Helping Mickey Ch. 01

"Mickey, please stop. It's me. It's Susan."

"Where are they? Last chance." He hissed back at her.

"Come Suzie dear, let's take a walk, just out there upon the beach." She whispered, praying to get through to him. As soon as she said it, he froze. She felt him begin to tremble, and his hands snapped open. He leaned away from her slowly. He stepped back and tripped, all of that grace now gone. He fell to the floor, sitting hard. She turned and saw him sit back against the wall. In the dark hall, his frame shook, and for a moment she thought he was laughing. She flipped the light switch with a hand that shook badly, and in the sudden glare of the hall light she saw he was crying. He held his hands in front his eyes. They were shaking worse than hers. She hesitated for just a moment before kneeling next to him. She decided if she was going to be hurt by him, then so be it. But she would not stop caring for him. She held his head to her chest and soothed him, telling him it was alright, that she was okay, that he was okay, that he was safe. He slowly calmed down. She held him until he was still again. She helped him to his feet and steadied him. When his arms slowly went around her, she was afraid at first, but did not try to stop him. She stood there with him, holding him while he held her, wondering what this new development would mean for his healing, and her safety.

"Susan. Where are here? White hallway." He said. She could hear him trying so hard, and now he was jumbling again. And white hallway again. She was terrified that he may be slipping away again.

"Susan. White hallway. I am. White hallway. Susan." He continued. She looked up at him, and saw the rictus grin was back, disturbing as ever, and now inches from her face. "I am. White hallway. Looking back. Ice and iron skies." She wiped the sweat from his brow and the tears from his cheeks, trying not to look at that horrid, almost Cheshire grin that showed far too many teeth.

"I'm here, Mickey, I'm here. What are you trying to say?" She said, mostly to herself.

" Trying ice. White hallway. Where we used to be." He said, his words a little difficult to understand with his lips drawn so far back. She hushed him and rubbed at his cheeks, trying to relax his mouth. It seemed to help a little, and his mouth closed a bit. She kept at it, making hushing sounds and telling him to relax as she did, erasing that nasty grin as she did with gentle fingers.

"Let's get you back to bed, back to sleep."

"Sleep." He responded quietly.

"Yes, sleep. Rest. We can sort this all out in the morning." She gave him a quick kiss and guided him to his room. He went to the bed and got himself situated on his own, which was certainly a good sign. She stopped at his door and looked back at him.

"Love you."

"Love too." He answered. She went to her own bed and wondered how she would ever get to sleep. She was snoring inside five minutes.

In the morning, she tried to figure out whether or not to tell the doctor about his apparent flashbacks, and the danger she felt from them. She did not want to risk the doctor putting him back in the hospital, but she did not want to keep Mickey from receiving any kind of treatment he may need. She decided to call the doctor and tell him about the flashbacks, but not that Mickey had grabbed her. Find out from there whether she needed to tell all of it. She dialed and sat on the couch, watching Mickey on the balcony. At least this time he had shoes and a coat on. When the receptionist put her through to Dr. Bannister, she explained what was going on in a rough outline.

"Well, it sounds like his brain is dealing with the flashbacks through memory more than a present action. As a memory, his brain is acting with the body as it did at the time of the event, when Michael was perfectly healthy and uninjured. It shows that his body and mind have the capability to operate normally, but that in his current state, when acting or thinking now, not from memory, that the fuses are still damaged, in a sense. He cannot currently operate at that level. But the physiological ability to do so is there. Now it is simply a matter of healing and training to the point where his body can do that normally again. But please, Susan, keep in mind that in matters like this, most of this is educated guesses at best, and that nothing is certain. With as little as we actually know about the brain, his current level of function may be nothing more than his brain restricting how much of his neural network he has access to so that the rest of it can be turned towards rebuilding the parts of the network that were destroyed by the trauma. And that last guess may be wildly, laughably inaccurate. We simply don't know. But I would say, I guess, that as long as his body is showing that in one way or another that it can move and think and feel like it used to, then it would be a good idea to keep him stimulated and active, to keep making his mind work, to get it used to doing it again."

She sat a moment, mulling that over, and thanked the doctor.

She stepped out of the car, and went to help Mickey out. He stepped out on his own before she got to the door, and looked around. She smiled and took his hand. She led him down the short trail to the pond, and the small picnic area next to it. He stood near the edge of the water, looking out at the still surface.

"Do you remember this place, Mick?" She asked, watching him.

"A time in here." He said, his face blank.

"What time?" She asked.

"Not what, here. Here in a time." His face was tightening, concentrating, but the grin was not showing.

"What do you remember about this place?"

"This time. This here. A when." His lips parted over his teeth a bit, the grin trying to show.

After a moment of thought, she decided to let the grin go. If it helped him think, then so be it.

"What do you remember?"

"Summer. A tent in time." The grin was relaxing again, fading.

"Yes, we came here a few times each summer and camped." She said, smiling broadly.

He walked over to the picnic table and ran his hand over the rough wood. She saw his finger trace across several of the carved words and images. Many he had gouged with his pocket knife. His fingers began going over one again and again, picking up speed. It was one that he had done, it said simply '15-15-FIRST'. She knew what that one meant. When they were here, camping with mom and uncle Troy, when they were fifteen years old. On the last night, after everyone was in their tents, she had snuck into his tent like always to talk to him for a while before going to sleep. She had told him, in hushed whispers, that she had never kissed a boy before, and thought that a boy down the street was interested in her, but she didn't know what to do if he tried to kiss her. Mickey had frowned and told her that he had never kissed a girl before. She had asked if he would kiss her, that way she knew a little better what to expect, and so would he. He had asked if it would be weird, since she was his sister, but she had giggled at that and said no. She reasoned that it was a learning experience, and that wouldn't count. Besides, no one would know but them. He had thought about it and shrugged, saying okay. The next morning, while uncle Troy cooked breakfast before they packed up to leave, Mickey had carved the numbers and had shown Susan, smiling a bit. She had blushed and hugged him.

Now, he was running his finger over the old cuts again and again, frowning down at the bench. He wasn't grinning, but it was clear that he was thinking very hard about it. He suddenly stopped and held his finger still on the dash between the fifteens. She put a hand on his back and looked up at him.

"You were my first kiss. Do you remember Mickey? Do you remember that?" She asked softly.

"Never before. Never again." He said quietly, his frown growing deeper.

"Just never before. We have both kissed people since then." She answered.

"Never again. Didn't count." He replied, his lips trembling.

"That's right, I said it didn't count. Do you remember?" She asked again, smiling and rubbing his back.

"Didn't. Didn't." He seemed to be thinking the way his finger had moved, over and over again over the same thing. He turned to her, his face relaxing.

"It didn't count." He said flatly. It sounded like anytime he had spoken before the attack. Just a simple statement. Not the struggled, quiet, robotic vocalizations, just a regular statement. He leaned forward and took her face in his hands and kissed her, catching her by surprise. His lips were warm and soft, his hands gentle, his fingers caressed her jaw, his thumbs slid softly across her cheeks. She kissed him for a moment before stepping back, a little short of breath. He let his hands drop to his sides, and kept his eyes closed.

"Mickey," She gasped, unsure of what to say.

"Now we're ready. Ready. Ready. Now." He said quietly, sounding stiff and disjointed again.

"Y-yes. That's what you said, after we kissed then. What else do you remember?"

He turned and began wandering around the small area, looking at various bits. She stood and tried to gather her thoughts. She told herself that the only reason that he had kissed her was because it was an echo of his memory, and that he was trying to replay what they had done to remember. She also told herself that it did not cause her old feelings to resurface. She told herself that the kiss was just a kiss, nothing more and nothing less. But her heart was saying something else. She had had a crush on Mickey for years and years as a teen. She had had a few boyfriends, of course, as had he. She had always measured the boys she was with against her brother, and she had always found them wanting. Every time she met one of Mickey's girlfriends, she felt a stab of jealousy, and felt that he deserved someone better, someone special. That they couldn't show him the love he deserved. She had always thought that it was something that she would grow out of. She had never told anyone about it, knowing that no one would understand. She was also more than a little ashamed of her feelings. She knew that she should crush her feelings for him, ignore them, and get on with her life, but it did not work out so easily. Over the years her feelings for him did dampen, but she thought it was more acceptance of the fact that it could not happen than anything else.

And now this. Well, she would take it as an innocent thing, that he did not know what it would do to her, that it was just an echo of a memory, that it, as she had said so long ago, didn't count.

She went to where he had stopped, standing on the end of the small wooden dock that stood a few feet out into the water. No canoes tied to it now, not in December. He was looking out at the water, his face calm.

"What do you remember of the pond, Mick?"

"Cold water. Catfish in the cold. White hallway."

"What hallway, Mickey?"

"Not what, white."

"Come on, let's go home. It's getting cold out here. "

"Cold. Coming home."

"Yeah. Let's go home and get warm, okay?"

"Coming home." He answered, turning back towards the shore.

They walked back towards the car, and he surprised her by taking her hand as they walked. She smiled and squeezed his hand, wishing that this could be right, and that he was capable of knowing what something as little as this did to her. She drove them home, her mind a whirl of old emotions and new fears. They went through their daily exercises, with her watching him closely as always. He was doing better, something that she was very happy to see. Later that afternoon, she decided to give him a haircut, as he was getting a little shaggy. He always had his hair short, but after his time in the Marines, he had kept his hair trimmed in a very close buzz cut. She didn't like it that short anymore, as it made the scars along his head very prominent, but she did cut it close. The scar across his temple was a pale line, but the 'V' that grew from his forehead, just above the round, puckered circle where the bullet had entered, was a pair of long, purple welts that always hurt her heart to see. The hook shaped scar that dropped down behind his left ear was a little less ghastly. She trimmed him with the clippers, guard in place, taking care not to put any more pressure than was necessary on his head. When she was done, she brushed the hair off his shoulders, back, and chest, and told him to hop in the shower. She swept up the trimmings while he showered. When he got out, she was waiting with a towel and clothes for him. He closed the curtain and turned to her. She held the towel out to him but he did not take it. He stepped past the out-held towel, close to her, and kissed her. She let him, kissing back. He broke the kiss and straightened again, taking the towel.

"Coming home." He said, as he began to dry off. She was too stunned to answer immediately. She felt tears trying to form and fought them back.

"Mickey. I, are you, shit. Where the hell are you in there?" She finished miserably.

"White hallway. Coming home." He answered, hanging the towel across the back of the toilet. She hung it on the towel hook while he dressed. They stood facing each other in silence after he was dressed. She reached out and ran her fingers down his jaw, trying to figure out where they went from here. He took her hand as she let it drop, and slowly guided it back to his face, pressing her palm to his cheek. He held her hand that way for a while, before turning to kiss her palm. He let her hand drop away after that and just watched her, his face that blank neutral that gave no indication of any emotion.

"You're in there. You just can't reach out here without it jumbling. I'm right, aren't I? You're in there, and on a deep level you understand perfectly, but it just doesn't translate well to out here, does it? Why does it feel like that's what's going on? That's not how brain damage works, as far as the doctors have explained it to me." She was talking to herself, but staring into his eyes, looking for a glimmer of him, any sign that what she was seeing was not just his body parroting from his memories, but him, sentient and aware.

"We were there. There where it didn't count. White hallway. A when in a where. Come Suzie dear, come Suzie dear, come Suzie dear, Suzie Suzie Suzie-" He spoke faster as he went, when he repeated just her name he began shaking, his whole body trembling. She was scared. This looked like a seizure, until he suddenly stilled. One moment quaking and repeating her name quickly then still as a statue and silent. She put one hand on his shoulder, the other on his cheek, and said his name softly, and asked if he was okay.

"Coming home. Ice and iron skies." He said quietly. He turned and walked out of the bathroom. She followed him. He went to his room and sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at his hands and frowning. She sat next to him and put her arm around his shoulders.

"We'll get through this, Mickey. We'll get you better. I promise." She said quietly.

He turned his face up to her and she saw he was crying. She wiped his tears away and squeezed his shoulders. He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. She leaned over and kissed his cheek before leaving him there. She couldn't bear to see him look so dejected any longer. She thought maybe him laying back like that was a sign that he wanted to be by himself for a bit. She went to the living room and curled up on the couch, watching a fresh layer snow fall through the window. Her tears were bitter and confused. She knew that he was there, but she did not know just how there he was. He did not know if he was getting better, or just better at imitating intelligence. And what would happen tonight? When he was asleep? If he had another flashback, should she try to snap him out of it and chance another attack, this one maybe more dangerous? Or should she stay back, play it safe while he does god-knows what? She sighed and watched the falling snow.

She woke when she heard the door to his room creak open. She got up and went to her door, peeking out. He stood in the hallway, next to her door, silent and still. She called his name and got no reply. Steeling her resolve, she stepped out and called his name again. He turned, moving with the slowness she was used to, and she relaxed a bit.

"Mickey, what are you doing up?"

"Cold. Cold inside." He answered.

She walked over to him and began guiding him to his room again.

"No, it's warm inside. Come on; let's get you back into bed."

"Bed's cold. Always cold." He said.

"No, it's warm." She got him to lay down and pull up the blanket.

"Cold." He said.

"Okay, then let's fix it." She said, and slid in next to him. She draped her arm across his chest and laid her head on his shoulder. Her leg lay over his.

"Better?" she asked quietly, wondering just how wrong this might be.

"Better. Coming home." He said. His arm went around her shoulders, holding her close. She smiled in the dark, and closed her eyes. Even if it was just the one night, she would enjoy the feeling of sleeping with his arm around her, as she had wanted to do for so long.

She woke a little later when he rolled. He rolled towards her, his chest now against hers, her face nuzzled into his neck. His other arm came around her, and held her at her waist. She could feel his erection pressing into her stomach. She did not know if he was awake, but she welcomed it all the same.

"Missed you. Never again." He said, almost whispering.

"I've missed you too." She answered.

His face moved down to hers and he kissed her, his lips lingering a long time. She returned it, her arm holding him tight. When he pulled back a bit she followed, not wanting the moment to end. He relaxed and pressed forward again. Her mouth opened a bit and she ran her tongue along his lips lightly. She felt his tongue touch hers gently, for just a moment, before retreating. She followed it, and soon they were kissing in earnest. After a moment they both pulled back a bit.

"Mickey, I-" She began, but he cut her off.

"Love you. Coming home. Home." He said, his face close enough to hers she could feel his lips moving as he said it.

"Love too." She answered, and smiled again as she drifted to sleep.

She woke in the morning with him spooned behind her, his arms around her. One hand rested on her stomach, the other on her breast. She didn't move, just laid there and enjoyed it. She felt him stir a little while later. He released her and sat up. She rose with him, and turned to look at him.

"Morning." She said simply, smiling.

"Morning. A when." He answered.

Her smile turned a little sad. She got him out of bed and let him dress as she went to her room.

"What am I thinking? I shouldn't be doing this. Not to him, and not to myself. What the fuck is wrong with me?" She said to herself. She didn't hear Mickey walk to the door. She didn't hear him as he walked up behind her. When he spoke, she jumped and spun around.

"Doesn't count. Don't go."

"Oh! Shit, Mickey, no, I'm not going anywhere." She said. When she tried to step past him he put his hand on her waist, and pulled her to him.

"Don't go. Doesn't count." He said, still speaking softly, but more firmly this time. His eyes were intense and piercing as he stared into hers.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Don't go."

"Mickey," She began, but he leaned in and kissed her, cutting her off. It was a short, light kiss, but with it she began to understand.

"Don't go."

"You mean, Mickey. Are you trying to say, well, do you want, ah, shit." She fumbled.

"Don't go." He repeated, and kissed her again. This time longer and with more passion, his tongue finding hers and drawing her in.

"Are you sure you want this?" She asked, knowing full well that he may not know what she was implying, but worrying about that less and less.