ways_infirmary | (no subject)

"I don't know. I think, um... I don't know." If Michelle didn't, she'd have to know soon and Chris imagines she'd have to be the one to tell her.

Her frown deepens, that sick feeling coming over her again. If she had just planned this better or waited everything could have gone as planned. If she had just thought things through a little more...

"Kim might know," she mutters.

He nods, running his thumb over the back of her hand, watching her expression change.

"What is it?" he asks, softly.

"Nothing," she answers quickly, giving a shake of her head. There was no need to worry him, not after everything he'd been through, not when he was still recuperating.

Not when she was afraid he might agree if she told him.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better than I was," he says, closing his eyes for a moment as he tries not to remember.

There's a short pause before he adds in a whisper, "I got through it by thinking about this place...and you."

She looks up briefly, giving him a watery smile.

"After..." there's a small frustrated sigh when the words won't come. "When you were gone, I slept one of your shirts every night."

The smile dissolves and she looks away. "I was so scared."

To come that close and lose you again.

He blinks, his throat starting to close. On the one hand he's just so glad to be with her again, to know she's okay, but on the other... He and Chris get their reunion, while Tony and Michelle won't.

"So was I." he says, finally.

She brushes away her tears with the back of her hand, still looking down. His hand was still holding hers and she could remember how he looked when he came in, the blood and bruises, the angry pink flesh where his fingernails would have been.

Chris' lips barely move as she mumbles the next words. "I'm sorry." For not getting there sooner, for the mission failing, for Tony dying, for not being hurt. I'm sorry.

He reaches up, brushing a couple fingers against her face, wiping away a tear. "It's not your fault," he says.

None of this would have happened if I hadn't faked my death.

"I didn't do a good job planning the mission," she says, her voice steadier now. These thoughts had been building in her mind and it's now easy to list what went wrong, just like she would if she had to fill out one of those triplicate forms at CTU.

"We didn't have enough equipment. There weren't enough people. I wasn't thinking clearly. If I had asked people like Moiraine sooner, it would have been successful and we would have all been home a week ago." Her shoulders slump with the last sentence, the stress of the past few weeks weighing her down.

His arm is getting tired, but he doesn't want to take his hand away from her face. So long spent imagining her and dreaming about her, he doesn't want to let go, in case she melts away like the dreams and hallucinations always did.

"Sometimes you have to take the opportunity when it comes. You shouldn't have had to come after me."

She turns her head slightly and kisses his hand, covering it with her own.

"I wasn't going to leave you there." That was never an option.

He nods, knowing that if their roles had been reversed, he would have gone in after her. Not that he feels she should have, but even with the weariness he's feeling, some part of him tells him that she might not take it the way he means if he says it.

"How long was I gone?" he asks, feeling as though it's been months.

She blinks, her mind feeling fuzzy on the details. "Um. Four ... no, five weeks. About five weeks."

Five weeks. It had felt so much longer, staring at the walls or into the darkness of his cell. He's not sure what to say, how to put everything he's thinking and feeling into words--or if he wants to--so he just nods to indicate that he heard.

There was so much to talk about but she wasn't sure where to begin or what he wanted to know. Might be too soon for that anyway.

"Do you need anything? Are you hungry or thirsty?"

The thought of food makes his stomach clench, though he knows he could have anything he wants to now. But his mouth and throat are dry, and it's getting harder to talk.

"Just some water would be good, thanks," he says, his hand drifting down to her arm. Other than that, he has everything he wants here--or everything he knows he can have.

"All right," she murmurs, reaching for the pitcher of water to pour him a glass.

"Have you spoken to Kim yet?"

"Not yet. She's probably with Chase. Do you know how he is?" he asks, shuddering again as he remembers the sight of the surveillance in Chase's cell as the the guards 'woke' him.

Automatically she looks to where Chase's bed is, though she can't quite see him from where she's sitting.

"He seems to be doing all right," she says, turning back to look at Jack. "He's been asleep since his healing."

He nods, though his stomach's feeling worse at the thought that Chase is still asleep; if the healing took that much out of him...

"How bad was he?"

"I don't know." Chris looks down at her hands. "I only saw him after the healing."

She can remember the screams. She remembered wondering who they belonged to, haunted by everything she knew would and anyhing she imagined could happen to them.

He nods, not wanting to imagine what they may have done to Chase.

"Have you seen your Dad yet?" Jack isn't sure he wants to see him; he has the feeling Ryan's going to kill him for this.

She nods, pouring a glass of water for herself, wondering why her hands were shaking.

"He was up here earlier while you were sleeping. He wanted to go back to the flat but I wasn't tired." A half-truth. Chris was bone-tired but her mind was racing with thoughts, making sleep difficult.

Besides, after being away from Jack for so long, she wasn't ready to leave him just yet.

"He must have been relieved to see you," he says, then notices her shaking hands. "What is it?"

"Nothing," she murmurs, taking a sip from the cup before setting it down on the night table.

"Just ... adrenaline, maybe. Or nerves." A shrug. "I don't know."