A/N: It's been a long time since I updated; there's been a lot going on in my life. But I have not abandoned this story! I'm determined to finish it no longer how long that takes. And so here, at very long last, is the next chapter.

Chapter Six: Severance

Michelle stared at the screen, dumbfounded. He could not do this to her. Transfer her out of LA? No. No. It was a two-day drive to Seattle, wasn't it? He was going to put two days between Tony? Bastard! She wanted to hit him. She wanted to—

Suddenly, as Michelle sat fuming, a conversation came flashing back to her and she heard Hammond's voice. It's CTU or Tony—you can't have both…Then, as Michelle realized what her response had been, she just wanted to cry. She'd had no idea he'd go this far. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She'd agreed to keep working for CTU, and now he was shipping her away from her home, her friends… her husband. Michelle continued to stare at the screen in numbed disbelief.

After he'd hit the "send" button, Brad Hammond leaned back in his chair with sadistic pleasure. Tony Almeida was a pain in the ass. Michelle wasn't; Michelle was efficient and professional. Professional, except for marrying her immediate superior.

From the start, there had been animosity between Hammond and Almeida. It had begun with Nina. Jack's part in the whole disaster was quickly forgiven—his family had been kidnapped, his wife and unborn child murdered, his daughter permanently traumatized. Everyone felt sorry for Jack Bauer after that day.

Tony, on the other hand…

He'd been sleeping with Nina. That wasn't so easily forgiven, and Hammond had been absolutely furious with him. Hammond had taken out every last ounce of frustration and anger for everything that had happened that fateful day on Tony, who happened to be the most convenient scapegoat. In short, Hammond blamed Tony for Nina.

Things between them had gone downhill fast. The situation was more than a little exacerbated after the chloroform incident with Ryan Chapelle. If there had been any doubt in Hammond's mind about Tony's level of respect for authority and for his superiors, there wasn't after that day. And when Tony and Michelle announced their engagement, Hammond had been livid. There was no official protocol regarding interoffice relationships, and every last CTU agent, from Jack Bauer down to the lowliest tech stood firm that the couple's relationship did not interfere with their work. Hell, some of them even said that things ran better that way, and Hammond had been unable to do a thing about it.

But the tremendous calamity caused by Nina had made Hammond absolutely certain that no good could come of an office romance, and he'd been proven right. Now, he was determined to make an example of the Mr. and Mrs. Almeida.

He didn't receive the same pleasure from watching Michelle suffer as he did from Tony. Though Hammond hadn't shown it, he'd been shocked and a little impressed when Michelle chose to keep her position at CTU. In that position, she'd done a remarkably good job. But Hammond knew that it was the rank-status upgrade that Michelle had gotten that had enabled her to wrangle her way into visits with Tony, and Hammond found it nothing short of infuriating.

When the position in Seattle had opened up, Hammond had seen it as a golden opportunity. The Homeland branch would certainly benefit from someone as qualified and driven as Michelle, and he intended to take full advantage of the opportunity to separate the not-so-happy couple.

Michelle looked down and realized just how tightly her hands were gripping the edge of the desk. Exhaling, she slowly let go and reached for the telephone.

A cold, hard voice answered. "Brad Hammond."

"It's Michelle."

"Michelle." Hammond's voice was suddenly far too jovial for Michelle's taste. "How are you?"

"I was a hell of a lot better before I found out you're transferring me out of LA."

"It's a good career move for you, Michelle. If you do well on this, you could be looking at a promotion."

"I don't want a promotion," she snapped, "I want to be with my husband."

"He gave up the right to be with you when he committed treason," Brad said slowly, as if savoring every syllable. "And you, Michelle, gave up the right to be with him when you accepted your position at CTU."

"Brad, I—"

"You have a duty to your country, Michelle, and right now, you're contractually obligated to remain active. We need you in Seattle; you're going to Seattle. End of discussion."

"Brad…"

"End of discussion." The connection clicked off.

Michelle slammed down the receiver angrily, not sure whether to curse or cry. Closing her eyes, she put her hand to her mouth and tried to breathe. She felt sick. She felt like she was suffocating. Pressing down on her was the knowledge that there was no way to get out of the transfer, nothing she could do, and that scared her. Michelle knew she had no control over the situation, and she hated having no control.

A strangled sound escaped her throat, and her head dropped into her hands. She drew three deep breathes, and then pulled herself together enough to get up and walk briskly, almost robotically, to Jack's office.

When she reached the office, Michelle closed the glass door behind her and leaned against it, biting her lip and looking up at the ceiling. In an instant, Jack was out of his seat and facing her, a hand on her arm.

"Michelle?"

"Hammond's transferring me out of LA," she stated flatly.

Jack took a small step back let out a long breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Is there anyway you can get out of it?"

She shook her head slightly.

"When?"

"Beginning of next week."

That got his attention, and he looked up quickly. "That soon?"

Biting her lip again, she nodded silently.

"Michelle, I'm sorry."

Giving something like a laugh, Michelle managed to focus her gaze directly on him. "Me too." Uncomfortable silence followed, and Michelle turned to leave. "I should go. I shouldn't have even—"

"Michelle!" He cut her off. "It's okay."

She bit her lip and left silently.

Michelle slammed the front door behind her and stormed into the house, boiling over with anger fueled by pain. She dumped her purse and bag unceremoniously on the floor and looked about wildly for the nearest small object. An empty water glass was sitting out on the counter, and she took it in her hand, staring at it—cold and empty— for a few frozen moments before hurling it across the room. It was a neat, powerful throw and Michelle was pleased to see it meet the exact point she'd aimed for—a spot on the wall with nothing hanging on it, and nothing below it—with impeccable precision. The glass smashed, shattering the silence of the room along with the glass.

At the sound, Michelle let out a sharp cry and slid to the floor, dropping her head into her knees. She was disgusted with herself. Pathetic. That was the only word she could find—she was just pathetic. Here she was, acting irrational and childish and downright stupid for no reason she could discern, and she couldn't even do that right; no, she had to be rational and throw the glass where it would be easy to clean up. She was doing a half-assed job of being irrational and stupid; couldn't she ever do anything right?

Michelle put her hands to her face and breathed slowly, trying to concentrate completely on inhaling and exhaling. Maybe she wanted to have a nervous breakdown; maybe she wanted to feel needy and never have to deal with this, or anything—but she didn't have that luxury. She'd been indulging in constant crying and self-pity for two months by then, and she decided that enough was enough.

It was time to pull herself together.

The Seattle job was a temporary post, and Division was paying for her furnished suite. On an intellectual level, Michelle was glad; that meant that their house would be there to return to and she could keep paying the mortgage. But living in what was essentially a hotel for months was a far from appealing prospect.

She wasn't even packing most of her things, which cast a strange feeling over the whole thing. It didn't feel like she was moving; she was just… leaving. Leaving her life behind and going somewhere undefined.

So she robotically folded her work clothes and packed her toiletries. Michelle somehow couldn't justify bringing very much in the way of casual clothing; she was going to Seattle to work and as she dully sifted through her closet, she just didn't see the potential for any occasion to do much else.

Michelle went through the uppermost dresser drawers, pulling out her underwear but leaving negligees and impractically lacy bras behind. Sighing, she pushed them all the way to the back of the drawer, and then shoved a few pairs of jeans she wasn't taking in front of them so that the lingerie was no longer visible. Quietly, she slid the drawers shut.

Finally, Michelle snatched Memee off the bed and shoved the stuffed bunny back into the back of the closet.

There was one last thing for Michelle to do before she left: tell Tony. Even as she went through the now depressingly familiar process of clearing prison security, she didn't know exactly how she was going to do it.

Tony looked up at Michelle as she sat down quietly before him. "Michelle," he said flatly.

"Tony." Her voice trembled a little as she said his name, either with sadness or perhaps tenderness, and she saw her husband soften a little.

"How are you holding up?"

"I'm fine," she told him softly. "What about you?"

Tony shrugged. "Okay." The pattern of fresh and fading bruises that crisscrossed his visible skin indicated otherwise, but Michelle didn't know what to say, or if she should say anything at all. Unsure, she raised a hand to brush her hair out of her face; in the process her sleeve dropped a little, exposing the gauze bandage on her arm. Tony shifted in his seat. "What happened to your arm?"

Coloring slightly, Michelle glanced down. "It's not a big deal."

His voice was a little harsher as he asked again, "What happened, Michelle?"

She bit her lip. "I was in the field last week, and I got cut. That's all." Again, Michelle looked away.

Tony dropped his head into a hand. "Are you okay?"

"Of course I'm okay."

He accepted her answer, and Michelle couldn't stop herself from thinking that it wasn't so long ago he would have scrutinized her inside and out before he'd even consider that she was all right. It used to drive her out of her mind when Tony acted that way, but his failure do so today filled her with a feeling she couldn't quite identify: a little like concern and a little like dread.

Looking up with no more than idle curiosity Tony asked, "Why were you in the field, anyway?"

"Jack needed a woman with him. To look like a couple."

He nodded. "Who were you after?"

More uncomfortable than she could ever remember being in her life, Michelle swallowed and could again feel herself blushing. "I, uh, I… I can't tell you that."

With a short, bitter laugh, Tony looked down. "No. I guess you can't."

"I'm sorry," Michelle said softly. It was the first time, since the day she'd met Tony, that she'd had information she couldn't legally share with him. But there were times he had information he didn't give you, the stupid voice inside her head told her. She hated that voice, hated it, hated it…

"I'm going to Seattle," Michelle blurted out suddenly.

That got Tony's attention. "What?" he demanded curtly, looking at her.

"I'm being transferred," she said quietly, "I can't get out of it."

"You're leaving?" His voice was stoic, but the silent vulnerability in his eyes was far from lost on Michelle.

She blinked back the tears that threatened to spill over her lashes. "It's not too far to come down to visit you."

"But you're leaving."

"I have to, Tony."

"You're leaving," he repeated listlessly.

She shook her head. "I don't want to, Tony. I miss you. I miss you so much. Don't you understand that, Tony? That I love you and I miss you?"

"Yeah."

By the time Michelle's flight landed in Seattle, her nerves were stretched dangerously thin. Exhausted and overwhelmed, she was short with the cab driver and shorter still with the reception desk at her hotel.

Michelle reached her suite and shut the door behind her, surveying her surroundings with weary eyes. It was perfectly adequate; she would have no difficulty whatsoever living there fore several months. But everything—everything—was dismally impersonal.

With a dispirited sigh, Michelle set her purse on the table, her briefcase on the desk, and briefly considered unpacking her suitcases before deciding to shower first. She made her way through the kitchen area and bedroom to the bathroom, and stripped off her rumpled clothes. She stepped under the hot, soothing spray of the shower, and even forty minutes later, found herself reluctant to get out. In the enclosed, steam-filled shower, Michelle felt blessedly detached, and she never wanted to get out. But common sense was stronger, and she eventually got out and dressed.

Michelle considered what to do next. She only had this afternoon free, and was starting work the following morning. Alone in a new city, Michelle could think of very little to do. She considered shopping, which would at the very least give her something to do. But for the same reason she'd left so much of her wardrobe in LA, Michelle vetoed the shopping idea. She just had no reason to wear or use anything that would be any fun to shop for.

So, feeling more than a little disheartened, Michelle set about the tedious business of unpacking.

The next morning, Michelle dressed neatly in a well-tailored business suit and gathered up her briefcase and a hot cup of coffee as she left. She was unwilling to admit even to herself that she was feeling somewhat unsure about starting, even if she was entering this position at the top, not the bottom, and all but a few of the people at the Homeland branch would be under her command. Professionally, she was self-assured, knowing that she had the expertise and confidence to do her job well. But at the same time, it was impossible to fend off the little bit of apprehension about going to a new place where she knew no one.

Michelle entered the building, showing her CTU ID and her Division keycard that granted her her high-level access to all government buildings. She was directed to the office of a Mr. Buchanan, head of the Homeland branch, and approached it with confidence. Michelle knocked on the office door.

"Come in."

Michelle pushed open the door, and the man sitting at the desk rose as she entered. He offered his hand, introducing himself. "Bill Buchanan."

She extended her own hand and shook his firmly. "Michelle Dessler."

Bill was shocked by the woman who entered his office that Monday morning. He was familiar with her exemplary record and impressive range of expertise, had reviewed her profile and read a brief report about her from Brad Hammond. He'd seen her picture and knew she was an attractive woman, had read on her file that she was only thirty-four years old.

But none of this could prepare him for the woman who walked in the door. He was stunned by her relative youth and, if he was being honest with himself, her attractiveness.

But her eyes—her eyes were as incongruous to the rest of her physical appearance as they could possibly be. They were hard, too hard. There was a look about her eyes that Bill, a man used to seeing seasoned agents, recognized all too well. It was the haunted look of one who had seen too much death, done too much of the unspeakable, borne too much responsibility. It was an unsettling look, especially in such a young woman with such a coldly professional demeanor. Bill Buchanan honestly didn't know what to make of her.

As Bill familiarized Michelle with the system and staff of Homeland, his manner was crisply professional, but it had a tinge of warmth that Michelle appreciated. Already, it seemed like an eternity since she'd had genuine human contact.

By the time Michelle left that evening, she was exhausted and already feeling the stress of new responsibilities. But it wasn't until she'd heated up a pre-cooked meal and logged into her laptop alone in her room that Michelle realized just how lonely she was.

When Michelle's cell phone rang, she was expecting it to be a work call. So she was surprised when the response to her resigned, "Dessler," was Chloe's perpetually exasperated voice. "Michelle? It's Chloe?"

"Chloe. How are you?"

"I've been better. Look, there've been some changes down here."

"Changes?"

"Hammond put Driscoll in charge."

"Erin Driscoll?"

"Yup. And she already sucks at this job. And… she fired Jack."

"She did?"

"That's what I just said."

"Why?" Michelle found herself vaguely wondering when she'd lost the capacity to speak in any form other than bewildered questions.

"Why do you think, Michelle? Because he's erratic and irresponsible. Because he's a junkie."

"But he's the best."

"You think I don't know that? I know that just as well as you do."

"I suppose you do."

"Yeah. I suppose so too. Anyway, I just thought you should know."

"Thank you, Chloe. I appreciate that."

"Yeah, well. Anyway. I've gotta go. Bye."

"Take care, Chl—" Michelle was cut off as Chloe, in true Chloe form, hung up. She sighed, dismayed and a little surprised but not exactly shocked. She knew she'd have to be replaced but she was hoping for someone a little more competent than Driscoll, but in the back of her mind she knew that Driscoll was the logical choice. And she had figured that letting Jack go was a very real possibility for just about any director except her, but that didn't remove the sting of injustice.

Michelle considered calling Jack, but decided to wait a bit. Though it was unspoken, it was obvious that Chloe had called to tell her was because they both knew that Jack would never tell her on his own. And for the moment, Michelle was willing to give him the distance and let it go.

So she forcibly pushed all extraneous thoughts away and, returning to her laptop, continued to work.