Chapter 12: The Weight of Command
Consciousness returned to Tony Almeida in slow, painful waves. His head pounded with each heartbeat, mouth dry as sandpaper. Something was wrong with his left wrist - a deep, throbbing ache that seemed to pulse in time with his headache. He tried to piece together the previous night through the fog of his hangover, but everything after that first bottle of bourbon was a blur of fractured images and half-formed memories.
Slowly, carefully, he opened his eyes. His bedroom. That was something at least - he'd made it home. But how? The last clear memory he had was reviewing the Wolfe case files, drinking to quiet the faces of dead agents that haunted his thoughts...
Tony pushed himself up with his right arm, immediately regretting the movement as nausea rolled through him. His left wrist was heavily bandaged, professional white gauze a stark contrast to his olive skin. Medical work, not field first aid. Had he gone to the hospital? Why couldn't he remember?
"Here." Alex Cartwright's voice came from the doorway, making Tony's head snap up too quickly. The analyst stood there with water and what looked like painkillers. "Take these. You're probably feeling pretty rough right now."
"What are you doing in my house?" Tony demanded, though the effect was somewhat undermined by how his voice cracked on the words.
"Making sure you don't do anything else stupid," Alex replied calmly, crossing to set the water and pills on the nightstand. "Small sips. You're still dehydrated from last night."
Tony's eyes narrowed despite the pain it caused. "What happened last night?"
"How much do you remember?"
"I asked you a question, Cartwright."
Alex sighed, settling into the chair by the bed. "You really want to do this now? Before coffee or painkillers or anything to take the edge off that hangover I know you're fighting?"
Something in his tone - a mix of concern and exasperation that felt oddly familiar - made Tony pause. He studied Alex through bloodshot eyes, noting details his tactical mind automatically catalogued: the analyst looked tired but alert, clothes slightly rumpled like he'd slept in them. There was a small bloodstain on his sleeve that Tony had a sinking feeling he knew the source of.
"The hospital," Tony said slowly as fragments of memory surfaced. "You took me to the ER."
"After I found you trying to redecorate your kitchen with bourbon bottles and arterial spray, yeah." Alex's voice held no judgment, just quiet certainty. "You're lucky I showed up when I did. That cut could have killed you if it had gone untreated much longer."
More images flashed through Tony's mind - broken glass everywhere, punching the mirror, the sharp bite of it in his palm, Alex's voice cutting through his rage with command authority that no analyst should possess...
"You restrained me," Tony remembered suddenly. "When I wouldn't cooperate. How did you-"
"Maybe save the interrogation for after you've had some water and pain meds?" Alex suggested mildly. "The doctor said you'd probably have one hell of a hangover, and from the look on your face, they weren't wrong."
Tony wanted to argue, wanted to demand answers about Alex's suspicious competence and mysterious presence in his house. But his head was threatening to split open, and his wrist throbbed with every heartbeat, and somehow he knew Alex wasn't going anywhere until he cooperated.
"Fine," he muttered, reaching for the water with his good hand. "But this conversation isn't over."
"Never thought it was." Alex's lips twitched in what might have been amusement. "Think you can make it to the kitchen? You should try to eat something."
Tony's stomach lurched at the mere thought of food. "Not hungry."
"Wasn't a request. You lost a decent amount of blood last night, and the antibiotics and pain meds they prescribed need to be taken with food." Alex stood, moving to help Tony up. "Come on. One step at a time."
The journey to the kitchen was an exercise in humiliation. Tony's legs felt like rubber, his balance shot between the hangover and blood loss. He had to lean heavily on Alex just to stay upright, hating himself for needing the support but unable to manage without it.
They were almost to the kitchen when Tony saw it - the evidence of his breakdown scattered across the floor. Most of the glass had been swept up, but dark stains still marked the walls where bottles had shattered. A particularly large bloodstain marred the base of the stairs where he must have...where he had...
Tony's legs gave out as the full weight of what he'd done hit him. Alex caught him easily, lowering them both to sit on the steps.
"Easy," Alex said quietly, keeping one hand on Tony's shoulder to steady him. "Just breathe through it."
"Oh god," Tony managed, staring at the bloodstain. His bloodstain. Where he'd tried to... where he almost... "What did I do?"
"You had a rough night," Alex said carefully. "Made some bad decisions. But you're still here, still breathing. That's what matters."
Tony's laugh held an edge of hysteria. "Bad decisions? I tried to... I could have..." He couldn't finish the thought, bile rising in his throat.
"Hey." Alex's grip on his shoulder tightened slightly. "Look at me."
Tony forced himself to meet Alex's eyes, expecting to find judgment or disgust there. Instead, he saw only steady concern and something deeper - something that looked almost like understanding.
"Last night happened," Alex said firmly. "We can't change that. But what matters is what you do now. How you move forward."
"Move forward?" Tony's voice cracked. "I almost killed myself over a failed operation. How do you move forward from that?"
"One step at a time. Starting with getting help."
"Help?" Tony tried to pull away, but Alex's grip held firm. "I don't need-"
"Stop." Alex's voice took on that edge of command again - the one that had cut through Tony's drunken rage the night before. "You do need help. What happened last night proves that. The drinking, the isolation, pushing everyone away - it's killing you, Tony. And if you don't get help, actually deal with what's eating you alive, next time might be worse."
"There won't be a next time," Tony protested weakly.
"You sure about that? Because from where I'm sitting, you're one bad day away from total collapse. And I'm not the only one who sees it."
Something in Alex's tone made Tony's stomach drop. "What did you do?"
"What I had to." Alex's expression remained steady. "I talked to Chappelle this morning."
"You what?" Tony tried to stand but Alex's hand kept him in place. "What the hell gives you the right-"
"The right to keep you from drinking yourself to death? To stop you from destroying your career and your marriage because you're too stubborn to admit you need support?" Alex's voice sharpened. "I don't need the right, Tony. I just need to care enough to do something before it's too late."
"You had no business-"
Tony surged to his feet, rage burning through the hangover. "You had no right," Tony's voice was deadly quiet as he advanced on Alex, that familiar cold rage evident in every line of his body. "No right to go behind my back to Chappelle. No right to make decisions about my life, my career. Who the hell do you think you are?"
"Someone who gives enough of a damn to stop you from destroying everything you've worked for," Alex replied evenly, not backing down despite Tony's approaching fury. "Or should I have just stood by and watched while you drank yourself to death? Let you bleed out on your own stairs because you're too proud to admit you need help?"
Tony moved with the deadly precision that had made him one of CTU's best field operatives. The first punch was a feint - classic tactical distraction - followed by a brutal combination that would have incapacitated most opponents. But Alex just took the hits, rolling with the impacts to minimize damage while making no move to defend himself or fight back.
"That the best you can do?" Alex asked quietly, blood trickling from his split lip. "All that tactical training, all that combat experience, and this is how you choose to use it? Attacking someone who's trying to help you?"
"I don't need your help!" Tony snarled, throwing another combination. His technique was perfect despite the hangover and injury - each strike calculated to inflict maximum damage. But Alex simply absorbed the blows, letting Tony's rage spend itself against his stillness.
"No? Then why are you shaking?" Alex's voice remained maddeningly calm. "Why can't you look at those bloodstains on the wall without flinching? You want someone to blame for last night? Someone to punish? Here I am. Take your shot. Show me exactly how 'fine' you are."
"Shut up!" Tony grabbed Alex's shirt with his good hand, slamming him against the wall hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. "Just shut up! You don't know anything about me, about what I'm dealing with-"
"I know you're drowning," Alex cut him off, still making no move to break free despite how easily he could. "I know you're so terrified of failing that you can't sleep, can't eat, can't let anyone close enough to see how bad it's gotten. I know you'd rather destroy yourself than admit you're not invincible."
Tony's next punch went wild as memories from the previous night surfaced - throwing bottles, fighting against Alex's restraining hold, lashing out in the ER parking lot... The analyst could have stopped him easily. Could have put him down without breaking a sweat, just like he had last night. But instead he was just standing there, letting Tony's rage spend itself against him like waves breaking on a shore.
"Fight back, damn you!" Tony's voice cracked with something raw and desperate. His grip on Alex's shirt tightened until his knuckles went white. "Stop just standing there taking it! Stop looking at me like-"
"Like what?" Alex's voice was gentle despite the bruises darkening on his face. "Like someone who sees through the walls you've built? Like someone who understands exactly what you're going through?"
"You don't understand anything!" But Tony's voice had lost its deadly edge, replaced by something closer to desperation. "You can't possibly-"
"Understand what it's like to carry weight that's crushing you?" Alex finished quietly. "To feel like one wrong move, one mistake could bring everything crashing down? To lie awake at night seeing the faces of people who died on your watch, wondering if you could have saved them if you'd just been better, faster, smarter?"
Tony's grip faltered slightly. "How do you-"
"Because I've been there," Alex said simply. "Maybe not exactly the same way, but I know what it's like to feel like you have to be perfect. To be so afraid of showing weakness that you'd rather destroy yourself than admit you're drowning."
"I'm not-" Tony started, but Alex cut him off.
"You put your fist through a mirror last night," he said quietly. "After drinking enough bourbon to kill most men. Then you tried to pick a fight with the ER doctor who was saving your hand. Tell me again how you're not drowning."
The words hit harder than any physical blow. Tony's grip on Alex's shirt loosened as the fury drained away, leaving him shaking.
The fight drained out of Tony all at once. His legs gave out and he slumped forward, forehead coming to rest against Alex's shoulder as his grip on the younger man's shirt loosened.
"I can't-" his voice broke. "I can't do this anymore. Any of it. The pressure, the scrutiny, everyone watching and waiting for me to fail... I'm not cut out for this. Never was."
"That's not true," Alex said quietly, finally moving to grip Tony's shoulders. "You're one of the best agents CTU's ever had. But even the best need help sometimes. Need to let people in before the weight crushes them completely."
"I tried," Tony admitted, his voice muffled against Alex's shoulder. "Tried to handle it. To be what everyone needed. But I keep seeing their faces - the agents we lost, their families... Every time I close my eyes, they're there. Asking why I didn't see it coming. Why I wasn't good enough to save them."
"And the bourbon makes the faces go away?" Alex asked gently. "For a little while at least?"
Tony's laugh was bitter and broken. "Until it doesn't. Until even that stops working and all that's left is... this. Whatever the hell this is."
"This," Alex said firmly, "is rock bottom. And the only way out is to start letting people help you climb back up."
"Yeah, you did," Alex confirmed quietly. "And that's okay. Sometimes anger is easier than facing what's really going on. But it doesn't solve anything, Tony. Doesn't make the pain go away."
Tony's legs gave out and he slid down the wall, pulling Alex with him until they both sat on the floor. His good hand was still tangled in Alex's shirt, but the grip had transformed from violent to desperate.
"What am I supposed to do?" he whispered, all the fight gone from his voice. "How do I fix this?"
"You start by letting people help you," Alex said, carefully extracting himself from Tony's grip to sit beside him. "Which is why I talked to Chappelle."
Tony tensed again, but the rage had burned itself out. "What did you tell him?" he asked hollowly.
"The truth. That you're struggling with the aftermath of a bad operation. That you need time to process and heal. That pushing you back into the office right now would be dangerous for everyone."
Tony's head dropped into his hands. "He'll never trust me to run CTU again."
"You know what he said to me?" Alex asked, wiping blood from his split lip with the back of his hand. "He said he's been worried about you for weeks. That he saw this coming but didn't know how to approach it without making things worse."
Tony's head snapped up in disbelief. "Chappelle? Ryan Chappelle said that?"
"He's not the monster you think he is, Tony. Yeah, he's a hardass about protocols and procedures. But he also understands what this job does to people. What it costs." Alex shifted to face Tony more directly. "He gave you two weeks of administrative leave, no questions asked. Michelle too."
That made Tony's head snap up. "Michelle? Why would-"
"Know what else he said?" Alex continued when Tony just stared at him. "He said you remind him of himself at your age. Taking on too much, trying to be perfect, pushing people away because it's easier than admitting you need help."
"Chappelle said that?" Tony's voice held equal parts skepticism and wonder. "About me?"
"He gets it more than you think. After his wife died... he did the same thing you're doing now. Buried himself in work, in protocols and procedures, because rules were safer than feelings. Easier than letting people see you break."
Alex's voice softened. "That's why he agreed about Michelle's leave too. Because she needs time - time to help you through this, to rebuild what your spiral has been eroding. And time to deal with her own trauma from watching someone she loves self-destruct."
The words hit Tony like a physical blow. "Is she... where is she?"
"She's safe," Alex assured him, catching the flash of panic in Tony's eyes. "With Jack. She needed space last night, after finding you..." He gestured at the bloodstained walls. "But she didn't run, Tony. She came to Jack because she knew he'd understand. Known him long enough to trust him to help."
"I pushed her away," Tony said quietly, staring at his bandaged wrist. "Kept pushing until she had no choice but to go."
"No," Alex's voice was firm. "She chose to give you space. There's a difference. She loves you enough to recognize when you need time to get your head straight before trying to fix everything. That's not weakness, Tony. That's wisdom."
"I said things..." Tony's voice cracked. "When she tried to help, tried to get me to talk about the Wolfe case... I said things I can never take back."
"Maybe not. But you can apologize. Can show her through actions that you're committed to getting better. To finding healthier ways to handle the pressure." Alex paused. "That's what the two weeks are for. Not just recovery, but rebuilding. Learning how to lean on each other instead of pushing away."
Tony was quiet for a long moment, staring at the evidence of his breakdown scattered around them. Finally, his voice barely above a whisper: "I really screwed up this time, didn't I?"
"Yeah," Alex agreed softly. "You did. But you're still here. Still breathing. Still have people who love you enough to help you put the pieces back together."
"Why are you doing this?" Tony asked suddenly, gesturing at his own bruised knuckles and Alex's split lip. "Why let me hit you? Why care what happens to me at all?"
Alex was quiet for a long moment, something complicated passing across his face. When he spoke, his voice was rough with emotion he couldn't quite hide.
"Because I understand what it's like," he said finally. "To feel like you have to be perfect. To carry weight that's crushing you but feel like you can't put it down, can't show weakness, can't let anyone see you struggling..." He trailed off, then added more quietly: "And because everyone deserves a second chance. Even stubborn CTU Directors who've forgotten they're allowed to be human."
"Even after I just used you as a punching bag?"
The ghost of a smile touched Alex's lips. "Believe it or not, I've handled worse. Besides..." Something flickered in his eyes - pride maybe, or amusement. "Those weren't exactly your best shots. Think the hangover affected your aim."
"How did you get Chappelle to agree?" Tony asked after a moment, still in awe, running his good hand over his face. "To the leave, to keeping it quiet... he's not exactly known for his compassion."
Alex was quiet for a moment, considering his words carefully. "You remember when I was out for a few days a couple of months ago?"
"Yeah," Tony's expression darkened slightly. "When you went AWOL. I threatened to have you transferred to Alaska."
"I found Chappelle in his office at 3 AM," Alex said quietly. "He had pneumonia, fever over 104. Still trying to work, review files, maintain perfect protocol compliance even though he could barely breathe. Sound familiar?"
Tony's eyes widened slightly. "Chappelle? Ryan Chappelle worked himself into pneumonia?"
"Nearly died from it," Alex confirmed. "Had to wait for him to pass out and practically drag him to the hospital. Stayed with him through the night while he was delirious with fever, talking about his wife Victoria, about all the regrets..." He trailed off, watching understanding dawn on Tony's face.
"His wife died years ago," Tony said slowly. "Cancer, I think. He never talks about it."
"Because talking means feeling," Alex said softly. "And feeling hurts too much. So he buried himself in protocols, in rules, in maintaining perfect control because it was easier than facing the grief. Started pushing everyone away, including his kids. Convinced himself it was better that way."
Tony stared at the bloodstains on his wall. "Just like I've been doing to Michelle."
"The job does this to people," Alex's voice roughened slightly. "Especially leaders. The weight of command, the pressure to be perfect... it breaks something in you if you're not careful. I've seen it before."
Something in his tone made Tony look at him more closely. "Your father was in law enforcement?"
Alex tensed almost imperceptibly. "Yeah. It... it killed him, eventually. The pressure, the need to be perfect, to carry everything alone... Destroyed my mom too, watching him spiral and not being able to help." His laugh held no humor. "That's actually why I learned to fight so young. Had to survive what the job did to our family."
"Alex..." Tony's voice held a note of regret. "I didn't know. About any of it. About Chappelle, about your father..."
"Not many people do," Alex said quietly. "Chappelle doesn't exactly advertise his moments of humanity. And my background... well, let's just say there are reasons I keep some things private."
"Is that why you're so good at handling hostile federal agents?" Tony gestured at his own bruised knuckles, shame flickering across his face.
"Among other reasons." Alex's smile was sad. "When you grow up watching someone you love self-destruct, you learn pretty quick how to take a hit without breaking. How to stay steady when everything else is falling apart."
"That why you let me use you as a punching bag? Some kind of messed up therapy technique?"
"Partly," Alex admitted. "But mostly because I recognized that look in your eyes. Same one Chappelle had that night in his office. Same one my father used to get when the walls were closing in. Sometimes people need to break against something solid before they can start rebuilding."
Tony was quiet for a long moment, processing this. "So Chappelle... he actually understands? About all this?"
"More than you'd think. When I called him this morning about your injury, he didn't even hesitate. Said he'd been seeing the signs for weeks but didn't know how to approach you without making it worse. That's why he suggested the two weeks - said sometimes the strongest thing a leader can do is recognize when they need to step back."
"Hard to imagine Chappelle saying that," Tony muttered, but there was less bitterness in his voice now.
"He's not the monster you think he is," Alex said gently. "Yeah, he's a hardass about protocols and procedures. But that comes from somewhere, Tony. Usually somewhere painful. After Victoria died... he did exactly what you're doing now. Buried himself in work, in rules, in perfect compliance because at least that was something he could control."
"And now?" Tony asked, almost despite himself.
"Now he's trying to make sure history doesn't repeat itself." Alex's voice softened. "That's why he agreed about Michelle's leave too. He knows what it's like to push away the people who love you until it's too late to fix it."
Tony leaned back against the wall, exhaustion evident in every line of his body. "I've been so caught up in my own head, my own guilt... didn't even notice what I was doing to her. To us."
"It's not too late," Alex said quietly. "Michelle loves you. She hasn't given up - just needed space to breathe, to figure out how to help without enabling."
"I said things to her..." Tony's voice caught. "About the Wolfe case, about her trying to help... things I can never take back."
"Maybe not. But you can go forward differently. That's what these two weeks are for - not just recovery, but rebuilding. Learning how to lean on each other instead of pushing away." Alex paused, then added softly, "Take it from someone who watched their family fall apart - the time to fix things is before they break completely."
Something in Alex's voice - a raw edge of old pain - made Tony look at him sharply. "Your father... did he ever get help? Ever try to change?"
"By the time he realized how bad things had gotten, it was too late." Alex's eyes held shadows that seemed too deep for his years. "Don't make the same mistake, Tony. Don't wait until you've lost everything to admit you need help."
Tony was quiet for a long moment, staring at his bandaged wrist. Finally, he asked, "You really think Chappelle will keep this quiet? Not use it against me later?"
"I think he sees himself in you more than you realize," Alex said carefully. "The dedication, the pride, the need for control... but also the potential to either break or heal. He's giving you a chance he wishes someone had given him back then."
"To do what?"
"To choose a different path. To let people help before the weight crushes you completely." Alex pushed himself to his feet, then held out a hand to Tony. "Starting with getting some food in you before those antibiotics tear up your stomach. Think you can manage that?"
Tony nodded slowly, letting Alex help him to the living room couch. His head still pounded and his wrist throbbed and his soul felt raw and exposed, but something had shifted. Some of the crushing weight had lifted, replaced by the first fragile threads of possibility.
"Alex?" he said as they made their way carefully to the kitchen.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For... for not giving up on me. Even when I gave you every reason to."
Alex's smile was soft and sad and somehow familiar. "That's what family does," he said quietly, then quickly corrected: "What friends do, I mean. We look out for each other."
Tony was too exhausted to analyze the slip, but something about it tugged at his memory - something from the cave that night, about stars dancing and conversations that felt important but just out of reach...
"Rest," Alex said, guiding him to the couch. "Eat. Let the medication do its work. Everything else can wait."
And for once, Tony didn't argue. Just let himself be taken care of by this mysteriously competent analyst who felt more like family with each passing moment.
The afternoon sun slanted through Tony's living room windows as he pressed an ice pack to his throbbing head, sprawled on one end of the couch while Alex held a similar pack to his bruised jaw on the other end.
"Stop looking at me like that," Alex said without opening his eyes.
"Like what?"
"Like you're counting my bruises and adding them to your guilt collection." Alex shifted the ice pack slightly. "I've had worse."
"That's not actually comforting," Tony muttered. "Shouldn't have lost it like that. Not very Director-like behavior, beating up one of my analysts."
"Please," Alex snorted. "You think this is bad? You should see what happens when someone tries to tell Chloe her network architecture is inefficient."
That startled a laugh out of Tony, which he immediately regretted as his hangover protested. "God, everything hurts."
"That tends to happen when you drink your body weight in bourbon and then try to redecorate with the bottles." Alex's voice held no judgment, just quiet understanding. "The pain meds should kick in soon though. Might actually start feeling human again."
"Yeah? When does the shame wear off?"
"Give it time." Alex finally opened his eyes to look at Tony. "Though maybe next time you feel like punching something, we could try a heavy bag instead of my face? Just a suggestion."
"Jesus," Tony ran his good hand over his face. "I really am sorry about that. Don't know what came over me."
"Had worse," Alex shrugged, then immediately regretted the movement as his bruised ribs protested. "Though I have to say, your right cross is pretty solid for someone who was still half drunk."
"Yeah, about that..." Tony shifted uncomfortably. "I'm sorry. For using you as a punching bag. For everything, really."
"Had worse," Alex assured him, wincing slightly despite his attempt to stay stoic. "Besides, you're not exactly in pristine condition yourself."
Tony glanced at his bandaged wrist, then at his bruised knuckles. "Yeah, well... at least mine are mostly self-inflicted. You just stood there and let me-"
"Hey." Alex cut him off firmly. "We're not doing the guilt spiral thing. What happened, happened. Time to move forward."
"Still." Tony's jaw tightened as he examined the bruising along Alex's jaw. "You could've stopped me. Could've put me down easily after that first punch. Why didn't you?"
"Sometimes people need to hit something solid before they can start rebuilding," Alex repeated his earlier words softly. "
"That your professional analyst opinion?" But there was no bite in Tony's tone, just exhausted acceptance.
Alex snorted. "Just glad it was me and not, you know, another mirror."
Tony winced at the reminder. "Still. The way you handled it... that's not standard analyst training. Hell, that's not even standard CTU field training. Maybe we should think about transferring you to tactical ops."
Alex let out a short laugh that held more edge than humor. "Thanks, but I'll pass. Done my time in the field."
Something in his tone made Tony look at him more closely. "I knew it. Special forces?"
"Something like that." Alex's expression closed slightly. "Did a few years before switching to intelligence work. Wasn't for me in the end. DOD agreed to keep it off books."
"What happened?" Tony asked carefully, recognizing the guardedness in Alex's posture.
Alex was quiet for a moment, choosing his words. "Lost some people. Started seeing threats everywhere. Couldn't switch off anymore, worried I'd turn into my father, you know? Analysis was... safer. More distance."
It wasn't entirely a lie - he had lost people in his time at CTU, had struggled with the weight of command. But the carefully constructed story served its purpose - explaining his combat skills while maintaining his cover.
"Yeah," Tony said softly. "I get that. The hyper-vigilance, the paranoia... starts to eat at you after a while."
The silence stretched between them, not quite uncomfortable but heavy with everything left unsaid. Alex shifted on the couch, wincing as his bruised ribs protested the movement. The afternoon sun had started its slow descent, painting the living room in warm amber tones that somehow made everything feel slightly surreal.
We should probably eat something," Alex said finally, breaking the quiet. "Doctor said those antibiotics need food."
Tony grunted noncommittally, still holding the ice pack to his head. "Not sure I can handle cooking right now."
"Yeah, that's not happening." Alex reached for his phone - his 2004-appropriate flip phone, he reminded himself - then paused. "Pizza okay?"
"There's a good place on Fifth," Tony started, but Alex was already dialling.
"Giordano's," Alex said confidently, then caught himself. "I mean, if that works for you? Jack mentioned it was decent."
Tony's eyebrows rose slightly. "That's actually my usual place. Deep dish with—"
"Extra cheese, light sauce, Italian sausage?" The words were out before Alex could stop them.
Tony's eyes narrowed. "How did you—"
"Lucky guess," Alex covered quickly. "You seem like a classic Chicago deep dish guy." He turned away slightly, focusing on placing the order. It felt bizarrely archaic compared to the neural-linked delivery apps he was used to, but he managed.
"Twenty minutes," he reported, settling back on the couch. He caught Tony still watching him with that analytical expression that had made him one of CTU's best field agents. "What?"
"Nothing," Tony said after a moment. "Just trying to figure you out."
Alex forced a light laugh. "Not much to figure out. Just your average analyst with an apparently useful knack for handling crisis situations."
"Right." Tony's tone made it clear he wasn't buying it. "The kind of analyst who can take down a trained federal agent without breaking a sweat, knows my exact pizza order, and apparently has some kind of connection to Jack Bauer that none of us knew about."
Alex sighed, realizing he needed to give Tony something to explain the obvious inconsistencies. "About that... I was hoping to keep it quiet, but since you're already suspicious..."
"I'm listening."
"Jack's actually my godfather," Alex said carefully. The best covers, he'd learned, always contained elements of truth. "My mom and he were close. When things went bad in Denver, he suggested the transfer to LA. Thought a fresh start might help."
"Jack Bauer has a godson," Tony repeated flatly. "That he never mentioned to anyone."
Alex shrugged. "You know how private he is about personal stuff. Besides, it's not exactly something that comes up in tactical briefings."
"And you've been staying with him?"
"Since I got to LA, yeah." Alex watched Tony process this, seeing the tactical mind fitting pieces together. "He's been... helping me deal with some stuff. Family history, mostly."
Tony was quiet for a moment, studying Alex with that intense focus that had always made suspects crack in interrogation. "That why you're so good at handling broken federal agents? Learning from Jack?"
"Something like that." Alex managed a small smile. "Though I think you're the first one who's actually tried to test my combat skills firsthand."
That got a ghost of a smile from Tony. "Yeah, well... probably not my finest moment."
"Hey, at least you've got good form. Even half drunk and concussed, that combination was pretty solid."
"Stop trying to make me feel better about assaulting you," Tony grumbled, but there was less tension in his shoulders now.
They were saved from further discussion by the arrival of the pizza. Alex handled the payment and retrieval, returning to find Tony had actually managed to sit up straighter, obviously making an effort.
"Cubs are playing," Tony said, gesturing at the TV he'd turned on. "If you want..."
Alex's throat tightened unexpectedly. How many times had his mother told him about these moments? Tony Almeida, CTU Director, completely transformed by baseball and deep dish pizza. She'd made sure Alex knew every detail – his favorite players, his superstitions about rally caps, how he'd quote statistics for hours.
"Sounds good," he managed, setting up the pizza on the coffee table. "They're playing the Cardinals, right?"
Tony's eyebrows rose again. "You follow baseball?"
"Some," Alex said carefully. "Enough to know this is a pretty important rivalry game."
They settled in to watch, and Alex felt something in his chest crack open as Tony immediately launched into a detailed analysis of the Cubs' pitching rotation. It was exactly how his mother had described – the animation in his voice, the passionate gestures, the way baseball seemed to strip away all the tactical precision and rigid control, leaving just... Dad.
"You okay?" Tony asked suddenly, and Alex realized he'd been staring.
"Yeah, just... reminds me of home," he said softly. It wasn't even a lie. "Used to watch games with my mom sometimes."
"She's a baseball fan?"
Alex smiled, remembering Michelle's determined efforts to learn everything about the sport she secretly hated, just so she could share those memories with her son. "She made sure I knew all about it. Said it was important to understand the traditions."
Tony nodded sagely. "Smart woman. Baseball's more than just a game, you know? It's—"
"History," Alex finished with him, then quickly covered: "At least, that's what my mom always said."
They ate and watched in companionable silence for a while, broken only by Tony's occasional commentary on particularly good plays or questionable calls. It felt so normal, so achingly familiar from his mother's stories, that Alex had to keep reminding himself this wasn't really his father – not yet, not in the way that mattered.
"You think she's okay?" Tony asked suddenly during the seventh inning stretch, his voice smaller than Alex had ever heard it. "Michelle, I mean."
"She's with Jack," Alex reminded him gently. "He won't let anything happen to her. Just... give her some time to process everything."
Tony's good hand clenched around his water glass. "I said things... things I can never take back."
"Maybe not," Alex agreed. "But you can go forward differently. Show her through actions that you're committed to changing, to finding better ways to handle the pressure."
"You sound like you're speaking from experience."
Alex was quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "Let's just say I've seen what happens when someone doesn't get help in time. When they push away the people who love them until it's too late to fix."
"Your father?" Tony asked softly.
"Yeah." Alex stared at the TV without really seeing it. "By the time he realized how bad things had gotten, how far he'd pushed everyone away... there was no coming back from it. Don't make the same mistake, Tony."
The game continued, but neither of them was really watching anymore. Tony seemed lost in thought, absently rubbing his injured wrist.
"I don't know how to fix this," he admitted finally. "How to even start."
"One step at a time," Alex said, echoing his mother's words from countless late-night conversations about Tony in his own timeline. "Starting with taking care of yourself. Getting proper rest, dealing with the trauma properly instead of drowning it in bourbon."
"And Michelle?"
"Will be there when you're ready," Alex assured him. "She loves you, Tony. That hasn't changed. She just needs to know you're actually committed to getting better, not just making promises you won't keep."
Tony was quiet for a long moment. "Why do you care so much?" he asked finally. "About any of this?"
Because you're my father, Alex thought but couldn't say. Because somewhere in another timeline, we could have had this without all the pain and secrets between us. Because even across decades, even through time itself, you're still family.
"Because everyone deserves a chance to choose a different path," he said instead. "Before they lose everything that matters."
The game wrapped up – Cubs lost in extra innings, which made Tony mutter creatively in Spanish – but neither of them moved to turn off the TV. The familiar sounds of post-game analysis filled the room as exhaustion started to catch up with them both.
Alex felt his eyes growing heavy, the lack of sleep and stress of the day finally taking their toll. He tried to fight it, knowing he should probably head back to Jack's, but his body had other ideas.
"Just rest," he heard Tony say from what seemed like very far away. "Been a long day."
"Should go..." Alex mumbled, but he was already sliding deeper into the couch cushions.
"Stay," Tony said quietly. "Least I can do after using you as a punching bag."
Alex meant to protest, but sleep was already pulling him under. His last conscious thought was that his mother had been right – there was something surprisingly peaceful about falling asleep to baseball commentary with Tony Almeida nearby.
Tony watched the younger man drift off, noting how the sharp edges and careful control softened in sleep. There was something about Alex that nagged at his tactical instincts – something familiar that he couldn't quite place. The way he moved, how he seemed to anticipate Tony's moods, even knowing his exact pizza order... it all added up to something just beyond Tony's grasp.
But watching him sleep now, bruised face relaxed and looking younger than his years, Tony felt an unexpected surge of protectiveness. Whatever Alex's real story was, he'd been there when Tony needed someone most. Had quite literally taken a beating just to help Tony find his way back from the edge.
Tony felt his own eyes growing heavy as the TV droned on in the background. He should probably try to make it upstairs to bed, but everything hurt and the couch was surprisingly comfortable and Alex's steady breathing was oddly soothing...
The last thing he saw before sleep claimed him was Alex shifting slightly, curling into a position that seemed achingly familiar somehow. But that was probably just the painkillers talking.
In the growing darkness of the living room, father and son slept – one unknowing, one keeping secrets that spanned decades, both finding a moment of peace in simply being there together. The TV played on, a quiet backdrop to dreams of what might have been and what still could be.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new walls to navigate, new secrets to keep. But for now, there was just this: two men who should have been family finding their way back to each other across time itself, brought together by pain but staying for something deeper.
Something that felt almost like coming home.
It was mid-afternoon as Michelle slowly drifted toward consciousness, her mind feeling oddly disconnected and fuzzy. The Ativan still lingered in her system, making everything seem slightly off-kilter and distant. It took several long moments to place where she was - Jack's guest room, the worn quilt beneath her fingers finally triggering recognition.
Last night came back in fragments: the argument with Tony, driving through rain she could barely see through her tears, showing up at Jack's door barely able to breathe... She pressed her face into the pillow, embarrassment washing over her at the memory of falling apart so completely.
"Hey." Jack's voice came from the doorway, gentle in a way few people ever got to hear. "About time you rejoined the land of the living. How're you feeling?"
Michelle pushed herself up slowly, fighting the lingering drowsiness. "What time is it?"
"Little after two." Jack crossed to set a glass of water on the nightstand. "You needed the rest."
"Two?" Michelle's eyes widened. "I have to get to CTU, there are reports due-"
"No, you don't." Jack's voice was firm but kind. "You're on paid leave for the next two weeks. Both of you."
That cut through some of the medication fog. "What? How..."
"Alex handled it." Jack settled into the chair by the bed. "Somehow convinced Chappelle it was necessary. Don't ask me how - I'm still trying to figure that one out myself."
"Alex?" Michelle's brow furrowed. "What does he have to do with any of this?"
Jack was quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "He checked on Tony last night. Got him medical attention, stayed with him."
Michelle's heart clenched. "Medical... is he okay? What happened?"
"He's alive," Jack assured her quickly. "Some stitches, minor injuries. Alex has him under control."
"I should go-" Michelle started to swing her legs out of bed, but Jack's hand on her shoulder stopped her.
"Not yet." His voice was gentle but brooked no argument. "You need to take care of yourself first. Tony's safe, he's getting help, but right now you need to focus on processing everything."
Michelle slumped back against the pillows, suddenly exhausted despite having slept for over twelve hours. "I don't even know where to start, Jack. Everything's such a mess."
"Start with breakfast," Jack suggested, standing. "Or lunch, I guess, given the hour. Think you can handle some food?"
Michelle's first instinct was to refuse, but her stomach growled traitorously. "Maybe something light?"
"I've got eggs, toast. Coffee's fresh." Jack headed for the door, then paused. "Take your time getting up. Those meds can leave you pretty wobbly."
Once he was gone, Michelle sat for a long moment just breathing. Her reflection in the guest room mirror showed shadows under her eyes that even twelve hours of drug-induced sleep hadn't erased. Jack had left one of his old Army sweatshirts folded on the chair - she pulled it on over her wrinkled clothes from yesterday, grateful for its warmth and the way it seemed to shield her somehow.
The house was quiet except for distant kitchen sounds as she made her way carefully downstairs, one hand trailing the wall for balance. The Ativan hangover left her feeling oddly disconnected, like she was moving through water.
"Sit before you fall," Jack ordered without turning from the stove. "Coffee's ready."
Michelle sank into a kitchen chair, wrapping her hands around the mug he set in front of her. The familiar scent helped ground her slightly.
"I'm sorry," she said finally, staring into the dark liquid. "About last night. Showing up like that, falling apart..."
"Stop." Jack turned from the stove to fix her with that steady gaze that had gotten them all through countless crises. "You have nothing to apologize for. You needed help, you came to someone you trust. That's what family does."
"Still." Michelle's hands tightened around the mug. "I should have handled it better. Been stronger."
"Michelle." Jack's voice held a note of warning as he set a plate in front of her. "You're one of the strongest people I know. But everyone has limits. Everyone needs support sometimes."
"I just..." She poked at the eggs with her fork. "I don't know how we got here, Jack. How things got so bad without me seeing it coming."
Jack settled across from her with his own coffee. "Talk to me. What happened last night?"
Michelle was quiet for a long moment, gathering her thoughts. "He was reviewing the Wolfe case files again. Must have been for hours. I found all these notes, timelines, trying to figure out where he went wrong..."
"The intel was bad," Jack said quietly. "Everyone knows that. There's nothing Tony could have done differently."
"Try telling him that." Michelle's laugh held no humor. "He's convinced he missed something. That those agents died because he wasn't good enough, didn't see it coming." She pushed eggs around her plate. "I tried to talk to him about it. Get him to open up. But he just... he got so angry. Started throwing things, saying horrible things..."
"About you?"
"About himself mostly. About how he was never cut out for command, how everyone was just waiting for him to fail..." Her voice caught. "But then when I tried to help, tried to get him to stop drinking and actually talk to me... he said I was smothering him. That I couldn't possibly understand what he was dealing with, that I should just leave him alone..."
"He didn't mean it," Jack said gently. "You know how he gets when he's spiralling."
"Do I?" Michelle's voice cracked slightly. "Because lately I feel like I don't know him at all. The man I married... he could be intense, yeah, and God knows he could be stubborn, but this? The drinking, the rage, pushing everyone away... I don't know how to reach him anymore, Jack."
"The job does this to people sometimes," Jack said carefully. "Especially leaders. The weight of command, always having to be perfect... it breaks something in you if you're not careful."
"I know that. God, do I know that. I've watched it happen to enough agents over the years." Michelle's hands trembled slightly as she reached for her coffee. "But Tony... he was always so steady after everything... he kept it together. And now..."
"Now he's drowning," Jack finished quietly. "And fighting everyone trying to throw him a lifeline."
"Yeah." Michelle's laugh was watery. "That's exactly it. And I don't... I don't know how to help someone who won't let themselves be helped."
Jack was quiet for a moment, studying her over his coffee. "Tell me something honestly. Are you afraid of him?"
"No!" Michelle's denial was immediate and fierce. "God no, Jack. He'd never... even at his worst, I know he'd never hurt me."
"Physically maybe," Jack acknowledged. "But emotionally? Michelle, I saw you last night. You were terrified."
"Not of him," she insisted, but her voice was less certain now. "I was scared FOR him. The look in his eyes... I've never seen him like that. So lost, so full of rage... it was like looking at a stranger wearing my husband's face."
Jack reached across the table to squeeze her hand. "That's why Alex got Chappelle to approve the leave. Tony needs time to get his head straight, to deal with everything he's been bottling up. And you need time too."
"Me?" Michelle tried to pull her hand back but Jack held firm.
"Yes, you. To process everything that's happening. To figure out your own boundaries, what you need to be okay in all this." His voice gentled. "You can't help him if you're falling apart yourself."
"I'm fine," Michelle insisted automatically.
"Really?" Jack's eyebrows rose. "Because showing up at my door in the middle of the night having a panic attack doesn't exactly scream 'fine' to me."
Michelle flushed, looking away. "That was... I just needed a minute to breathe."
"Michelle." Jack waited until she met his eyes again. "You've been carrying this alone for weeks, maybe months. Watching someone you love self-destruct, trying to hold everything together... that takes a toll. You're allowed to need support too."
"I should be stronger than this," she whispered, tears finally spilling over. "Should be able to handle it better."
"Hey." Jack moved around the table to pull her into a rough hug. "You're plenty strong. Strong enough to recognize when you needed help, when you needed to step back before things got worse. That's not weakness, Michelle. That's wisdom."
She broke then, really broke, sobbing into Jack's shoulder like her heart was shattering. He just held her, one hand rubbing circles on her back while she fell apart.
"I love him so much," she managed between sobs. "But I don't know how to do this anymore. How to watch him destroy himself and push me away and still keep going like everything's fine..."
"I know," Jack soothed. "I know. But you're not alone in this anymore. We're going to figure it out together, okay?"
It took a long time for the tears to slow, for Michelle to pull herself back together. When she finally sat up, wiping her eyes, Jack just handed her a tissue and went to refresh their coffee.
"I'm sorry," she said again, but he cut her off.
"What did I say about apologizing?" He set a fresh mug in front of her. "You needed to let that out. Probably have for a while now."
Michelle managed a watery smile. "When did you get so wise about emotions?"
"Picked up a few things over the years." Jack's own smile was crooked. "Plus, you know... therapy."
That startled a genuine laugh out of her. "Jack Bauer, admitting therapy might actually be useful? Now I know the world's ending."
"Yeah, well." He shrugged, but his eyes were warm. "Sometimes we all need help finding our way back to ourselves."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, just drinking coffee and letting the afternoon sun warm the kitchen. Finally, Michelle asked, "How bad was it really? Last night, with Tony?"
Jack was quiet for a moment, weighing truth against protection. "Bad enough that Alex had to get medical involved. But he's handling it, Michelle. Let him help Tony process everything while you take care of yourself."
"I should at least call-"
"Not yet." Jack's voice was firm. "Give him some time to dry out, to get his head straight. Alex will let us know if anything changes."
Michelle studied him over her coffee. "You trust him a lot, don't you? Alex?"
"I do." Jack's voice held absolute certainty. "He's... he's good at this stuff. Understanding people, knowing how to help without enabling."
"There's something about him," Michelle said thoughtfully. "Something familiar that I can't quite place. The way he carries himself, how he thinks through problems..." She paused, looking around the kitchen. "And apparently he's comfortable enough here to crash on your couch."
Jack sighed, knowing they needed to address this. "Yeah, about that. Alex has been staying with me since he got to LA. He's... he's actually my godson."
Michelle's eyebrows shot up. "Your godson? How did none of us know about this?"
"His mother's an old friend from my special forces days," Jack explained, the cover story flowing smoothly. "When things got rough for him in Denver, she asked if I could help. Give him a fresh start out here."
"And you didn't tell anyone because..."
"Because it wasn't fair to Alex," Jack said firmly. "He wanted to prove himself on his own merits, not as Jack Bauer's godson. You know how CTU can be about perceived favoritism."
Michelle nodded slowly, processing this. "That explains some things. The way he moves, his tactical awareness... he probably grew up learning from you."
"Something like that." Jack's voice was carefully neutral. "He's been through a lot. Family stuff mainly. But he's good at what he does. Understands people in a way that reminds me..." He trailed off, catching himself.
"Reminds you of what?"
"Just... someone I used to know," Jack covered. "Someone who was good at seeing past people's walls."
"Yeah." Michelle was quiet for a moment. "Do you think... do you think we'll be okay? Me and Tony?"
"I think," Jack said carefully, "that you both love each other enough to try. But it's going to take work - from both of you. Tony needs to actually deal with his trauma, find better ways to handle the pressure. And you need to figure out your own boundaries, what you need to be healthy in all this."
"I don't even know where to start," Michelle admitted.
"Start here." Jack reached across the table to squeeze her hand again. "With being honest about how you're feeling, letting people help carry the weight. The rest will come."
Michelle squeezed back, grateful beyond words for this man who'd become so much more than just a colleague over the years.
"Thank you," she said softly. "For everything. For being here, for listening..."
"Always." Jack's voice was gruff with emotion. "You're family, Michelle. Both of you. Whatever you need, I'm here."
The afternoon sun painted the kitchen in warm gold as they sat together, drinking coffee and letting the quiet heal what words couldn't touch. Outside, life went on - CTU would handle crises, threats would emerge and be contained, the world would keep spinning.
But for now, in this peaceful moment, Michelle let herself just breathe. Let herself be held up by someone else's strength while she found her way back to her own.
It wasn't a solution. There would still be hard conversations ahead, trust to rebuild, better patterns to establish. But it was a start.
The sun had just started to set when Michelle began pacing Jack's living room, checking her phone for the dozenth time in as many minutes. She'd managed to keep herself distracted through most of the afternoon - helping Jack with some minor household repairs, trying to read, even attempting to nap - but as evening approached, her anxiety ratcheted higher.
"Still nothing?" she asked as Jack checked his own phone again.
"Alex knows what he's doing," Jack said, though she caught the slight tension in his voice. "If there was a problem, he'd let us know."
"It's been hours, Jack." Michelle wrapped her arms around herself, staring out the window at the deepening twilight. "What if something happened? What if Tony..."
"Hey." Jack's voice gentled. "Tony's in good hands. Alex can handle him."
"You keep saying that." Michelle turned to face him. "You trust him that much? Your mysterious godson who just happened to show up right when everything started falling apart?"
"I do." Jack's certainty was absolute. "And he's not mysterious, Michelle. Just private. After everything he's been through with his family..."
"Right." Michelle resumed her pacing. "His family. The ones you never talk about either."
Jack sighed, recognizing the edge in her voice - Michelle's analytical mind trying to make sense of inconsistencies. "His mother asked me to give him space to build his own identity here. Not to let our connection influence how people see him."
"And that's worked out so well," Michelle muttered. "Tony's been suspicious of him from day one."
"Tony's been suspicious of everyone lately," Jack pointed out gently. "That's part of why we're here."
Michelle stopped at the window again, pressing her forehead against the cool glass. "I need to see him, Jack. Just... just to know he's okay."
"Michelle..."
"Please." She turned to face him, and something in her expression made Jack's protests die in his throat. "I know you're trying to protect us both, give us space to process everything. But I can't... I can't just sit here wondering. I need to see him with my own eyes."
Jack studied her for a long moment, weighing options. "If we go," he said finally, "you have to promise to let me handle things if it goes sideways. No rushing in, no confrontations. Just a quiet check to make sure they're both okay. Deal?"
"Deal." The relief in Michelle's voice was palpable. "Thank you."
The drive to Tony and Michelle's house was mostly silent, broken only by the soft sounds of evening traffic and Michelle's occasional sharp intake of breath when memories of the previous night's drive through rain and tears threatened to overwhelm her.
"You okay?" Jack asked quietly as they turned onto their street.
"No," Michelle admitted. "But I need to do this anyway."
Jack pulled up behind Alex's car, noting with approval that the younger man had parked to allow quick exit if needed - some habits were universal across timelines. The house was quiet, only a faint glow from what looked like the TV visible through the living room windows.
"Stay behind me," Jack said automatically as they approached the door.
Michelle managed a weak smile. "It's my house, Jack."
"Humor me." His hand went to the sidearm he still carried out of habit. "After last night..."
"He wouldn't hurt us," Michelle said quietly but with absolute certainty. "No matter how bad things get, Tony would never..."
"I know." Jack's voice softened. "But let me do my job anyway, okay?"
The front door was unlocked - sloppy for a CTU agent, but maybe a good sign that Tony was too distracted to maintain his usual security protocols. Jack entered first, moving with the silent precision that had kept him alive through countless operations. Michelle followed close behind, her own training making her footsteps nearly soundless despite her anxiety.
The scene that greeted them in the living room made them both freeze.
Tony and Alex were sound asleep on opposite ends of the couch, a baseball game playing quietly on TV. Empty pizza boxes and water glasses littered the coffee table, along with what looked like medical supplies. Tony's injured wrist was professionally bandaged, propped carefully on a pillow. But it was their expressions that caught Michelle's breath in her throat.
They looked... peaceful. Tony's face had lost the haunted tension she'd grown too used to seeing lately, replaced by the quiet vulnerability that only ever showed when he was truly relaxed. And Alex... without his usual careful control, the young analyst's features had softened into something that tugged at Michelle's heart in a way she couldn't quite explain.
"Oh," she whispered, one hand coming up to cover her mouth.
Jack squeezed her shoulder, understanding everything she couldn't say. The simple domesticity of the scene, the way both men had clearly let their guards down enough to actually rest... it spoke volumes about trust and connection that went beyond professional courtesy.
A closer look revealed matching bruises on both men - Tony's knuckles were scraped raw, while Alex sported what promised to be an impressive black eye and split lip. Something had clearly happened, some kind of confrontation, but they'd moved past it enough to fall asleep in each other's presence.
Michelle took a step forward, but Jack's hand on her arm stopped her. "Let them rest," he said softly. "God knows they both need it."
She nodded, but couldn't tear her eyes away from Tony's sleeping face. In the TV's flickering light, she could almost pretend they were back in simpler times - before the weight of command and old traumas had started breaking something fundamental in the man she loved.
"He looks so young," she whispered, tears finally spilling over. "Like he used to, before..."
"I know." Jack guided her back toward the door, but she resisted.
They're okay," Jack said softly. "They're both okay."
Michelle nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat. She started to step forward but Jack's grip tightened slightly.
"I just..." Michelle's voice was barely a whisper. "I need to..."
"I know." Jack's voice held infinite understanding. "But waking them now won't help anything. Let's get some of your things, and we'll come back tomorrow when everyone's had time to process."
Michelle hesitated, clearly torn between the need to go to Tony and the knowledge that Jack was right. Finally, she nodded, letting him guide her toward the stairs.
"The black duffel in the closet," she managed as they entered the bedroom she shared with Tony. "I keep it packed for operations..."
Jack found the bag while Michelle moved around the room in a daze, occasionally picking things up only to set them down again. Her hand lingered on Tony's pillow, thumb brushing over the fabric like she could somehow touch him through it.
"Michelle." Jack's voice was gentle but firm. "Focus. What else do you need?"
That seemed to snap her out of it slightly. She moved to the bathroom, gathering essential items while Jack pretended not to notice how her hands shook. When she emerged, her eyes were red but dry.
"My laptop," she said. "And the grey sweater from the back of the chair. Tony always says it's too big but..."
"But it's comfortable," Jack finished, understanding. He added the items to the bag, then caught her arm when she would have gone back for more. "This is enough for now. We can always come back if you need anything else."
Michelle nodded, but her eyes were drawn to a framed photo on the dresser - her and Tony on their wedding day, both laughing at something off camera. She picked it up with trembling fingers.
"We were so happy," she whispered. "Everything was so clear then, so simple..."
"Hey." Jack took the photo gently from her hands before she could get lost in memories. "You'll get back there. Maybe not exactly the same, but you'll find your way back to each other. I've seen you both fight through worse."
"Have we?" Michelle's laugh held no humor. "Because right now it feels like everything we built is just... crumbling. And I don't know how to stop it."
"One day at a time," Jack said firmly. "Starting with giving each other space to heal." He shouldered her bag. "Come on. One more quick check on them, then we head back."
They crept back downstairs to find Tony and Alex hadn't moved, though Alex had somehow managed to curl into an even tighter ball. Michelle stopped at the bottom of the stairs, just watching them breathe.
"I should leave a note," she said suddenly. "Just so he knows..."
"No notes," Jack said quietly but firmly. "Not yet. Give him time to get his head straight first."
"Wait." Michelle crossed to the hall closet, pulling out a spare blanket. With gentle hands, she draped it over both sleeping men. Tony stirred slightly at her presence, mumbling something that might have been her name, but didn't wake.
On impulse, she brushed a kiss against his forehead - a gesture so familiar it made her heart ache. Then, even more surprising to herself, she smoothed Alex's hair back from his bruised face with maternal instinct she hadn't known she possessed.
"Thank you," she whispered, though she wasn't sure if she was thanking Alex for helping Tony or thanking whatever twist of fate had brought this strange, competent young man into their lives just when they needed him most.
"Come on," Jack said gently, tugging her toward the door. "They're okay. They're safe. That's enough for tonight."
Michelle opened her mouth to argue but was cut off by Tony shifting in his sleep, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like baseball statistics. Alex made a quiet sound in response, and Michelle's heart clenched at how domestic it all was - like some alternate universe where everything wasn't falling apart.
Back outside, Michelle finally let the tears fall freely. Jack pulled her into a rough hug, letting her cry against his shoulder.
"He's okay," she managed between sobs. "He's really okay."
"Yeah." Jack's voice was gruff with his own emotion. "They both are."
The drive back was silent, Michelle clutching her bag like a shield. Jack kept glancing at her, concerned by how still she was being. Michelle Dessler was many things, but still was rarely one of them.
"Talk to me," he said finally as they pulled into his driveway. "What's going on in that head of yours?"
Michelle was quiet for so long he thought she wasn't going to answer. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely audible. "He looked... peaceful. With Alex. Like whatever they talked about actually got through to him somehow."
"That's good, isn't it?"
"Yes. No. I don't know." Michelle pressed her forehead against the cool window glass. "I'm glad he's letting someone help, I am. I just... I wish it could have been me. That he could have let me in like that."
"Hey." Jack turned in his seat to face her fully. "This isn't about Alex being better equipped to help. This is about Tony being ready to accept help at all. You laid the groundwork for that, Michelle. Every time you tried to reach him, every time you showed him he wasn't alone... it mattered. Even if he couldn't show it."
"Then why couldn't he talk to me?" The words burst out of her like they'd been bottled up for hours. "Why did it take a relative stranger to get through to him when I've been trying for months?"
"Because sometimes it's harder to be vulnerable with the people we love most," Jack said quietly. "Harder to let them see us break when we're supposed to be strong for them."
"I never needed him to be strong," Michelle whispered. "I just needed him to be honest. To let me help before things got this bad."
"I know." Jack reached over to squeeze her hand. "And he'll figure that out. But right now he needs time to process everything, to find better ways to handle the pressure. And you need time too."
"For what?"
"To figure out your own boundaries. What you need to be okay in all this." Jack's voice gentled. "You can't help him heal if you're falling apart yourself."
Michelle's laugh was watery.
Michelle closed her eyes, letting the gentle motion of the car soothe her. The image of Tony and Alex asleep on the couch stayed with her - something about their unconscious trust in each other's presence touching a deep chord in her heart.
Her last conscious thought before drifting off was that Alex's sleeping face had looked achingly familiar somehow. But that was probably just exhaustion talking.
They sat in comfortable silence for the rest of the ride. Michelle woke as they were were pulling into Jack's driveway.
Inside, Jack got Michelle settled in the guest room again while he made tea. When he returned, he found her sitting cross-legged on the bed, staring at her phone.
"No calls," he said firmly, setting the tea beside her. "Not tonight."
"I know." Michelle set the phone aside with visible effort. "I just... I hate not knowing what's going on in his head. If he's okay, if he's processing everything..."
"He's not alone," Jack reminded her gently. "Alex has proven he can handle whatever Tony throws at him - literally, in this case."
"God." Michelle pressed her hands to her face. "I can't believe it got this bad without me seeing it coming. Some intelligence analyst I am."
"Hey." Jack sat beside her, bumping her shoulder with his. "You saw it. You tried to help. But you can't force someone to accept help before they're ready."
"I just feel so useless," Michelle admitted quietly. "Sitting here while someone else helps my husband through his crisis..."
"You're not useless," Jack said firmly. "You're giving him space to process everything without pressure. And you're taking care of yourself, which is exactly what you both need right now."
Michelle was quiet for a moment, sipping her tea. "Do you really think Alex can help him? That he knows what he's doing?"
"I do." Jack's voice held absolute certainty. "He... he's dealt with similar situations before. Knows how to handle people in crisis."
"There's something about him," Michelle said thoughtfully. "The way he thinks, how he handles situations... it feels familiar somehow." She glanced at Jack. "Maybe because he learned from you?"
Jack was saved from having to respond by Michelle's sudden yawn. "Get some rest," he said, standing. "Tomorrow's soon enough to figure everything else out."
Michelle nodded, clearly fighting exhaustion. "Jack?" she called as he reached the door. "Thank you. For being here. For... for everything."
"Always." Jack's voice was gruff with emotion. "Try to get some sleep, okay?"
He closed the door quietly behind him, then stood in the hallway for a long moment just breathing. The weight of secrets and timelines and everything he couldn't say pressed down on him, but he pushed it aside. Right now, his family needed him - all of them, across decades and complicated relationships.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new walls to navigate, new secrets to keep. But for tonight, everyone was safe. Everyone was where they needed to be.
Sometimes, Jack was learning, that had to be enough.
In the guest room, Michelle clutched her tea and tried not to think about Tony sleeping peacefully on their couch, about Alex somehow managing to get through where she couldn't, about all the words left unsaid between them. Tomorrow would bring what it brought.
For now, she let the warmth of family - chosen and complicated and messy as it was - wrap around her like a shield against the darkness. Let Jack's steady presence down the hall remind her she wasn't alone.
Let herself believe, just for tonight, that everything might somehow be okay again.
The night deepened around the quiet house, wrapping them all in its gentle darkness. Somewhere across town, Tony and Alex slept on, while here Michelle finally drifted off, Jack's borrowed sweatshirt soft against her cheek.
Tomorrow would come soon enough, with all its complications and conversations and careful navigation of broken things trying to heal. But for now, there was just this: family taking care of family, love showing up in all its imperfect forms, and the first fragile threads of hope weaving through the spaces between heartbeats.
