"And I have so much to lose here in this lonely place,
Tangled up in our embrace,
There's nothing I'd like better than to fall."
- Sarah McLachlan, Fear

He wasn't uninvited. Nothing was spoken, but after a misstep in fortune and a traffic-filled carpool, both realized neither had anything to seek at home. Together, they entered her apartment. It was still quiet – only the soft murmur of the television, and the ring of the microwave. Jack couldn't cook, either. They half-swallowed tv dinners, still stabbing their forks into their plastic trays long after they'd finished eating.

"How's Kim?" Michelle tried, on the third night he ended up in her kitchen.

"He's proposing next week," Jack muttered indifferently. There was no more conversation as she threw out the trays and washed off the forks. No one guessed correctly on Final Jeopardy, and he thanked her with a smile she only dutifully returned before leaving. She turned off the tv and went to the bedroom, and watched the moon hanging over the window. The shadows of the dividers that held the panes of glass sprayed over her. Twenty minutes later, she didn't notice Jack's car pull out of the parking lot below as she left the window to undress.

She wished it were Thursday, so he would call.

*

The receiver clung to her fingertips as though taped to them, as she reluctantly replaced it to its set on the bedside table. Her eyes closed as she fell flat, useless across the made bed, tracing the seams of the misnamed comforter with her fingers. After a moment, she pulled herself up and treaded against the carpet, feeling sick. The walls guided her to the bathroom, but she simply sat on the floor and counted the rows of tiles. Not feeling up to brushing her teeth or showering, she returned to the bedroom and pushed herself into the mattress, still in her soft black slacks and half unbuttoned blouse.

She wished he'd risk her contamination, that he'd press against her weakened, ravaged-feeling body and protect her from the callous moonlight. She needed him to push her down into the soft darkness, to make her disappear like a taken piece in chess. Exposed instead to the empty air, returned to her self-imposed captivity, she shut her eyes against the silence.

*

Jack was kept in the office with a long debrief on Friday, so Michelle took dinner and Jeopardy alone. When he rang, she was in the living room, lying on the frayed blue sofa, wondering mildly if she still had to appreciate Tony's taste while the television buzzed a few feet away. A half-empty bottle of cheap red wine sat on the end table with an empty glass still discolored from use. She reluctantly pulled herself up and walked to the small entrance hall to let him in, before going in to the kitchen and getting another glass. A few minutes later, he found her in the living room, curled into one side of the sofa, still in her work clothes – a burgundy blouse and a long black skirt, her hair done up in a sagging knot and her high black heels in a heap on the floor in front of her. She handed him a glass of the wine without speaking, again watching the television blankly. He took the glass more out of courtesy than desire, and sat on the other side of the sofa. The nine pm drama was finishing up. Jack sipped a little of the wine and noticed Michelle tracing the rim of her glass.

"He called last night," she murmured, not looking at him. Jack didn't reply – she hadn't mentioned him at all since – well, since Jack had asked about him three months ago and Michelle had answered with only sigh. Now, she brought her own empty glass to her lips, stubbornly seeking a few last drops and keeping her eyes determinedly on the screen.

"Know what he said?" She'd brought the glass down. Her voice was rising with each word, as though close to cracking. Still, Jack stayed silent, unsure what to do now that she'd broken their unspoken accord – for company, away from endless ruminations. But, this seemed to be delving right into what they hoped to avoid. Instead, he unwisely busied himself with the wine.

"'I know you're lonely' 'you don't sound fine' 'it must be quiet there –'" She put the glass on the end table with a loud snap and he realized she was trembling gently. The sound of the television seemed to dissipate as she put her face in her hands. He moved slowly and uncomfortably to the other side of the sofa and took her shoulder.

"Michelle-"

"Shit, Jack, what am I supposed to say?" Her trembling grew fiercer, and he tried to steady her by her shoulder, but her breath strained as her voices rose. Across her lips played a cruel, forlorn smile. "What the fuck should I tell him? 'God, I can't tell you how much I need you?' 'I can't look around at work without seeing you?' 'I don't know how many more of their fucking stares I can take –'"

"Michelle, relax for a minute," he whispered, taking a firm hold on her shoulders and slowing her shaking. "You have to breathe – just stop talking – " He couldn't say 'It's ok.' She panted a little, and took her hand away from her face, her eyes moistened by welled tears, her cheeks flushed from wine.

"How can you stand to be there?" she coughed, ignoring his urge. "Don't you – can't you just hear –"

"You need some water," Jack cut her off and tried to pull her up, but she clung to his shirt, unmoving.

"No, stop it, listen to me," she cried, holding him to the sofa. "I can't – I just want to get the hell out of there – I can't be in that office anymore –"

"Michelle, I'm sorry, but –"

"And his computer – I can't sit there and know what he saw there – how can you stay? How can you work in those halls and know –"

He pulled her off the sofa, and this time, she moved cooperatively. Jack led her into the dim kitchen and set her in a wood chair before the table and went to the counter. He'd watched her enough to know where the glasses were, and took two out, filling them from the sink before returning to the table and sitting down next to her. She took her glass, but didn't drink she just traced the rim again. Her trembling had stopped, but her face was still wet, and she watched the surface of her water with her head in her hand. Jack sipped at his, but it didn't do much to clear his mind.

"I'm sorry," her voice was still higher than usual, and she kept her eyes on the glass. "I have no right to talk like this."

"It's fine," he took her hand and tried to put it around the glass, gently encouraging her to drink. But hers fell lifeless under his.

"No, it's not," she looked down at the table. "He's still here – he's right here, and I shouldn't – " Her voice broke as she breathed deeply and her hand grasped the glass with crushing force. "Those people – and Ryan and Gael and George and you – her – how can you listen to me, Jack?"

The reference brought Teri in like a ghost, a cold rush that made him shudder inside. He eased Michelle's fingers away from shattering the glass.

"God, I'm so selfish."

"It's not selfish to want to be with him," he replied, his fingers feeling the bones beneath, smoothing her skin, a stroke that used to calm Teri.

"It could have been so many more – I should've just –"

"It wasn't," he interrupted her, "We stopped – you stopped it –"

Michelle slipped her fingers away, and looked up at him.

"It didn't stop," she murmured, despair creeping into her voice. "They're all still dead. It hasn't stopped for you."

Her words startled him, though he knew they should not have. He'd tried to keep the lack of closure from killing Nina a secret between himself and Teri's ghost, but of course, he wouldn't be coming into Michelle's home at night for the generosity of a plastic tray, a small television, and a few hours of company if he didn't still hear her whispers when he was alone with the bookshelf and the sealed box of old photos Kim had always promised to take.

She stood, using the top of the chair for support, abandoning the glass on the table. Jack rose as well, and took her shoulders to straighten her, but she seemed unable to support herself.

"I'm sorry, Jack," she repeated as he slid his arms under hers. She leaned against him, her forehead resting on his shoulder. "I can't tell him – I lie to him and everyone and it's tearing me apart –"

Her voice broke and he could feel his sleeve dampen from her tears. But he didn't hear her – he was in the hospital, holding Teri close to him as she cried into his shoulder, knowing her little girl was a hostage. She leaned into his left shoulder, and he removed his right arm from her. Without thinking, he touched her hair. Instead of short, black curls, there were smoothed, restrained locks.

"I want her back so bad." The words came out unexpectedly. She shuddered against him, her grasp on his shoulder tightening. His hand moved down to her back, where his fingers brushed against her spine, the way he'd find it when with Teri to trace the curve of her back – making her shiver and smile and melt into him.

"I can't do this anymore, Tony – " she murmured into his shoulder. "I just – I can't –"

*

The ring was so loud and sudden Michelle knew it was her own phone immediately. They broke away, startled by the interruption of their illusions. She stepped away, wiping her face with her hand and picking the cordless receiver up from its setup against the wall above the table.

"Hello?" Her voice had a normal tone again, almost business-like. At first indifferent, her expression quickly turned to exasperation.

"Danny, it's past eleven – no, I'm fine, why are you – Danny, I don’t need you to check up on me like this – you always say that, sweetie, but I'm fine – yes, my doors are locked – I know, I know, but he's dead now, he can't – no, it's really fine here – Danny, this isn't a great time, ok?" She slipped into the chair and rested her forehead in her hand.

"No, Danny, I understand, but that was nearly a year ago – yes, of course I feel fine – yes, I talked to him yesterday, everything's – no, please don't come over –" her tone grew less patient – "look, I just have a lot of work and I don't need more shit right now."

She paused and her eyes closed as though she'd just realized what she'd said. "Danny I'm sorry I –" But, she stopped, looked at the receiver for a moment, then clicked it off, sighing. Her eyes fluttered nervously up to Jack as she put the receiver on the table.

"My brother," she explained. Jack nodded numbly, and an uncomfortable silence settled between them. She picked up the glass, drained it, and set it on the table, breathing heavily.

"Jack, I'm sorry I –"

"It's fine," he said quickly. "I should –"

"Wait," Michelle stood, seeming remarkably composed compared to moments before. "Look – if you want – you can come again." She spoke quickly, wringing of her hands. "Like before – we don't have to talk –"

"No, it's ok – just not –"

"Right," she gave him an awkward but honest smile to assure him she understood.

She locked the door behind him when he left, washed out the glasses and put them away, and went up to change for bed, forgetting to watch the moon's new phase before turning out the light.

*

Teri had always been stubborn. This was partly why she'd worked freelance for so long – she hadn't shared a design with anyone, not even him, until she'd been completely satisfied, and employers didn't normally have patience for that. Jack had, on more than one occasion, watched her stare blankly at her laptop screen, tracing her features with a capped black pen. She'd close the window whenever he came over to rub her shoulders or ask how she was doing.

When she absolutely could not get herself to work, she'd start telling myths out loud, quoting her 'crazy Greek uncle,' who had offered them to her as bedtime stories when he visited. These resulted in nightmares so troubling that her parents eventually consulted a therapist. Teri didn't see her crazy Greek uncle after that.

She'd always seen right through Jack's lies and generalizations about his disappearances. She'd let him know by telling the story of Aphrodite and Adonis the night before he was set to leave. A quiet reminder to not let whatever game he was trailing destroy him in the end. One night, after attending a dinner party where she'd met Nina for the first time, she sat cross-legged on the bed and recounted the story of Diana and the unfortunate Actaeon, who looked upon her while she bathed and paid dearly for it.

"He was ripped apart by his own hunting dogs," she'd said.

"They betrayed him?" Jack had asked.

"No, they didn't recognize him. They missed him after he was gone," her voice always grew distant when she recalled her uncle's words.

Jack hadn't thought much of it at the time, and soothed her into the covers.

He hadn't thrown away the poster of the constellations Teri had kept in her office. When Jack arrived home, he turned on the light in the living room and collapsed into the armchair next to the bookcase. The bear-like Callisto, seduced by Zeus in the form of her true love, stared out at him from the poster. To get Teri's voice out of his head, Jack pulled the first book he reached and opened it, looking down to the definition of 'oxymoron.'

*

It was too early to be released into the world away from blinking monitors and cold professionalism. It was easier to stay awake when there were lives on the line or escaped terrorists or people from the Division to yell at. As soon as Michelle stepped into the cold, four-in-the morning January air, she felt her certainty ebb away. She crossed her arms, but her vision blurred from exhaustion, and she didn't notice the other figure in the parking lot until she'd bumped into him.

"Oh, God," her eyes resettled in the dark and she looked away when she saw his face. "I'm sorry, Jack."

His face, silhouetted by the post lights leaning over the parking lot, lingered on her.

"Are you ok?" he asked.

"Yeah, fine, sorry," she tried to brush past him, but he moved in front of her.

"You've been up for nearly sixty hours, are you sure you should be driving?"

Michelle knew he was being reasonable – she'd been up much longer than he had. Being the head of Comms meant playing liaison with conceited security heads and Washington operatives who, after their own screw-ups, refused to take her seriously. Whether it was because she was a woman or most outside the main intelligence community still didn't know her office existed, Michelle had long gained a greater understanding of why Tony had often returned so late and in a rather unpleasant temper.

"I don't have much of a choice," she pointed out finally, moving to continue.

"No, I'll drive you home, I'm fine," he insisted. She gave her silver sedan a longing gaze, but was too tired to argue, and followed him.

The drive was silent – she set her forehead to the window and nodded off into the motion of the car. When they reached her building, they paused. A little more awake, Michelle saw in the dim light that Jack was rather pale.

"You've been up for a while, too," she said quietly. His eyes stayed on the steering wheel, and he didn't protest.

"Are you sure you don't want some coffee or something?" she asked. Her fingers played desperately on the lock of her seat belt.

"Yeah, ok." He, too, seemed too exhausted to dispute. They took the stairs to the apartment and he sat on the sofa while she worked with the coffee machine. She came into the living room empty-handed and sat on the other side of the couch.

"It'll be a little bit," she explained. Jack nodded, and they sat in silence for a moment, staring at the blank tv.

"Are you ok with what's going on with Kim?" she asked.

"There's nothing I can do, in any case," he replied, not really caring to think of it.

"You wouldn't say that if you didn't like him," she pointed out. He smiled slightly and allowed this, aware she was right. She paused and looked away, settling deeper into the cushion.

"What?" he asked. She didn't look up.

"Did he tell you, you know, before…" her voice trailed.

"Before he what?"

"Before he asked me."

Jack realized which 'he' they were talking about. He straightened up uncomfortably.

"Why would you think that?"

She looked up, and examined his eyes.

"I can read you pretty well by now," Michelle replied quietly. Her fingers tapped the blue cloth, but she kept her eyes on him. She expected an answer, and at this point, Jack didn't see much reason for keeping the secret any longer.

"Yes, he did."

Michelle nodded, and crossed her legs, trying to find a comfortable position in her work clothes.

"Were you worried?"

"That you'd refuse?"

Her eyes suddenly dropped to the floor, and her fingers tapped the soft blue cushions nervously.

"No. That it would happen again."

Jack's expression darkened, and he turned toward the tv, but Michelle didn't look away. She kept her eyes steady and stopped fidgeting.

"When Nina – when I realized what she'd done –" He didn't look up – he seemed to stay lost in his thoughts. "It was one of the worst moments – I couldn't really think about it, I didn't have time, but – but after, I just –"

Michelle didn't shrink, but bit her lip, feeling her guilt rise. She wished he would hurry to fulfill her expectation.

"And I could see he felt it, too." Jack sighed, the earliest hours of that night tumbling back on him. She stayed still, trying to be supportive without approaching him. "The way we'd talked about him – I felt like I'd conspired with her – that I'd helped her, and I had – she made it so she hadn't backstabbed me – I did it to myself, and everyone else – everyone –"

Jack's fragmented explanations dizzied her. She leaned toward him, wanting him to get to the end, to the apologetic accusation she knew all too well.

"All that – my treachery – it was all a pinprick to losing her."

Her hand was about to settle on his shoulder comfortingly, the way she'd done with Tony's suspicious friends and family to convince them of her innocence. At these last words, she nearly slipped off the sofa.

"Wait – what do you mean?" He turned to her, looking weak from his explanation.

"Isn't that what you asked?" Michelle closed her eyes and felt her face heat up. Her stomach writhed with mounting shame. Jack slipped in and out of focus.

"I meant to ask if you thought I was dirty, too," she replied, avoiding his eyes.

"Why would you think that?" he asked sharply, making her wince.

"Because everyone else did," she muttered defensively. "Everyone. She came up in every conversation – they were always giving him those uncertain looks – those 'remember what happened last time' glances as though I wasn't there." She grabbed a pillow in clenched fists, turning the accusations from herself to her haunting competitor. "Fuck, why the hell did she have to –" she caught herself just before her voice broke, and fell back into the cushion.

"I'm sorry, Jack."

In his exhaustion, her voice seemed distant, just barely familiar. His hand slipped over hers as though it had before.

"Don't be." He felt as though he were reciting lines. The light he'd turned on was flickering – he hadn't known the special motion needed to click it on properly. Having woken forty-five hours ago, his conscious blended into memory. "Don't be, honey. It wasn't your fault."

"I'm sorry, -"

His movement broke her off. She was too weary to see; too exhausted to recognize what she was doing. She could feel his lips on her cheek, his hands on her legs, pressing her stockings into her thighs the way Tony would under her desk when no one was looking. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him into her, her other hand pushing back his dark hair. The night blinded her and she could only feel him against her, pushing her into the cushions, making her disappear.

Jack's memory of this scene had faded into a behavioral familiarity. She brought him into here, like Ares fell to the wedded Aphrodite, like before. He felt her closed eyes on his face, and kissed her mouth into silence. He assured her he loved her more than Diana.

They awoke entangled, her arm around his waist, his head resting on her chest. Now conscious and no longer blind, they broke apart gasping, as though they'd just surfaced the tide. He put on his shoes and left without saying goodbye, while Michelle curled on the sofa and stared at the ceiling for hours after he slammed the door. The scent of burnt coffee drew her away.


*

They'd saved Spanish for what they felt would be too blunt in English. Too intimate, or too awkward. What they hadn't wanted to say, or felt they shouldn't. Michelle had filled in enough vocabulary sheets and grammar exercises for basic communication. Tony had taught her to take hold of the language, to tone it and meld to her advantage.

"Lo siento," were his words after they'd returned from her first meeting with his mother. Michelle would soon gain a strong affection for the aging, dark-haired matriarch, with her still-statuesque figure and fragmented English. But now, the protectress had only regarded her with suspicious eyes and few English phrases, though Michelle had insisted she could use Spanish.

"That's not necessary," she'd replied in English, trying to cut the conversation short as she put up her jacket and stepped to the living room. He'd wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her into him.

"Creo que es," he'd whispered into her hair. They'd stood together in the hall, and she'd contemplated asking what she'd longed to for months.

"¿Y Nina?" she'd mumbled. She'd felt his hands loosen.

"¿Que de ella?" he'd asked coldly.

"¿Se amaste?" Michelle had closed her eyes and gripped his hands.

"Sí," he'd answered truthfully. She'd taken another breath and hoped she wasn't crossing into unforgivable territory.

"¿Se amaste... como me amas?" she'd whispered. She'd felt him kiss her hair.

"No," he'd assured her. "Esta es differente – es mas de mi sueños."

She'd smiled so her lips hurt, looked up, and kissed his forehead.

"None of it matters, then," she'd promised in English.

Now she was the one to whisper "Lo siento." She wrote it all out in Spanish, everything, and tore it to pieces. Pretending to tell him didn't release her.

*

She knew it didn't matter, they'd have to see each other soon enough. It would be better to sort it out before they'd have to see each other as nothing more than information providers. Michelle checked her voicemail and, glancing at the clock before dialing, clicked his number.

"Hello?"

"You can't come over again, Jack," she said, skipping formalities. There was a pause on the end of the line.

"Michelle –"

"No," she focused her thoughts, coming to her working mind – sorting out the feelings like file folders and data streams. "Look, Jack, if you – if you –" Emotional attachment wasn't helping. "If there were any sort of feelings between us, I could feel some responsibility. But there aren't, and you need – you need to move on, Jack. I don't know what that means for you – finding someone else, another assignment, finding help, I'm sorry, Jack," she held her breath, trying not to think about what she was saying. "But you have to do that."

To this point, he'd remained silent. Privately, she was glad she'd called him – she wasn't sure she'd want to see his face after that.

"If I have to move on, you have to take the job in Washington."

She slumped into a chair at the kitchen table, still processing his words.

"How did you know about that?" she asked incredulously.

"Because they came to me first, and I sent them to you," he replied. She rested her face in her hand and breathed deeply.

"Jack, I –"

"They'll make accommodations for you, Michelle," he cut in. "You orchestrated one of the most well-coordinated quarantines in the history of the agency."

She shook her head, her detachment waning. "I didn't-"

"You already said you wanted to get out of CTU – and you know you can't stay where you are."

"They can't –" she slowed her breathing and closed her eyes. "They can't offer me this…"

"It's your decision," he said the obvious to cut off her emotion. "But, I think you know what you need."

*

"I'm sorry, Jack," she'd said after giving him a cup of coffee and sitting in the armchair next to him.

"Don't be, honey, it wasn't your fault. I must have been a real pain."

She giggled softly and looked down at her own coffee.

"How's Kim?" he'd asked. She'd sighed and slumped slightly.

"Not too good. She hasn't listened to me in... It seems like every other day it's a call that she's got detention or a mother complaining she teased their child." Teri had looked up to the ceiling to slow her anger, not wanting to vent it on Jack as they were just piecing back together. "I don't know what to do anymore."

Jack had leaned across and taken her hand. She'd grasped it and smiled again.

"I really am sorry, Jack. It was a mistake."

He'd stood and walked around to her, not letting go of her hand, and bent over her so their noses brushed.

"No, you didn't. You made the tough move I couldn't. It helped us."

She'd averted his eyes and bit her lip, still obviously uncertain. He'd kissed her nose and she giggled, her hand moving slowly up his arm to his neck.

"I am happy you're back," she'd mumbled. He'd kissed her into silence.

*

He wasn't there when she arrived. The spacious lawn, dotted with weeds and wildflowers, stood out against the urban backdrop like a pine tree on the beach. She pulled up into one of four parking spaces next to the lawn, seeing the large, rectangular granite blocks a few yards away. Her heartbeat quickened as she turned the engine off and opened the door, pulling her hair out of the breeze. The afternoon sun glared against the smooth stone, and Michelle put on her sunglasses from her purse and closed the car door, locking it silently.

As she approached the memorial, she bit her lip and clenched her fists, her pace slowing. She didn't want to see the mistake, she'd rather it just be there and leave her alone with her life. Maybe it could serve some symbolic purpose, but she didn't want to think about it.

The memorial was made up of three granite slabs, set in a semi-circle around a large reflecting pool filled with moss and small change. The middle of the two slabs was covered in carved angels and eagles. On either side were hundreds of names set into the stone, so many they seemed to meld together in a black scrawl. Bouquets piled at the base of the stones, as well as other trinkets – a teddy bear marked with a tag that read 'For Eric,' a lacey, heart-shaped card with a love poem in unintelligible writing.

She daringly looked to the stone on the left. The names were listed in alphabetical order, horizontally across the smoothened rock, each separated by a carved diamond. Her eyes crossed over the As, Bs, paused in the Cs, and stopped abruptly when she started into the Ds. She knew once she found it, it would always stand out – she wouldn't be able to avoid it, she wouldn't be able to look at the memorial without seeing it.

But, she reached it, anyway. Seeing her own name etched in the stone didn't disturb Michelle nearly as much as she had thought it would – instead, she felt only numb. She pulled her coat around her tightly against the warm summer air.

"You ok?" he called from behind her. She turned, seeing Jack approach with no sign of a car, though a taxi was heading away.

"Fine. At least they warned me," Michelle replied, turning to the calm pool as he stepped to her side. She opened her purse, pulled out a schedule book, and flipped through it a little before finding a small disc.

"This has our intel on Namuth you requested," she muttered, handing it to him. "If we send resources, we're going to need when this is initiating and who's involved."

Jack pocketed the disc and looked at the monument.

"How long have you been playing liaison between Field Ops units?" he asked quietly. Michelle shifted.

"About six weeks, I guess," she replied, not looking at him. "Are you doing this?"

He paused, sensing that she was changing the subject. "No. Not right now. You want to tell me why you couldn't just send this over the network?"

"You'll find out." It wasn't a mocking tone – instead, it was poisonously serious. "I'm glad to hear it's not you."

"It wouldn't be a good time," he said simply. She didn't pursue. "We'll we hear from you again?"

"Probably not," she turned and looked somewhat longingly toward her car. "I was already coming to LA. That's why I ended up here."

"Why did you choose this place?"

She shrugged. "I thought I might as well see it."

There was another awkward pause, and Michelle readjusted her purse. She wanted to leave, to get the hell out of Los Angeles again. Outside life was easier to ignore with seventy-five hour workweeks and surroundings that lacked any hint of previous lives.

"How is he?"

"Fine."

After another moment, she smiled politely, and started toward her car. They both knew they'd broken their promise.

End

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