Part 32

Maria slept fitfully, waking throughout the night with the unshakable feeling that something had happened to Michael. It had started the day before and she had gone to Gabriel to ask if he had heard anything, but he hadn't had any information to share with her.

She had been distracted most of the evening during her shift and he had finally sent her home early, instructing her to get some rest and promising to call her if he heard anything. After wandering around the house for a while she had taken a bath hoping it would help her relax so she could sleep.

She was up and down most of the evening and well after midnight, unable to sleep for more than an hour or two at a time. It was during one of the brief sleeping fits that she heard the garage door opening.

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Michael moved slowly as he stood and carefully swung his leg over the seat; he was doing his best to be as quiet as possible as he unlocked the door and walked inside. He knew Maria was asleep and he didn't want her to wake up and see him like this. He didn't examine his feelings on that subject any closer, ignoring them as he tried to avoid bumping into anything.

If he could make it past her bedroom and into his without waking her he'd be home free. His vision was graying out at the edges but he knew he had to patch himself up before he passed out again. He stumbled into his room and grabbed the edge of the dresser when he felt his knees begin to buckle.

"Michael?"

He winced when he heard her speak up behind him.

"What's… oh, my God, you're bleeding! What happened?" Maria tried to contain the panic that automatically rose to the surface at the sight of him bleeding, but it wasn't easy.

"What happened?" he snapped, pain making his temper flare. He wasn't going to be able to do this himself; the bullet was in his side and he couldn't reach it to remove it. "I took a fuckin' bullet and I haven't got it out yet." He drew several shallow breaths. "There's a surgical kit in the bathroom, in the cabinet behind the door… get it and get some towels."

Maria forced her mind to focus on the task at hand and she hurried to get what he needed. What on earth was he doing here? Didn't Marcos have doctors to help the agents who worked for him? Unless… she chewed on her lips as she cast about for an answer. Michael wouldn't want to risk going to a doctor, not even one mandated by Marcos, even though any physician could potentially be paid to keep quiet about mysterious blood abnormalities or other weird happenings.

"Put the towels on the bed," he panted. Sweat was breaking out all over his body and he was starting to shake. He reached up, trying his best to get his shirt off with one hand.

"Here, let me help you." Maria quickly stripped the shirt off of him and helped him over to the bed. He fell back against the mattress and she leaned over him, patting his cheeks insistently when his eyes slid closed. Fear seized her as her brain replayed images of Michael's last moments, paralyzing her. "Michael, I need you to stay with me… tell me what to do."

"Get the bullet out," he whispered harshly.

Maria's gaze slid to his side and she swallowed hard when she saw the blood-soaked gauze taped to his side. Oh God, he was serious! He wanted her to remove the bullet? Hysteria started to rise. She wouldn't be able to do it, she wouldn't! Oh, God, why did he have to ask her to do that? She raised her eyes to watch him and saw his face turn grey with pain. She took a deep breath. She had to do it. There was nobody else around and she wasn't going to lose him again. With trembling hands, she carefully removed the gauze, unable to look away from the blood seeping out from the open wound.

"Bullet's not in very deep," he slurred. "Just under the skin."

Her stomach rolled sickeningly and she just knew she was going to lose her dinner. She opened the kit and looked at the stainless steel instruments inside, horrified by what they represented, and wondering how many times he had used them on himself.

"Get the ones that look like a combination of scissors and tweezers." He nodded when she held them up. "Good. Take 'em in the bathroom and pour alcohol over them, but don't dry 'em off." He forced himself to focus on his breathing until she came back out.

Maria followed his instructions without questioning him; he obviously knew what needed to be done. "Now what?"

He shifted onto his left side and his right hand settled just behind the wound. "I'm gonna hold the bullet still, but I need you to go in and get it."

"How will I know - "

"You'll know when you've got the bullet, believe me. You just aim for the spot directly between my fingers and you'll find it." He reached up to still her trembling hand. "You can do this, Maria. If I pass out, just get that bullet out, clean the wound, pour alcohol over it, and bandage it. After that, just let me sleep, okay?" He stared directly into her eyes. "I'll be fine."

Maria swallowed hard and her free hand settled over the one he was using to keep the bullet steady. She felt nauseous as the steel instrument slid into the open wound and she froze when the pointed tip nudged something solid and she felt him groan. She forced herself to open the pincers and she felt them lock around the bullet.

Slowly, she pulled the bullet from his body and she felt his hand go lax beneath hers. She dropped the instrument on the towel beside him and leaned over him again, terrified that he wasn't breathing. Relief flooded her system when she realized that he was breathing and his pulse was steady and strong. She hurried to clean the wound out and coat it with an antiseptic before packing fresh gauze over it and taping it down.

Finished with that she cleaned everything up and sterilized the instrument she had used before putting it away, praying she never had to see it again. She pulled the towel out from under him and carried it to the laundry room, starting the washer and throwing it in. Going back to his room she stood over him, staring at him as he slept. She knelt down to unlace his boots and pull them off before maneuvering him fully onto the bed; she reached up to unbuckle his belt, unsnap and unzip his cargo pants, pulling them off and leaving him in just a pair of boxer shorts before covering him up.

On trembling legs, Maria walked back to her own bedroom and collapsed on her bed, anxious and exhausted. Tears rolled down her cheeks, the emotions too great to contain after seeing him like that. She could've lost him… again. The pain that seized her in that moment was so great that she didn't feel as though her physical body could contain it and she rolled over, crying into her pillow and sobbing until she was unable to hold onto consciousness any longer.

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Michael groaned as light registered through his closed eyelids and he wondered what had caused him to sleep so late. It took a moment to remember what had happened the day before and he bent his right arm at the elbow as he gently prodded his side around the bullet wound. He forced himself to sit up, his movements slow and careful as he tried to control the nausea that rolled to life with even the slightest motion.

"What're you doing?"

He was holding onto the edge of the nightstand, testing his legs to make sure they would support his weight when Maria spoke up from the doorway. "Tryin' to get vertical," he growled.

"You shouldn't be out of bed," she scolded, secretly relieved to see him standing upright.

"Would you rather I piss on myself?" He shot a warning look in her direction and shook his head. "Don't even offer to help; I'm more than capable of takin' a piss by myself." He glared at the wide expanse of floor between him and the bathroom.

"Will you let me help you to the bathroom door, at least?"

"Look, if you're that desperate to get your hands on my dick I can certainly accommodate you, but not like this." His jaw was set stubbornly as he shook his head again. "I don't need any help takin' a piss. Fuck no."

"Suit yourself," Maria snapped, wishing she could control her emotions where he was concerned.

"Why don't you make yourself useful… go make me somethin' to eat."

Maria was fuming as she stormed through the house after being summarily dismissed by the temperamental hybrid. God, he was so infuriating! "Go make me something to eat," she mocked, snarling the words under her breath. "Yeah, I'll make you something to eat, you pissy, ungrateful, arrogant ass."

She was opening the refrigerator door when she heard a loud thud and she immediately forgot that she was angry with him as she ran back through the house towards the bedrooms. She found him on his knees in the bedroom, his right hand braced on the floor while his left hand was splayed wide over the gauze bandage that had a quarter-sized red spot in the center.

"I don't wanna hear one word about how you don't need any help because you're gonna get it, like it or not." Her hands slid against his sweat-slick skin as she struggled to help him up onto his feet.

Was this normal? Michael wondered, leaning heavily on her. The wound wasn't that serious, so why was he so weak and disoriented?

"Because you've been unconscious for sixteen hours and who knows how long it's been since you last ate."

He scowled at her chastising tone, realizing that he had spoken his thoughts aloud and he glanced out through the windows. Sixteen hours? The sun was hanging low in the western sky which meant that it was way past morning. "What time is it?"

"A little after five."

He braced his left hand on the mattress as he was carefully lowered to a sitting position and he winced when he shifted and his side reminded him that he was injured. He was silent as she urged him to lie back, hating that he needed her help, but resigned to the fact that he had no other choice for now.

Maria glanced at him, recognizing the look on his face; she knew he didn't like having to accept her help but there was nothing he could do about it until the wound had healed enough that it wouldn't require a bandage. Vulnerability was not something that he handled well, something that was apparently universal to any Michael Guerin. She easily identified the signs of discomfort and she knew that allowing someone else to take care of him was as foreign to him as it had been to her Michael at one time.

She peeled the medical tape from his skin and removed the bloody bandage, discarding it before leaning over him to check the wound. Thankfully there were no signs of infection, no redness or fevered skin, so she cleaned and redressed the wound before leaving him to fix dinner.

Michael's left hand settled over the newly-bandaged wound and he stared at the ceiling as he considered Maria's actions. He hated feeling vulnerable, hated feeling like his well-being was in someone else's hands, but she hadn't made a big deal of taking care of him or made him feel as if he owed her for her help. Something inside of him responded to her gentle, caring touch, but he wasn't prepared to deal with it so he shoved it back down where he wouldn't have to think about it.

He stared at the cabinet that housed the television, frowning when he recalled that he hadn't yet replaced the batteries in the remote. Damn it! He was gonna have to go in the living room so he could find something to watch with the added convenience of a working remote control.

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Maria put the finishing touches on the pot of homemade chicken soup and stirred it for several minutes before putting the lid on it and turning the burner down. She left the soup to simmer while she went to check on Michael to see if he felt up to coming to the table to eat. She doubted it, but she also knew that he wouldn't appreciate it if she just assumed he couldn't make it to the table and took his dinner to him.

She had just passed her bedroom when she heard the hushed voices coming from inside and a glance to her left revealed the muted light coming from the television set that she hadn't left on. She pushed the door wide and stepped into her bedroom, unprepared for the sight that awaited her.

Michael was sprawled out in her bed, sound asleep, while the television played in the background. He looked so peaceful that she hated to wake him, but he was already weak from a combination of blood loss and not eating. The longer he went without eating the weaker he was going to get so she knew she was going to have to wake him up and try to get him to eat something.

She was certain that he had been on his way into the living room when he had probably started to feel like he was going to pass out, and instead of calling for help he had just detoured into her bedroom.

He stirred when she called him and she was pretty sure that was a good sign. If nothing else, at least he was coherent enough to respond to her calling his name. He had most likely been asleep for the past hour and knowing his tendency to react like a wounded bear when awakened she wasn't looking forward to getting him up. She tipped her head to one side, studying the excessive amount of bare, tanned skin available to her searching gaze. Was it wrong to notice him this way while he was practically unconscious? she wondered. She shook herself out of her thoughts and called his name again, raising her voice just enough to catch his attention.