Journey into Darkness

Four days after the infection was brought under control, they finally transferred Michael to the Firm's medical facility in LA. Familiar territory seemed to do him good. Within a few days, he was well enough that Caitlin felt comfortable sleeping at her apartment.

She arrived at the hospital to find Michael out of bed, sitting in the chair that had served her as a makeshift cot. It was amazing what a difference a week could make. By the time the antibiotics had taken effect, Michael had looked like a corpse, his skin gray and his face aged far beyond his years. Now, he was dressed in the pants from a set of white silk pajamas, with a matching robe draped around his shoulders and his familiar glasses once again perched on the bridge of his nose. At his own insistence, he was no longer on narcotics, and the IVs had been removed. Except for the bandages, he appeared almost normal.

Someone unfamiliar with the man might have missed the lines of fatigue etched around his eyes, or the grimace that accompanied every cautious movement. Caitlin was sure that most people would never see the veil of fear that blanketed him every time he thought no one was watching. She knew he was scared, and she didn't blame him. She couldn't imagine herself in Michael's position, not knowing if he'd ever use his arm again.

He didn't talk about it, and she didn't really expect that he would. Instead, he snapped at the doctors and nurses with a growing impatience. Occasionally, his anger settled on her as a target. She ignored it, accepting it for what it was. Caitlin did what she could to distract him, asking him about his early years in the Firm, the places he'd been, the people he'd met. Michael spoke freely of some things, in other cases he would only tell her about the sights he'd seen, not when or why he was there. Overall, Caitlin was surprised by how open he was.

She had come to know most of Michael's doctors. The two men who entered now with Marella were Doctors Lloyd and Marklin. Lloyd was the neurologist. Marklin was an old acquaintance. From what Michael had told her, Jeffery Marklin was the one who had put him back together after Moffet destroyed Red Star. Caitlin relinquished her seat and moved back out of the way as Lloyd began his examination. Usually, she stepped out when the doctors came in, but she was impatient to hear what they had to say, and no one had actually told her to leave.

Before letting him out of bed, they had secured Michael's right arm with a complicated sling that hung over his uninjured shoulder and had straps that wrapped around his back to keep the limb secured against his side. With both his collarbone and shoulder blade broken, and such extensive damage to the soft tissues, they wanted to keep the joint as still as possible. Now, she watched at they loosened the sling. One of the doctors asked Briggs to move his fingers. From where she was standing, Cait couldn't see his hand, but she could see Marella's concerned frown.

Marklin moved to the foot of the bed to get his patient's chart, leaving Caitlin with a better view of what Lloyd was doing. He had something sharp and metallic in his hand, almost like a thin nail. The doctor worked his way up Michael's forearm, jabbing the point into his skin every few inches. She stared with a sick fascination, finally tearing her eyes away to focus on Michael's face. He never flinched.

Caitlin felt her stomach churn, the bile rise in her throat. Clamping her hand to her mouth, she turned and sprinted from the room. The ladies lavatory was only a few doors away, but she barely made it, throwing open the stall door and dropping to her knees as her stomach rebelled. It was over almost as quickly as it had started. Her system emptied, she knelt there for several minutes, regaining her composure. Once again in control, she pushed herself to her feet and swung open the stall door.

Marella leaned against the sink, waiting. There was compassion in her eyes, not the accusation Caitlin expected. The agent handed her a paper cup filled with water. "You okay?"

Cait rinsed her mouth, then turned on the faucet and refilled the cup.. "I guess so. I don't know what was worse, watching Dr. Lloyd or watching Michael's face." She turned off the water. "I'm sorry I reacted like that."

"Don't be. I'm the one who should apologize. I knew what they were going to do. I should have warned you. It's not an easy thing to see." Marella met her eyes, as if gauging her reaction. "Especially when it's someone you care about."

Caitlin heard the carefully couched question in the agent's words. She didn't have an answer for it. She still didn't know exactly how she felt about Michael. She drank the cup of water, then reached for a paper towel to wipe her hands. "Marella, the odds aren't getting any better, are they? The more time that goes by...?" She couldn't bring herself to finish the question.

"The more likely it is that there is irreversible nerve damage." Marella nodded with an obvious reluctance. "If there isn't some improvement within the next few days, they may do more surgery to be sure nothing is pinched or pressing on the nerves, but I'm not sure it will do any good. I'm afraid he may never regain full use of his arm..." She turned away to study her reflection in the mirror. "He may never use that arm again at all.."

"What is he going to do?"

The agent shook her head. "I don't know. Michael is a survivor, but... I don't know."

"What are we going to do?"

"Be there for him. That's all we can do." Marella turned back toward Caitlin. "There is one other thing. We have to tell him about Hawke and Santini."

"Now? No. He's got enough on his plate. We can't."

"We have to. If we don't, someone else will. Do you want him to hear it from Zeus?"

"God, no. And I guess we can't keep the rest of the committee away from him forever." The Admiral had been in to see him, but he was Michael's friend, and he had been cautioned about the secret they were keeping. The other members wouldn't be so cooperative.

"I wish we could, but... I'll break it to him as gently as I can." The agent started toward the door.

"No." Caitlin stopped her. "Let me. As close as I was to the guys, maybe it will be a little easier coming from me."

Marella paused to consider it, finally nodded. "All right. In that case... the POWs are being transferred stateside today. I want to make sure everything is going smoothly." The agent started to go, then hesitated. "If you need me, I'll be at Knightsbridge. Have me paged."

Caitlin nodded, hating the thought of what she was about to do, knowing it had to be done.

-*-
-*-

Michael had seen the look on Caitlin's face as she ran from the room, and he knew why she had left so suddenly. He didn't blame her. He didn't need to have the doctors interpret their tests for him. The results were obvious, and the prognosis was rapidly becoming just as clear.

His dark thoughts were interrupted as Caitlin came back into the room. Michael decided it would be best not to comment on her abrupt departure, to simply pretend that he hadn't noticed. He reached for the remote control and pointed it toward the television, forcing a lightness he didn't feel. "So, what's your pleasure, 'Wheel of Fortune' or 'The Price is Right'?"

She shook her head, "Not right now." Michael had gone back to bed when the doctors finished with him, and now Caitlin pulled a chair closer and sat nervously on the edge of it. "There's something we need to talk about."

He took a second look at Caitlin, and put the remote down. There was something weighing heavily on her. The first thing that occurred to him was that they had sent her to deliver the final verdict on his arm, but he quickly rejected the possibility. That news would come from the doctors. This was something else. He had been resting against the pillows, but now he sat up straighter. "What is it, Cait?"

"I don't know where to begin." She bit her lip. "Michael, just after we left for Cambodia, String got a tip that his brother was in Burma. He went to your office looking for you."

"Damn." It was the one eventuality that he hadn't been able to cover. "What happened?"

"Someone named Jason Locke was running your division. I assume you know him?” Caitlin paused. waiting for his nod of agreement. “Anyhow, Locke blew him off, told him he really didn't have any proof. As you might imagine, String wasn't impressed, and he wasn't very happy to find out that you weren't there." Abruptly, she rose and paced the room, her arms folded across her. "It turns out that we were a little too late. We didn't find St. John because he was no longer being held by the Khmer Rouge. He had been recovered by a mercenary who planned to use him as bait to get Airwolf."

"Shit." There was something about the way Caitlin phrased her words, her nervous steps. "Did they get Airwolf?"

"No. And St. John is safe. Locke, Jo Santini and some Air Force officer flew in and picked him out of the mercenary's camp."

"Jo Santini?" It didn't make sense. *If those three went after St. John, where were Hawke and Santini?* "I'm not sure I'm following you, Cait. You said they flew in...?"

She turned to face the window. "In Airwolf."

So, Hawke did go through with his plans to teach Jo to fly Airwolf. *But that didn't explain where...?* “Cait, where were String and Dom?” He had the sudden sinking feeling that he really didn't want to know.

Caitlin rubbed at her eyes, and when she turned back toward him, he could see the moisture forming there. "Dom had bought a second-hand chopper right before we left. He was working on it, refurbishing everything. He'd just replaced the fuel pump. He didn't know that the company had gotten a batch of bad castings. There was a recall, but the word wasn't out yet.” She took a long, shuddering breath. “Dom went to start the engine up, and String saw the smoke. He realized something was wrong. He tried to get to Dom... The whole thing exploded in a fireball." Her voice cracked, and tears began to drip down her face, damp rivulets against her pale cheeks. "Dom died before the ambulance got there. String... String lived long enough to see his brother again. St. John took him back to the cabin to die."

"Dear God." It hit him harder than his own injuries had. After all the missions those two men had flown, all the dangerous situations he himself had put them in. Hawke and Santini, both of them, gone as a result of some senseless mechanical failure. He couldn't begin to imagine what it was doing to Caitlin. *How long had she known? How long had she been shielding him from that knowledge?* Michael realized that she was far stronger than he had ever suspected. He reached out to her, taking her hand and pulling he towards him. "Come here, Cait."

She did as he asked, crawling carefully into the bed. He slid over, making more room for her. The movement hurt, pulling at the wounds to his chest, but it didn't matter. He knew his physical pain was nothing compared to the anguish Caitlin was feeling. Laying back, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and eased her down beside him, her face buried against him.

"I'm sorry," she said through the tears, "I didn't want to tell you. You didn't need this on top of everything else."

"I wish you'd told me sooner. I wish I'd known." By comparison, his problems seemed suddenly insignificant. His fingers brushed her hair. Caitlin shouldn't have had to face the deaths alone.

She pulled away long enough to look up at him, and for the first time, he saw the dark circles beneath her eyes, the lines of stress that creased her face. Her clothes hung loosely on her. How much weight had she lost? Had she been eating at all? He had been too wrapped up in his own situation to see into hers. His thoughts were interrupted as she laid back down beside him. "There was nothing you could have done, Michael. There was nothing either of us could have done. It was too late. By the time we got back, it was all over. Even Dom's funeral. It was just too late."

He could feel his own eyes water as he held her close. "I'm so sorry, Cait. I'm so sorry I ever got you involved in any of this."

She shook her head. "It's not your fault. It had nothing to do with you, or the Firm, or even Airwolf. It was just an accident."

There was nothing else Michael could say, so he simply held her, unconsciously stroking her hair. Time passed, and eventually her quiet, even breathing told him that she had dozed off. He didn't object. He had spent too much time flat on his back, helpless. Useless. It felt good to hold her, to comfort her. As little as it might be, at least he could still manage that.

It was perhaps an hour later when she woke. She sat up with a start. Caitlin hopped quickly off the bed, embarrassment flushing her cheeks. "Oh God, Michael, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to fall asleep on you."

"You needed it. You're exhausted." He flashed a faint smile at her. "I didn't mind."

Caitlin blushed even more deeply. "Still, I shouldn't have... I mean..."

"It's all right." Michael reached within himself and made a decision. He had let too much slip past him. Too much had spiraled out of control while he laid in bed. It was time. "Cait, would you do something for me?"

"Of course."

"Go find Marklin and bring him back here. I need to see him."

-*-
"Michael! What on God's green earth do you think you're doing?" Caitlin demanded, returning to the room with Marklin close behind.

From where he sat on the edge of the bed, Michael looked up at her, turning his attention away from the shirt he held loosely in his left hand. "I'm going home." It was just as well that Caitlin and her entourage had arrived when they did. He had, despite some difficulty, managed to struggle into his pants and socks, and slip the pair of loafers onto his feet. The shirt, however, was another matter. He had quickly realized that there was no way he was going to get that on without help.

"Don't be ridiculous!" Caitlin turned to the doctor, looking for support. "Tell him! He's in no shape to be going anywhere."

Marklin snorted. "Michael, you do realize that anyone else with your injuries would still be in the ICU on a morphine drip, don't you?" The doctor shook his head and let out a long-suffering sigh. "However, that said... You have a truly amazing tolerance for pain, and you heal faster than anyone I've ever known. I'll be damned if I can explain it, but it's almost as if you have some sort of internal regulator that tells you just how much you can get away with and how hard you can push yourself." Marklin gestured toward the door. "Get the hell out of here. You're taking up a perfectly good bed."

Cait was horrified. "But... Michael can't --” Her gaze darted back and forth between the two men.

"Miss O'Shannessy, I know him. I've dealt with Michael before. Too many times," Marklin added, throwing a frosty glance toward his patient. "When he says he's leaving, it means he's leaving. Whether he walks out the front door, or crawls out the window -- which he has done on occasion, I might add. Trust me, it's easier this way."

He turned back toward Michael. "A couple conditions." He ticked them off on his fingers. "First, you continue with both the antibiotics and the deep breathing exercises. I'll be damned if I want you back in here with pneumonia -- or worse. Second, I need to see you in three days, and I want to hear about it if there's any change in the meantime. Third, I expect you to go home and take it easy.“ The doctor paused, folding his arms across his chest before continuing. "Whether or not you're willing to admit it, you very nearly didn't make it back this time."

"Fine," Michael agreed. *He would say whatever he had to say to get out of the damned place.* "I've got it. Antibiotics. Breathing exercises. Three days. And I will take it easy," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"One more thing. You're going to need help. You won't be able to change those dressings yourself."

Michael nodded a reluctant agreement. "All right. I'll call Marella."

“No, you won't.” Marklin told him. “When she hasn't been worrying about you, that poor girl has been working her ass off trying to oversee medical and psychological treatment for those prisoners you brought back. Marella's supposed to be on winter break. She'll be back in class in a couple weeks; she needs the time off.”

“You've got a point,” Michael admitted. He scowled, unimpressed by the idea of allowing a stranger into his life. Unfortunately, it was the only way he was going to get Marklin to agree to release him. "I imagine you can recommend a private duty nurse?"

Marklin started to answer, but Caitlin cut him off. "Does Michael really need a professional?"

He shook his head. "No. It would only take a few minutes to show someone what needs to be done. Why, are you volunteering?"

Caitlin hesitated, as if only then realizing what she had said. After a moment, she nodded. "I guess I am, if Michael will have me."

Her uncertainty was written on her face. Michael didn't want to push her into making an offer she would later regret. "If you haven't already figured it out, I'm not the easiest person in the world to live with, Cait. Especially when I'm bored. I'll warn you right now that the longer I'm out of commission, the worse it will get."

She smiled. "I've put up with you for this long, I suppose I could tolerate you a little longer."

Marklin looked over at his patient for confirmation, and Michael nodded his agreement. "It's settled, then.” He turned to Caitlin. “I'll get one of the nurses in here to show you how to work that sling and change the dressings."