Summary: The bitter taste of her tears is her reward for the day.

It has always been my favorite moment of the day, coming home from work.

Some people think that we are insane.  That it's impossible to separate the personal and professional when you are working in the same office of your spouse.  The complexities of working directly below your husband are too much to handle, they'd argue, and we'd only end up driving each other mad.  And to tell you the truth, we almost did.

Given our personalities, conflict is unavoidable in our line of work. Both of us are passionate about our jobs and are committed to preserving the safety of our nation. Inevitably there is disagreement from time to time, though not too often since we are normally on the same wavelength. But it happens. After all, our relationship got off to a rocky start, with me lying to him about working with Jack. And at first it was hard to tell whether we were mad at each other because of something at work or if it went deeper than that. So we figured out a rule. Whatever problems we had with work were sorted out in the office, and any problems with our marriage we worked out in the house. "We'll talk about it later," is our catch phrase. It helps reassure us, actually. That we fight mostly in the office tells us it has less to do with us and more to do with disagreements on how to handle national security.

On the flipside, though, it also means that we have to keep our PDAs in check. You can tell there is affection in the way we act around each other, but we keep the kisses and hugs to a minimum. It isn't a bad thing. When Adam first met us, he didn't figure out we were married to each other right away. When he and Gael accidentally walked in on us kissing, Gael told me Adam later asked him if our spouses knew that we were having an affair.  I still can't figure out how it managed to escape his attention with all the gossip, but I suppose it's an easy mistake to make. He is Tony Almeida, and I go by Michelle Dessler in the office. I guess we were better at being all business than we thought. Chloe even complimented us once, which was…odd.  I will admit, there have been times, especially when it was just the two of us late at night, that I wanted to take him right there in his office.  But there's always a job to be done and that usually takes precedence.  It's just not the place.

Which is why I love coming home to our house. We always make it a point to come home together whenever possible and the moment we enter the house, we reward our restraint with a kiss. The warm light from the lamp fills the house, keys are tossed onto the table, and inevitably one of us reaches of the other. And even on days that I come home by myself, either he's been waiting for me, usually wearing that stupid grin on his face, or I am waiting for him at the door. Some days it's chaste, all smiles as we relish in the ability to let touches linger without the prying eyes of a security camera. Other days it's passionate and raw with hunger, usually combined with sighs and the words, "I've been wanting to do that all day." On the worst days, we just hold each other as close as we can, kiss the worries of the day away. Those kisses are the best because they remind me of our first kiss. When the chaos swirls around and threatens to overwhelm us, he calms me down with a kiss and in each other's arms we are safe from the nightmares we face every day. Inside our house, there is no CTU. There are no bombs or terrorists, no crazy assassins, angry military men, or mad scientists.  All there is us. Tony and Michelle. We always drop everything with a kiss at the door.

I don't ever want to walk in our house without checking work at the door.

So instead I've been standing at the door for the last fifteen minutes. I've slipped the key into the lock, but I can't bring myself to turn it and go inside. That I've managed to keep it together and make to the door without breaking down yet is a major feat. It took me forever to get out of the car. I just sat there in our driveway for almost an hour, looking at our house.  And I was struck by how dark it is when we are gone. There is a stillness surrounding it, a sense of hollowness from within. As though it knows its masters are missing, and so it waits for us to come home and fill it with life.

I don't think the emptiness won't be going away any time soon.

It's starting to get cool now, and I should be getting inside, but I can't. All I can think about is the reel playing in my head of the day's events, voices echoing in my head.

"It's either Tony or Jack."

"He's in operation room 4."

"I trust you with my life. But this job is what it is."

"I just said I'm fine! All right? End of discussion, please!"

"You've wasted time we don't have."

"I know what you felt. You made that perfectly clear."

"Tony and I have been working pretty closely together, planning this operation. It's been eating away at him that he wasn't able to talk to you about it."

"What the hell are you doing in there?"

"You still have a chance and while there's still a chance, I don't want to talk about this."

"I should be there with you."

"I love you."

The memory of his voice breaking is just too much and before I know it, my forehead is pressed against the door, and I am choking back a sob. Tears threaten to spill out, and my hands are shaking. I almost died today. He almost died today. He still might die because he chose me over everything else. And even if he doesn't die, he's still going to prison at least twenty years, maybe more. And I just can't…This isn't real. This isn't happening. I don't want to believe this. I don't want to walk through this door and know he's really not going to be there inside waiting for me to give me my kiss. I won't.

And then it hits me.

He already gave me his kiss tonight.

And with the burning memory of his lips against mine, I take a breath, turn the key into the lock, and walk through the door.

Tossing the keys on the table and dropping my bag on the floor with a thud, I enter the hallway. It's so dark I can barely make out the closet, but I don't have the energy to find the light switch on the lamp. I just strip off my jacket with a sigh and toss it in the general direction of the couch as I fumble my way to the kitchen.

When I flick on the switch, the fluorescent light overhead is blinding. It takes a few moments before I stop seeing spots and can adjust to the brightness. When my eyes stop blinking, they focus on the scene before me.  You can see shades of our domestic life all around. Pictures on the fridge and colored magnets. Newspapers in a neat pile on the table. The open cereal box from a breakfast that seems a lifetime ago.  My stomach grumbles in the memory of it. I can't remember when the last time I had meal was. I really should eat something.

Creaking the door of the fridge open, I peer inside for my options. The contents don't seem too appealing. We don't have too much right now because we were clearing out the fridge in preparation for a big dinner with Danny and the kids. We were going to cook a bunch of steaks and corn and mashed potatoes, make some jello for the kids and have nice relaxing weekend. Well, Tony was going to cook. I try to stay away from the cooking as much as I can. That doesn't mean I can't do it; I'm just not very good at it. I think the worst has to be the Nuclear Cupcake Disaster of 2003, when I almost burned the house down making chocolate cupcakes in our microwave-convention oven. I had followed the recipe perfectly but forgot to do was press "convention," essentially nuking it. I remember walking to a smoke filled kitchen and panicking. I didn't know what to do or what I had done wrong, so I just kept yelling Tony's name. He came dashing in and when he saw the sparks coming from the metal liners in the pan, he finally turned it off while I ran to open up the windows. Tony got a big laugh out of that one, and I'll admit so did I, but he never lets me live it down. If he weren't so cute about it, it'd be irritating how he always alludes to it whenever the subject of cooking comes up.

"Sweetheart, if you promise not to cook I will take you with me anywhere."

And all of a sudden I hate the government. It isn't fair what they are doing to him. How can they go from offering him a promotion to carting him away like a common criminal in the span of twenty four hours? He's a good man and he was only trying to do his job and protect me, and they are going to punish him for making one bad decision? After all that he has done for them for so many years, and today, working under all that pressure and in his condition? He should have been in bed, not faced with all these impossible choices. With a growl, I slam the door shut, the sound of bottles rattling inside from the force. I'm not that hungry, I decide.

Glancing around the kitchen, the sink of dirty dishes catches my eye. I contemplate just leaving them, but if I leave it for tomorrow the dried food will only be harder to get off in the morning. I roll up my sleeves and begin to work on the crusted plates. It's not coming off though, and I almost wish Tony was helping me. Tony never lets me do the dishes by myself, even though I don't get to help him with the cooking.  I yell at him all the time; after all, it's my job, but he always helps out. It's so frustrating how he does that. I love that he does it, but he doesn't have to take care of me all the time. We're supposed to be a team. I do my share, he does his. He cooks, I clean. We do things together; it's all equal. He's not supposed to do stuff like that. He's supposed to trust that I can take care of things on my own. He's not supposed to take up the entire burden of the work. He's not supposed to pick me over the rest of the world. He's supposed to put the job before me and trust me to escape. He shouldn't have risked all those lives, he shouldn't have let Saunders go, and if not for Jack and the rest of the team, it all could have ended so badly. I don't think I could live with myself knowing that their lives were the price to save mine. And how can he just make that decision and be okay with going to prison? He can live with that? What about me? I can't live my life without him by my side. Didn't he think about that? He makes me so angry when he just makes decisions by himself like that, and it's so frustrating because…

Because all I want right now is for him to be here so I can yell at him for helping with the dishes. I want him to look at me with that mock serious face and hear him say, "A good cook always cleans up after himself."  I just want him here, with me, right now. So maybe some progress can be made on this stupid plate.

I look down at the soapy dish in my hand and stare at it for a couple seconds. What am I doing? This is ridiculous. These eggs have been on here for almost two days. They're never coming off. I dump it in the trash and rinse the soap off my hands. In a huff, I hit the lights as I exit the kitchen.

I know why he did what he did. That's why I'm so mad. Because I can't stay angry at him.

When I open the door to the bedroom, the red light from the answering machine is the first thing to catch my eye. We've been gone so long, I don't know if I want to know how many messages we must have. With a sigh, I press the button on my way to the dresser.

<<Beep>> "You have seventeen new messages."

Oh God.

"Hey Michelle, it's Danny. Just wanted to know what time you and Tony want me to bring over the kids to help cook on Saturday. Call me okay?"

"Hi Uncle Tony. Guess what? We won!  And I finally got that curve ball we've been working on! Guess you're a pretty good teacher…for a Cubs fan. Hehe, just kidding. Don't kill me!  Anyway, yeah, I'll show you this weekend. Oh and Aunt Michelle, Dad wants you to call him. Bye!"

"Hey Michelle, it's Danny again. You haven't called back yet, and…oops. It's only six. I guess you and Tony are still at work."

"Tony it's your mother. I just wanted to thank you and Michelle again for the lovely birthday gift. It was wonderful seeing the two of you. We should do it again. Maybe sometime we can all have lunch? Please give me a call. Love to you both."

"Hey, it's Danny. You guys are working pretty late, huh? It's like ten. Hmmm. Well, give me call when you get this."

"Michelle, it's Danny. Look, neither of you two called me back last night and this morning they just issued out a code red on the news.  What's going on? I hope-"

I walk over to the table and hit the button to stop the other messages from playing. I don't want to hear any more. Hearing the voices of our family reminds me that I am going to have to tell them what has happened. I'm not ready to deal with that yet.

I go back to the dresser and rustle through my drawer for clothes to sleep in when the phone rings again.  It's probably just Danny again, so I let it ring and let the machine pick it up as I head for the bathroom.

"Hey, you've reached the Almeida residence."

I pause in the doorway when I hear Tony's voice.

"We're sorry we can't come to the phone right now, so please leave a message after the beep. Thank you."  <<Beep>>

"Michelle, it's Jack…"

Jack?

"..I left a message on your cell phone.  It's about Tony. I don't want to—"

Crossing the room in two huge strides, I grab the phone.  "Jack?"

"Michelle."

"What's going on?"

"Look, everything is okay now but Tony collapsed."

"He what? When? Is he okay?"

"I found out from Brad when I called just now. I don't know the details yet. All I know is that he's being treated right now, and that it's going to be fine, but he's probably going to stay overnight for observation. I think whatever adrenaline rush he was on that kept him going today finally ran out and the strain from his wound finally got to him."

"Where is he? I have to go see him-"

"Michelle, you can't."

"What? Jack-"

"You can't. He's in federal custody right now. He's fine and they are taking good care of him. I'm just calling you because I thought you should know. Just in case you decide to show up at federal tomorrow morning and he's not there."

"He shouldn't be going to federal at all. He should be resting in the hospital and then he should be coming home to me. This isn't right, Jack."

"I know."

"Gael, Chase, you-  we've all given up too much today to stop this thing.  After everything we've done…"

"I know. And I've talked to Brad, but he's not budging on this one."

"..isn't there anything you can do? Talk to the President or something? I mean… "

"Michelle, I don't think right now-"

"…I know people could have gotten hurt, and he was wrong, but in the end, no one was hurt.  He doesn't ever have to hold a government position ever, but he doesn't deserve to go to prison for it. Can't you ask President Palmer to pardon Tony? The President has given out pardons for worse crimes…"

"I know but-"

"…Nina got a pardon, for crying out loud!"

"I KNOW THAT MICHELLE!"

The thunder of our shouts echo in the moment of silence that passes between us.  I've crossed the line. I shouldn't have said that. When he sighs, I immediately feel guilty.

"I'm sorry, Jack."

"It's okay." He pauses before he begins again, this time more gently.  "Look, I'm not saying I am not going to ask him. It's just that today has been a very hard day for him. Did you know Sherry Palmer died today?"

I swallow a lump in my throat. Oh god. "It wasn't because of…"

"No, it wasn't the virus. It was something else. But there have been other factors today that we are just finding out, and I don't think he's in the mindset to make sound decisions right now."

"Okay." Another awkward pause settles between us.  Eager to wrap up this call, I search for the right words to say.  "Look, it's been a really long day, and I'm sure that you are just as tired as I am. Thank you for telling me about Tony."

"No, of course… And Michelle. We will fix this. I promise."

"Thanks Jack."  With a sigh, I put the phone back into its cradle.

We'll fix it.

We will.

Just not tonight.

As my bare feet touch the bathroom floor, I wince at how cold it is. I think it might be the only place in the house that I always find freezing. There's just something about the cold tiles that turns my feet into blocks of ice and I can never stay warm. Even in the shower, I'm still cold, no matter how hot the water gets. In fact, the only times I am ever warm in bathroom is when Tony is with me.  I still get shivers then, but for a totally different reason. And he does this great thing where he tosses my towel in the dryer while I am in the shower, so when I get out, I have an extra warm towel waiting for me when I get out. He's the only reason I am ever warm.

I hate how cold the bathroom is right now.

I stand before the sink and when I finally look up at the mirror, I'm almost shocked at my reflection.

I look like shit.  My eyes are puffy, with dark circles underneath them. My hair is a messy tangle and I'm so pale and haggard.  I look as though this day has taken off at least a year of my life.

But hey, I'm one of the lucky ones.

So many people died today, but I'm still here.  One in ten.  The thoughts of the other nine cause me to shudder and the images from that hotel of death flood my mind. Children, elderly couples, men and women with fearful eyes and frames of despair. The thought of Gael makes me stomach lurch and I bring my hand up to cover my mouth. Breathing heavily for a few moments, I suppress the urge to throw up, and I shut my eyes and try to expel the images in my head.

Right. Lucky.

When I pull back my hand and open my eyes, I notice a streak of red near my nose and mouth.

Blood on my face. Oh God. In a brief flash of panic, I bring my hand back up to stop the blood I expect to be pouring out, but as I do so, I realize that the blood is from my hand. The cut I made to trick the guard has just reopened, probably from scrubbing that plate so much. Looking down, I touch my hand gingerly, and it stings a little bit.  I reach for the tap to wash the wound and my face, when I notice the dried blood underneath my nails.  And suddenly, I'm aware of just how grimy I feel. My clothes are sticking to me from sweat and dirt and all I want to do is be clean right now.

I strip my clothes off, shivering from the sudden lack of warmth before stepping into the shower. I turn on the water and stand in the blast of heat that pours from the shower head, but even after letting the water rush over the front of my body for a good five minutes, I'm still freezing.  I turn up the heat a little more until I start to feel mildly warmer. I watch my hand as blood drips from it, down my arm.  I follow the trail of blood and watch as it makes its way down to my elbow, then drips and swirls with the water down the drain. When the blood finally stops, I look up and watch the steam is rising and condensing on the shower curtain.  I stop and stare at the sheet of plastic, my eyes looking at the blurred shadows through the white haze. My eyes glaze over and I don't know how long I stand there.  The curtain reminds me of the plastic curtain in the hotel, and I am suddenly transported back there. I try to fight it, but I can hear faint sobbing on the other side of the sheet, people weeping and coughing.

I'm not sick!  Please! Don't put me in that room with those people!

I've done everything I could to help, please. I just want to hear her voice. Please.

You are a federal agent. You were supposed to protect him.

No, you won't.

I killed a man today. Part of me knows that even if I hadn't, the men and women outside would have shot him down anyway, but it doesn't change the fact that I was the one who pulled the trigger. I am responsible for his death, because I couldn't get him under control. I managed to do it with the man in the basement, so why couldn't I have done it with him? Why didn't I ask Alvers exactly where he put the vial? Gael blames himself, but I could have gotten that information out of Alvers and stopped everything from happening. In fact, Gael shouldn't even have been in the hotel.  None of those agents would have gone inside if I hadn't led them to their deaths. It's all my fault.

And I know they blame me too. I didn't even have the decency to leave the room when I called Tony with the news, and that look Eric shot me when I hung up the phone, when I realized that his news was not as good as mine... even worse than the screams and begs for mercy I cannot give are the looks of accusation. I couldn't even give that man one last chance to talk to his wife, after all his help.  The only mercy I could give them was in the form of a death pill. And was it even my place to facilitate their deaths? Just because I wasn't strong enough to face the pain, was it right for me to have given out those pills? My last conversation with Gael reverberates in my head.

No one could blame you in this world or the next for ending your suffering.

Are you so sure about that?

Maybe this is my punishment. I live in this hell for my role as the angel of death. My knees buckle and I slump into a ball on the shower floor.  The hot droplets fall on my face, but I can't tell the difference between them and the tears falling down my cheeks. I wish I had died in that hotel. If I had been infected with the virus, none of this would have happened.  I'd be dead, and Tony would be heartbroken, but at least he wouldn't have been forced to commit treason. He would still have his job, our family and friends, his life. And eventually he would move on, maybe find some other happiness instead of facing prison for the rest of his life. All because of me.

God, why didn't you just take me instead?

For a while I just sit there and focus on the heat spreading through my body. I make my mind go blank, and my body kicks into auto-pilot. And somehow I manage to stand up, shut off the water, change into my nightshirt and slip into bed. It's only when I lie in bed that I allow myself to think again. When I stare at the empty space beside me, I realize how scared and alone I am. And the floodgates open because I can't hold it in anymore. I can still feel the knife pressed against my cheek. I can still hear the cries and screams in the hotel, still smell the alcohol from Tony's room in the hospital. I can still taste my tears, and see death all around me.  And I weep for the innocents who died today. I weep for the man I shot. I weep for the concierge and the man who wanted to be with his pregnant wife. I weep for the agents I brought into the hotel. I weep for Gael. But most of all, I weep because this house isn't my home anymore. It's not my home because my home isn't supposed to have all these things. It's only supposed to be Tony and me, and Tony isn't…He really isn't here, and the horrors of this day are here in his place. And all I can do is cry myself to sleep to shut out the reality of this nightmarish day. When I close my eyes, I hold tightly to the memories of extra warm towels, dirty dishes and kisses at the door.

And in my dreams, I'm coming home.

finis

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