Realized as I was uploading this that this is chapter 25 - which makes it already as many chapters as If I Can Leave Off Burying The White. And we're not close to done yet! But now I've written fifty chapters of Wylie and Vega's life after the finale, and it's become very real to me, that this is what happened, that the ending of their story on the show isn't exactly the entire story. I hope it's the same for everyone else, too!
Happy Wega Wednesday!
"Cho just called us," Wylie said, "we've got a break in the immigration case. He needs us ASAP. Hopefully we can wrap it up before Christmas."
"Just let me throw on some pants," Vega said, rising off the couch and heading to the bedroom. Wylie grabbed his jacket off the hook. They both wanted to get this case closed as soon as possible. This topic always seemed to bring out the worst in everybody. Agent Don wasn't the only one to give his wife a hard time about it.
He threw their dishes into the dishwasher and washed his hands. Vega still hadn't come out of the bedroom, and he tossed the hand towel on the counter as he headed across the living room to investigate.
"Hey, what's taking you so..."
He stopped. She was standing in front of their closet, her head drooping, her chin resting against her chest. Her eyes were closed, and the pants she'd pulled from the closet were on the floor in front of her, as if she'd dropped them. She was still wearing the shorts.
"Hey," he said gently, crossing the room. "What's wrong?"
She looked up at him, her eyes dull, and when she spoke it was in a whisper. "I'm just so tired."
He pulled her close, feeling her slump against him, sighing. "I'll go in," he said. "I'll go in and tell Cho you can't make it."
"No." Her protests were weak, halfhearted. The old Michelle Vega, the one before her injury, would have pushed through this fatigue, gone in anyway and worked under capacity, possibly making mistakes. That was the old Michelle Vega, the one that strove to gain respect to the point of fault. The Michelle Vega of today knew her limitations. The Michelle Vega of today allowed herself to be imperfect.
"Come on, let's get you laid down." He guided her to their bed, pulling the covers back for her as she crawled onto it. "There we go. I'm going to go to work," he said, going over to the dresser and picking up her cell phone. "I'm setting this on the dresser," he said. "If you need anything at all just give me a call. Okay?"
"Yep," she said, giving him a small smile. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be." He kissed her forehead. "We can handle it. You rest."
What she hated the most about this fatigue was she actually wasn't able to sleep all that well, not during the day. Her body cried for rest, but her brain knew it was morning, time to get up, time to go to work. She used to pride herself on her infallible internal clock. Now she would willingly trade it for an hour's nap.
She ached, too. She hadn't been moving around enough and her scar tissue was protesting. The new shirt she'd worn to work on Friday had irritated her skin, especially over her scars. The red and purple lines that were a permanent part of her body were even more prominent these past few days. She'd fallen asleep the day before and was late taking her insulin – something she'd done every day since the shooting and something she'd have to do the rest of her life.
She was exhausted because her body, which had already been put through the ringer, which had spent more than its fair share of time fighting for survival, was doing something special. It was preparing, making itself a safe place for her and Wylie's baby to grow, to be sheltered until it was time to venture into the world. She hated feeling so useless, she hated not being able to sleep, but this wasn't something she could be truly frustrated about.
For years, she'd been constantly reminded, through pain and exhaustion and frustration, of the things she could no longer do, or could no longer do as well as before the shooting.
This was different. This symptom wasn't a reminder of what she couldn't do. This was a reminder of what she still could.
