned, "What about the microwave?"

Tony scratched his neck and looked up at her devilishly. "I'm not forgetting the time you put a piece of bread in there. For four minutes."

Michelle mock-pouted. "That was over two years ago!"

With a satisfied smirk, Tony crossed his arms. "And I haven't let you cook since."

"I tried to make mashed potatoes," she confessed, a guilty look across her face.

"God help the potato," sighed Tony.

"Hey, the potato made it out of there almost intact. I didn't," she huffed.

"Don't tell me you cut yourself slicing a potato. That's just sad, honey."

Sheepishly, Michelle displayed the healing gash on her hand. "The only sad part is that I didn't get to eat my potatoes," she said with as much dignity as she could muster.

"You're hopeless," he laughed.

Thrilled at the sound of his laugh, a sound she hadn't heard in almost a month, Michelle had to exert all of her self-control not to jump up and down. "I have other skills," she managed to say levelly.

"Not domestic skills."

"So?" she challenged defensively. "I'm good at fighting terrorists.

"And I love my crime-fighting hero-wife," he told her with bemused affection, "You'd make a good action figure."

Giving him a flirty look, she reminded him in a low voice, "But I don't wear a breast plate."

Michelle would have sworn she could see Tony salivating as he uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. "I think I like you without anything over your—"

"I really prefer to wear black leather," she interrupted, continuing as though without interruption, "Don't you prefer it when I wear black leather, Tony?" Her tone was maddeningly ordinary.

"I prefer you."

When Michelle left the prison that evening, she felt almost… happy.