31 comments/ 89382 views/ 51 favorites Helping Mickey Ch. 01 By: wakingDown Mickey stood on the balcony, snow piling on his shoulders, the slight breeze tugging slightly at his t-shirt. Susan saw him out there as she came out of the bathroom. She knew he liked to stand out there and watch the cars below, but she didn't know he liked it enough to do so barefoot, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt and nothing else in twenty-five degree weather. She started forward to bring him inside, but paused when she saw the lift and fall of his shoulders. She was pretty sure he was crying. She walked over quietly, and leaned against the frame of the glass door, just watching. His feet were bright red, his arms pale, and what she could see of his ears and the side of his face, red and pale up there as well. She tried to figure out how long he might have been standing out there. The closest she could figure was between five and fifteen minutes. Not long, but long enough in that kind of cold to start being harmful. She slid the door open and called his name. When he didn't respond she reached out and tugged on his sleeve. He turned slowly and she saw the tears frozen on his cheeks, his lips almost blue, his eyes red rimmed and sunken in an otherwise ashen face, his ears bright red. "Come inside. It's too cold out there." She said simply, her brow furrowed with concern. "It's always cold." He replied as he stepped inside. She shut the door and brushed the snow from his hair and shoulders. He stood just inside the door, head down, and shook. Susan put a hand to his back and gently guided him to the couch and sat him down. She went to get him some dry clothes, trying to keep her own tears in check as she did. She gathered pants and a long sleeve shirt and socks, all the while cursing whatever fate had left her brother this shocked and empty shell. She entered the living room and saw that he had not moved. This was normal. She had seen him sit without moving for periods up to ten hours. His head was down, but his tears had stopped. He asked him to change his clothes and he did. He moved slowly, as he always did. She tossed his wet clothes into the hamper and joined him on the couch. She sat with her head on his shoulder, holding his hand like she usually did, like she always had when they were kids. The TV was on some Christmas special, the volume down, as some inner city kid was learning the true meaning of Christmas from an old man while whisking magically between scenes of different families being happy and perfectly functional. "Cold. Cold outside. Cold inside. Ice and iron skies." He muttered. "No. Warm inside." She answered gently, thinking for the thousandth time that responding to these blank statements may help and may do nothing, that she certainly didn't know. The doctors said that it was good, that it would help his brain heal by stimulation cognitive function, but that didn't keep the feeling of trying to talk to a haunted Magic 8-Ball at bay. She felt his hand tighten on hers for a moment. She took that as a good sign, as she usually did. That was something the old Mickey had done often, answering with those squeezes instead of words. She responded in kind, a few squeezes with different pauses in between. They had once been able to communicate in this fashion, when they were little. Over time, it seemed that the intuitive grasp of the meaning of each sequence faded, but they had been able to convey simple emotions and feelings this way until the attack. "White hallway." He whispered. One of the many phrases that he repeated that she did not understand the meaning of. "What hallway?" She asked, looking up to his face. On his right side, she had a clear view of the scar that climbed his temple, dragging a hairless line across the side of his head. "Not what. White." He answered. This was as close to an answer as he would give, but she asked most of the time, hoping the doctors were right about stimulating his mind. She slumped her head back down on his shoulder when he remained silent. She let her mind wander. She ran the night over and over in her mind. What she could have done differently. What he could have done differently. Why it had to happen at all. He had survived three tours in the Middle East in four years of service on the Marines. At the end of his first contract, he had been denied re-enlistment because of a torn ligament in his knee from playing football with his Company one weekend. He had come home and gotten a good job as a district manager for a large shipping company, living in a home he was renting, paying off a new car, and generally being pretty successful in life. He talked to her almost every day, same with their mother. They all got together at mom's place for Christmas and thanksgiving. She had been living in this apartment, working in an office building as an accounts manager for a credit union, good hours, and great pay. Then last year, it all went to hell. She had met Mickey at a café in town for an afternoon of shopping for mom's birthday. They had walked through the various stores, talking and laughing. It had been a wonderful day, until the evening. As he was walking her back to the parking structure where her car was, they passed a small alley. A hand shot out and grabbed her arm, tight as a vice. She was thrown against the brick wall as the man hissed a demand for her purse. Her head smacked the brick pretty hard, and she saw stars. Mickey didn't hesitate. He lunged at the man, arms out. The man swung the small metal club in his other hand, hitting Mickey in the temple. She heard the crunch of his skull fracturing. She screamed and pushed forward, tripping over the dropped shopping bags, and fell into the attacker more than anything. She was shoved aside. She saw Mickey stumble to his feet as she fell. His eyes were pointing in two different directions. The man swung the club again, smashing his shoulder. When Mickey took another step towards the man, he reached behind his back and pulled out the gun. Mickey grabbed for it, but his hands were slow and clumsy. The man shot him, point blank, in the middle of his forehead. Mickey dropped. They man took off then, running down the alley. He still hadn't been caught. The police and ambulance arrived quickly. At the hospital Susan and her mother had sat in the waiting room for twelve hours through the first round of surgeries. When the doctor came out, they feared the worst. He told them not to hope too much. Most of his skull had to be replaced with titanium plates. He told them that the club had sent fractures throughout half of his skull, and that the forty caliber slug had shattered that and fractured most of the rest. The bullet had passed through the small gap between the hemispheres of his brain, but had done plenty of damage in doing so. He described the effect like the wake from a boat on the water. The water being his brain, being thrown against the broken shell of his skull, the boat being a 165 grain bullet travelling at around 1150 feet per second. He called it Hydrostatic shock. He told them that Mickey was in a chemically induced coma, and that many more operations were in his immediate future if he lived. The doctor called it a miracle that he was alive at all. Throughout the next three months, Mickey had several surgeries, and was only awake a total of twenty minutes, during which he did not even open his eyes. When the coma was ended, Susan and mom were right there, waiting for him in his room. The doctor had warned them that the brain damage was extensive, and to not expect anything like the 'Old Michael' to be there. Mickey slowly opened his right eye, moving only his eyelid and eyeball, and looked around. Susan had taken one hand, their mother the other. Mickey rolled his eye slowly back and forth between them. His jaw creaked open and he said his first words. They did not know it, but these words would be heard from him often, and remain a puzzle. "White. Hallway." He rasped, that one eye rolling in its socket. Their mother burst into tears. Susan just smiled, happy that he was able to say anything. Their mother did not take his condition well. She fell into a deep depression. In the four months between then and his release, she had visited him often, but her outlook was bleak. In an attempt to brighten her a bit, their aunt had taken her on a road trip along the coast. Two days before they were to return, an eighteen wheel truck had crossed the yellow line, the driver asleep. Their mother and aunt didn't have a chance. They died upon impact, their small rented sedan shredded and smashed by the truck. Susan and Mickey were the only remaining relatives, and inherited both estates. It paid the medical bills, and left enough that they would not have to worry about working for quite a few years. But Susan didn't care about the money or property. She had lost her family. Nearly all of it. All she had left now was this fraction of her brother, a piece of her twin. She would not let herself succumb to depression the way her mother did, though she could understand why her mother did. She resolved to remain strong for her brother. She would not let his injuries keep her from caring for him. She had him released into her care, and moved him into her apartment. She sold the two homes from their inheritance and invested the proceeds in low risk stocks for the future. She oversaw his physical therapy, working closely with his doctors, learning all that she could about how to care for him. He recovered to a state of semi-self-capability rather quickly, given his injuries. He quickly learned how to dress, bathe, feed himself, and such. His communication was still pretty muddled. He understood most things, but when he tried to speak, it was all jumbled and confused. Susan could see in his eyes when he spoke to her that he was trying very hard figure out how to reach her again. She had helped him learn how to walk and manipulate things in his environment again, but she seemed unable to help him relearn how to think. Now he seemed to be hitting a plateau, unable to continue his recovery. She had railed at the doctors to give her some kind of insight on how to continue his healing, but after MRIs, CAT scans, and countless other batteries of test and procedures, they had sat her down and told her that they simply did not have the knowledge of the brain and it's workings to overcome this kind of extensive damage. So she had resigned herself to where they were now. He still went to the doctors regularly to monitor his progress, but they were basically only capable of ensuring that he was not regressing and that he did not have any new complications. Around ten, Susan took his hands and pulled him to his feet. "Time for bed, Mick." She said, guiding him to the hallway. "Sleep. A cold here." He answered. "Sleep, yes, but not cold." She replied, guiding him to the bedroom that used to be her studio. She got him to take off his shirt and made sure he was settled before turning off the light. "Love you, Mick." She said softly from the doorway. "Love too." He answered, as he had when they were kids. She woke up to a heavy thud around one and went to the hall. She snapped on the light to find Mickey crouched at the opening to the living area. He was pressed up against the wall, peering around the corner. She walked up slowly, unsure of what was going on. This was something new. "Mickey?" She asked softly, not wanting to startle him. "Corporal Miller is down. SAF from the east, second floor, right side. Looks like AKs. Get on the horn and get Black Snake informed. We're gonna open fire while Fire team two rushes from the North." He rattled off, clear and confident, his back still to her. "Mickey? It's me, Susan." She said her voice a little louder this time. His head whipped around, his neck popping loudly as it did. His usually mostly blank face was a mask of concentration and intensity. "I don't give a fuck what you think Haskel! We attack or we get pinned down! Now get fucking going!" He roared. He spun around again and went around the corner. His body, which had moved like it was mired in molasses for so long, now full of fast, fluid grace. She gasped at his words, unsure what was going on, a flashback, a lucid dream, an actuated seizure or what. She simply knew that it terrified her. He was speaking as clearly as he had before the attack; something she did not think was possible anymore. He was moving like he used to, with a coordination and efficiency of movement that made him so capable during football games and such. She followed him around the corner, her eyes streaming, and found him standing, leaning against the wall. His head a lowered, his arms hung limply. His face was the way it was for a few months after waking up from the coma; eyes wide, lips open, jaw clenched, making a kind of rictus grin that had disturbed her deeply when he looked at her with it. She saw that now he was trembling as well. Her heart fell as she took this to be a kind of relapse, or regression. She slowly put her hand out, reaching for his arm, scared of him for the first time in her life. Her fingers had just grazed the skin of his forearm when his other hand snapped closed over her wrist. His arm moved lightning fast. His grip was gentle, almost no pressure, but it was firm. His head swiveled slowly over to her, his eyes locking on hers. "All gone now. All gone. White hallway." He said softly, his mouth relaxing, losing the grin. She started to think that what she had seen as the grin from before might be concentration, as he struggled to speak, seeming to fight to choose his words. "Sleep. No more here. No more." He whispered, straightening up from the wall and turning to her. "Susan." It was the first time he had said her name since the attack, and it hit her like a lead weight. Her heart leapt up into her throat and she gasped. "Yes, Mickey, yes. Susan. Yes." She said breathlessly, her face breaking into a wide smile as her tears started anew. She wrapped her arms around him and held him tight, her face resting on his chest, crying and smiling. She felt his arms slowly wrap around her as he hugged her back. "Coming home." He said evenly. "Yes. You're coming home now, home to me." She answered. She called the doctor in the morning, as soon as his office was open and explained what happened, and was told to bring him in for testing. She had not slept since waking to the sound of him in the hall, but had gotten him back into his bed, and had watched as he slept. She took him in, and spoke to the doctor as the MRI machine hummed in the next room. The doctor said that this kind of jump in cognitive function was possible, but happened rarely, and to be aware that it could cease at any time. She took that in, but held onto hope that it would last. After a slew of tests, many of which that would take days to fully process for results, she brought him home again. He seemed much more aware, much more there, than he had since waking up. He spoke in terms that almost seemed normal at times, instead of the broken abstract way that had become his usual. Back at the apartment, she asked if he wanted something to eat. "Chicken. Small. Bit. Little." He struggled. "Small chicken? Egg? Do you mean egg?" She asked, watching him carefully. "Yes. Egg." He said, speaking carefully, his eyes never leaving hers. This was an immense improvement, and she fought to keep from crying, not wanting to upset him, fearful that any little thing may break this streak of higher functioning. "Okay, Mickey. Eggs it is." She answered, going to the kitchen. "Eggs." He said quietly, still struggling a bit. They ate in silence, her studying his every movement, not quite daring to believe that he was moving faster and steadier than he had been. He was not dropping egg or potato from his fork, though, so he was definitely showing more fine motor control than the past year. When he was finished, he did not simply go still and stare at the center of the table, either. She thought he would, but when she stood to gather his plate, his hands went to the edge of the plate and he slowly stood, holding it flat and without a tremor. She simply stood and watched, wondering if he knew what to do from there. He was frozen moment before turning to the kitchen and slowly walking. He set the plate on the stove, but she wasn't worried about that, she was simply delighted to see him going in the right direction. Perhaps the plateau was simply a slow point in his healing, a small stall. She certainly hoped it was. She went to where he stood, frowning down at the stove. She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his back. "Close. You're coming home, and you're so close." She said, her voice hitching a bit. "Coming home. Come Suzie dear," He began. She stopped breathing at that, hopeful that he would continue, that he would speak the line that he had said so many times since he had first heard the song in high school. When he finally stilled, remaining silent, she kept her hopes up for next time, happy with the progress he had made already. She took him to the living room, ready to begin their daily physical therapy. He did many of the exercises without her needing to coach him through the motions, so that was still normal, but he was doing them with more confidence, and more dexterity. She watched him as he stretched and moved, his body seeming to loosen up from the stiff robotic movements that had been normal. She found herself in a state of near tears throughout the day, constantly elated by this massive improvement. She sat after they were done and watched him change into clean clothes, wondering at it. Such improvement from something that should have killed him. She dumped the clothes into the hamper and turned around find him standing directly behind her. She jumped a little, startled. She had not heard him walk up, like she usually could. His stiff legged walking led to clumping footfalls. Now, he was here without a sound. She smiled and put a hand on his chest, her breathing slowing again. "You scared the hell out of me Mick." She said, her voice a little shaky. "Let's take a walk, just out there upon the beach." He whispered slowly, his face straining. Her legs buckled and she barely caught herself before his hands came out and held her hips, steadying her. He had finished the sentence, the line from the song that he had said so often. She put her hands over his and looked up into his eyes, tears coming from her own. "That's right Mick, that's just right." She said. She was wary of another episode that night, and lay awake, wondering if he would rise. Around midnight, he did. She heard his door creak open, and she rose silently. She peeked out the door and saw him glide up the hall silently. She was amazed by his grace and stealth. This must be what he was like in the Marines, moving from cover to cover during his combat time. She could see this eerie, silent, fast shadow dart to the end of the hall where he dropped and froze, without a sound, becoming just another still shadow in front of the bathroom door. She stepped out, and called his name quietly. He did not respond, so she began walking slowly towards him, saying his name quietly. She did not even have time to gasp when his crouched form exploded out at her. She felt his hand close over mouth, turning her head to the side as his other arm grabbed her wrist. She was spun around, pressed against the wall, her arm twisted behind her back. She could feel his breath on her cheek. He was breathing heavily, nearly growling. "Where are the others? Where are your friends? Where?" He asked, his voice a low hiss. She was in shock. This was the man who had pulled her braids when they were in elementary school, the one who punched out Bill Wendell for pinching her but freshman year of high school, the one who helped her with her math homework and who she helped with his English homework, the one who sang a line of an old rock song to her to cheer her up. Now here he was, with her arm locked and hurting, her mouth covered and her neck bent, asking where her friends were. She tried to say his name, but his hand was like a plate of iron over her mouth. When she tried again, he let her speak a little, parting his fingers a hair. 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. Helping Mickey Ch. 01 "Come Suzie dear, let's take a walk, just out there upon the beach." He said, and kissed her again. "Okay. Let's walk, then." She answered in a whisper, giving in. Helping Mickey Ch. 02 ++okay, so Helping Mickey isn't an all out screamer. If you're looking for something nasty or fast or whatever, this is not it. It's mellow and slow. If you like it, great. If you don't, great. It simply is what it is. Enjoy++ * Susan walked into the living room and saw Mickey out on the balcony, watching traffic. She watched him a moment before sliding the door open. "Come in, we have somewhere to go." She said, smiling a little. He turned and looked at her, his face blank. "A where to go." He answered, stepping in. "Yup. We are going to storage. There are a couple things I want to dig out of there. Get dressed, something warm." Mickey started off towards his room. She watched him go, wondering if her idea would work. She had thought of it while making breakfast. The little radio in the kitchen tuned to a classic rock station, she had paused when she heard Bad Company playing. It was a song that Mickey had played in high school, one of the ones he could be counted on playing almost every time he picked up an acoustic guitar. She had been struck by the idea as so simple that she couldn't believe she hadn't thought of it before. Of course, there was a better chance that he would have no idea what to do with a guitar now, but she figured the slim chance he would remember how to play would be worth the trip. They made the short trip down in a comfortable quiet. She pulled up to their unit and they stepped out. She ran up the door and Mickey simply stood and watched. After a little shifting and digging through the clutter she moved a tall box and saw the top of his guitar case sticking up. She quickly cleared away the stuff in front of it and pulled the case out. Mickey stepped forward as soon as he saw it. She handed him the case and watched him. He ran his fingers across the fake leather surface and frowned. When he looked up, she wasn't sure what he was thinking. "Do you recognize that? Do you know what it is, Mickey?" She asked, speaking softly. "Not all here. Rest of it." He said, still frowning. "Rest of it?" She asked, confused. "Other piece. Rest of it. The more." He struggled, his lips trembling. Susan turned to the space the case had been sitting in, frowning herself, wondering what else he might mean, if anything. Then she saw. What the case had been leaning against. The huge amplifier that was surrounded by more boxes. She was about to say no way when she saw the smaller amp sitting next to it. The huge one said Marshall, but the small one said Peavey. She grabbed the Peavey and hoisted it out. "The Marshall one stays, I don't need the neighbors pounding on the walls." She said with a smirk as she lugged the amp into the trunk. Back at the apartment, she plugged in the small amp next to his bed, and stood back to see if he would be able to take it from there. He set the case on the floor and after a couple fumbles unsnapped the latches. He lifted the lid and she saw the guitar within. This was not the simple Fender he had bought with money from yard work. He must have bought this in the Marines or after. She had not seen this one before. It was a massive, sharp angled monster. The body was a jet black matte, with chrome metalwork, and the headstock said B.C. Rich. She watched him as he slowly lifted the guitar, turning it over and over in his hands, his finger tracing along the string, along the knobs, the tuning pegs. He sat on the bed and held the guitar across his lap, his frown deep, his teeth just beginning to show as his nasty grin tried to spread. His hands began moving faster than they usually did, and she heard the clear twang as he began tuning it. She was surprised that his hands moved so smoothly, and judging by his face he wasn't doing it with much thought; it appeared that this was more an act of memory than effort. When his hands finished their work, he grew still, just holding the guitar and frowning. She wasn't sure if she should say or do anything. She was about to ask him if he remembered how to play when he leaned forward and opened the small compartment inside the case. He pulled out the black cord and plugged it into the guitar. The other end, he stared at a moment before turning to the amp. He slowly moved the plug across the top, looking for the socket. He found it and plugged the cord in. He grabbed a small grey pick from the case compartment and plucked a string. It made a clear but quiet sound. He stilled, frowning at the guitar. Susan realized what the problem was and leaned down to the amp. She found the power switch and turned the amp on. The squealing that came out hushed immediately when Mickey covered the strings with the side of his palm. He sat still a moment before plucking a few strings. The sound was clunky and discordant, and Susan was a bit heartbroken for the moment before his hands found themselves. He went from clumsy fumbling to fast precision in a heartbeat. His hands suddenly moved with a speed and accuracy that she scarcely believed. He played fast and hard, as he had when in high school. A couple of her friends had watched him playing fast thrash metal and giggled with her about what else his hands could do at those speeds. He played a song that was familiar to her, but she couldn't name it. She was never into that heavier stuff. He played like it was the easiest thing in the world. She wondered just how much he had been playing in the years before the attack. Whenever she had asked, he would just kind of shrug and say 'just fartin' around.' before changing the subject. Now she saw that he must have been doing more than farting around. He blistered through song after song, his eyes locked on the fret board, his frown never wavering. Susan just watched and listened, spellbound and amazed. She had hoped for a couple chords, or a few simple riffs, not this screaming, wailing thing. After he finished the song he was playing he leaned down and pushed a small button next to the volume and the amp dropped the heavy distortion, leaving a clear, clean sound. He began playing, and she immediately recognized the song. How could she not? It was the one he always played for her. She was crying when he began to sing, his voice steady and soft. He was playing and singing Astronomy. For her. The way he had for so many years. She sat next to him on the bed and curled an arm around his waist, resting her head on his shoulder, letting her tears fall where they may. He finished the song and set the guitar aside. He turned off the amp and wrapped his arms around her. "White hallway. Come Suzie dear, let's take a walk, just out there upon the beach. Coming home. White hallway." "What hallway, Mick?" She asked, her voice rough with emotion. "Not what, white. A light in the bright. Coming home. Coming home now." He answered. She looked up and saw the grin was back. It was not as eerie to her as it had once been, but she still did not like it. "I know, Mick. I know you're coming home. I know you're trying. I just don't know how to help you. I'm doing my best, but I don't know what to do." She said. "Don't go. Stay in this where, in this when. Don't go." He answered, holding her tight as his grin began to fade. "I'm not going anywhere, Mickey. I'm right here with you and I'm going to stay with you." She said before kissing him. "A path in the dim, a light in the bright. My corridor. Coming home. White hallway. Coming back clearer, Susan. Here now with you. Don't go." He said, clearly fighting to find the words. "Mickey, I don't understand a lot of that. I know you're trying, I do, but I just don't get it. I don't know what you mean. Please, keep trying." "White hallway. It's all white hallway." He answered, his voice tired and frustrated. "What, what else is white hallway? Can you say it any other way? I mean, well. Shit. I don't know what I mean anymore. What else is white hallway, Mick?" She asked, fumbling for words herself. "A light in the bright. A path in the dim. Corridor. A what for going." He struggled, his grip on her tight, his grin wide. "A what for going? Corridor? You mean, like a way to do something, or go somewhere? "Yes. A way for going. Doing. A path in the dim." "A way to come home? A way to come back?" She felt excitement growing, as she thought that he was coming closer to explaining what was going on in his mind. "Yes. Coming home. White hallway. It's all white hallway." He said, his teeth gritted tensely. "Ok, Mick. White hallway is your way back?" "Yes." "Back to how you were?" "No. Back home. To here. To Suzie dear let's take a walk." "Back to, uh, how you were, but here with me?" She asked, frowning, trying to word it correctly. "Yes. Coming home." "White hallway is your mind healing? Is that it? It's how your mind heals?" "Mostly. Coming home and take a walk. A light in the bright and out there upon the beach. My corridor and the here that is now." He was speaking faster and faster, the grin beginning to break up. "How we are, and how I was. A path in the dim and don't go." "Mickey, I think I get it. But what happens after? When you get better? When you're back to normal, like you were, what then? When you start your life again, will you still want to be here with me? What then?" She asked, her excitement dimming at the thought. "Don't go. Please, don't go." He was clearly disturbed by the thought. "Stay here, coming home, don't go cold outside cold inside don't go." He was speaking very quickly and holding her very tightly. She tried to calm him, making hushing sounds and repeating that she wasn't going to leave. As he began to calm down she saw his tears begin to roll down his cheeks. She kissed him and repeated that she was staying over and over until he was calm again. "I'm not going anywhere Mickey, I was just asking if you would when you got better. I don't want you to go. I just didn't know if you wanted to. Hell, I've wanted to be with you since we were kids. When we were teenagers, and I was starting to understand what love and real relationships were all about, I realized that I wanted to be with you. I have ever since. I just knew that I couldn't because so many people would say that it's wrong. When I asked you to kiss me when we were camping, I kind of lied. There was no boy down the street checking me out that I knew of, I just wanted you to kiss me. Not like a brother does, but for real. That's why I said it should be practice. So you would kiss me for real." She was speaking with her face pressed to his neck, holding him tight. She didn't think she could bear to look him in the eye while she confessed. "When you did, when you kissed me, it was heaven. I wasn't planning on using our tongues, but the way you held my face, the feel of your lips, I couldn't help it. I've thought about that kiss for years. I tried for a long time to bury those old feelings, to deny that love, but it's always been there. It's why I was always finding something wrong with your girlfriends. It hurt to see you with a woman that wasn't me. I'm sorry you have to find out like this, but I can't hide this away any longer. Do you understand any of this Mickey? Please say that you do. Please tell me that the way you've been recently isn't just my imagination or a misunderstanding or anything like that." Mickey leaned back a bit and put his finger under her chin, tilting her face up to his. He was frowning, but kind of smiling a little. He kissed her gently, a quick peck on the lips, and chuckled a little. "Always Suzie dear. Always didn't count. Always take a walk. Don't go. Never again was painful. Other women were not just out there upon the beach. The where in the when were white hallways to home. Always to here instead. Never Miss Carrie nurse, always Suzie dear." His face was tight again, the grin fighting to resurface. "No one left now, no one left to say wrong. No one left to say no. Now coming home and warm inside. Now white hallway and Suzie dear. Susan. Now there's coming home and warm inside. Now there's us." He finished. Susan was pretty sure that he had just explained that he felt about the same, and that now they had a chance to be together without people to damn them for their love. It was sad that there was no family left, but liberating to know that they could make a go of being together. Sure, there were those from work and a few friends they had in common that knew they were siblings, but if they were a little cautious, that could be worked around. She held him tight and cried, her tears running down her cheeks and across her smile. She could help Mickey, bring him back from the prison in his brain, and have him too. She felt like she was dreaming. If she was, then she never wanted to wake up. She pulled Mickey to his feet and guided him to the kitchen. "Come on, time for lunch." She said, smiling. --- She woke when she felt Mickey stirring. He got out of bed and went out the door, silent and fast. Fear gripped Susan's heart as she got up. He was not in the hallway when she got there, so she turned on the hall light and checked by the bathroom. Not there either. She turned towards the living room and he was right behind her. She yelped as his strong hands caught her shoulders and pulled her around to the wall. He pressed up against her, his body tight to her, one hand over her mouth, the other on her chest. He made a low hushing sound and watched the dim of the living room. "Be quiet. They are right out there, looking for us. Stay silent, and stay right behind me. We can ambush them and take them out if we're fast." He said in a low murmur. As soon as he said it he was moving, crouched low and quiet. He went around the corner into the living room before she could move at all. "Mickey? Everything is alright Mick. It's me, Susan. Mickey?" She said as she made her way slowly towards the living room. She could not hear him at all, but he had already shown he was more than capable of making his way through the apartment silently and quickly, so that didn't help her much. She was terrified that he would jump out at her and hurt her, but that fear took a back seat to her need to make sure he was alright. Susan reached around the corner and hit the light switch. She immediately saw Mickey hunkered against the far wall, next to where the living room opened on the kitchen. As soon as the light came on, he darted back to the side of the entertainment center, crouching low and trying to stay hidden, all while frantically waving at her to get down. "Mickey, it's ok. You're safe, there's no one around but you and me. You're alright." She said as she walked towards him, slowly and carefully, watching him closely. As she approached, he stopped waving at her, and his eyes seemed to clear. He slowly stood up, his eyes never leaving hers. "Susan?" He asked, frowning a little. "Yes Mickey. It's me. You're safe, there's no one here that will hurt you." She answered, putting her hands on his chest. "Susan. When did this where get here?" He asked, looking around at the room. "We've been here for a while. You had a bad dream, that's all. Just a nightmare. Happens to the best of us." She said, smiling in her relief. She gave him a light kiss and took his hand, leading him back to the bedroom. "Come on, back to bed Mick. Back to sleep." She said, clicking off the lights as they went. She slid between the sheets and turned to him, watching the vague shape of his face in the dark. He was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. She scooted in close to him, her arm across his chest, her warm feet tangled with his cold ones. She wondered again just what his world was like, trapped in his mind the way he was, unable to form clear communication with the world around him. She reached up and turned his face to hers. Even this close, his face was just a blur of shadows. She gave him a quick kiss and rested her head back on his shoulder. "Love you, Mick." "Love too." He answered in the dark. --- Susan was scrambling eggs and listening to Mickey play his guitar. She could hear him pretty easily over the sizzling in the pan, he had the little amp turned up pretty high, but she wasn't worried about it. It was almost ten, and most of her neighbors were out and about anyway. He kept switching between the hard, fast, distorted metal and slower clean tone songs. She recognized Bad Co., Kansas, and, of course, Blue Oyster Cult, but she couldn't name any of the metal, not being a real fan of that stuff. She was still amazed at how well he played. It was pretty jarring to see him play, his fingers fluttering and flying around the fret board, then watch him fumble with the remote for the TV, his now graceless fingers mashing buttons at random. She wondered if he would ever be fully back to the way he was. It didn't seem like it sometimes, when he stopped short and drew a blank while tying his shoes, and things like that. But when he was playing guitar, or during his flashbacks, nightmares, whatever they were, it was plain to see that his body certainly remembered how it used to be. He was showing regular improvement again, that much was clear. But how long would that last? She shook her head and fixed two plates. She set the small table and went to get Mickey. She stopped in the hall when she heard him begin another song. This one she remembered clearly. On their twentieth birthday he had been unable to celebrate with her because he was in southern California training in the Mojave Desert. She had received an email the day after their birthday. She had been sad that he couldn't be there with her, but the email cheered her up. It had an attached video. There was Mickey, sitting on a crate with a battered, dented, dirty acoustic guitar in his hands. He was smiling and filthy, covered in dust and grime, his camouflage uniform an absolute mess, even his teeth had clumps and streaks of grime. Susan was a little grossed out, but still happy to see him. "Hey Suze, sorry I can't be there with you for our birthday. If it makes you feel any better, tomorrow we go for a 10k hump, so I'll be paying for not being there. I just wanted to record this real quick for you before I get back to work, machine gun night fire starts soon. Hope you like it." He said. The dust and dirt seemed like a constantly falling cloud as it came off him with every movement. He had leaned back from the computers camera and started in with Nights in White Satin by The Moody Blues. She had cried during that. A lot. He finished and leaned in to the computer again, a sad little smile on his face. "Happy birthday, Suze. Love you." And with that the video clip ended. She still had a copy of it on her laptop, and still watched it on blue days to cheer herself up. She stood in the hall and listened as he played the song now. His playing was a little smoother and cleaner than it had been on the video. But then he was exhausted and rushed. Now he was playing by muscle memory. Singing as well, as his voice could be just heard over the guitar. His voice was steady and sad, adding a melancholy lilt to the already sad arrangement. Her heart sank and soared at the same time. She leaned against the wall and smiled through her tears, as she had before, and just listened, her heart breaking in the nostalgia and the now. As the last chord faded she collected herself and poked her head in the door. "Breakfast is ready, Mick." She said, her voice only wavering a tiny bit. Mickey set the guitar aside and walked out, pausing to give her a quick kiss on the forehead as he walked past. She followed him and barely kept herself from crying again. He was showing steady improvement, but she still did not know how much longer she could bear to be with him in this diminished state. But bear it she would. She would bear it for the rest of her life if she had to. Helping Mickey Ch. 02 They ate quietly, Mickey focusing on his meal and not making a mess of it, Susan focusing on Mickey, still constantly evaluating his movements and bearing. He was doing better, it was undeniable. When he was finished, he took his plate to the sink and set it inside gently. It was good to see that he was now consistently putting the dishes into the sink instead of on the stove as he had for a while. He had tried to wash the dishes a couple of times, and after replacing a few plates and glasses Susan had decided that washing could wait a while yet. She watched him stretch on his own, getting ready for his daily exercises. He moved with a smoother surety than he had in a while. She had a hard time focusing on his movements themselves as she was constantly drawn to his physical form. He was no longer the wall of lean muscle he used to be, but he was far from out of shape. While not as heavily muscled as he used to be, and not as defined, he was still in great shape. She watched his back ripple lightly as he ran his arms over his head, his arms themselves as they turned and bent, his stomach as he twisted and turned. With a shake of her head she snapped back to reality and put away her own dishes. She had a little catching up to do with the stretches, and did so quickly. She observed him go through his routine as she went through hers. At the end, as they stood, he paused, staring at the floor. She was about to ask what was wrong when he pitched forward. She gasped and reached out to catch him, but too late. Instead of landing on his face as she expected him to, he caught himself at the last second with his palms on the floor. He hovered like that a moment, on his toes and palms, before resetting his hands on his fists, and began doing push-ups. He moved fast and fluidly, counting under his breath in fours: one two three one, one two three two, one two three three, and so on. She watched in mild confusion as he went to fifty like that as if it was nothing. After counting 'one two three fifty' he did another push up and said 'And one for Chesty' before standing again. She thought she saw a slight smile on his face. "Feel better?" She asked when he turned to her. "Yes." He answered simply before going towards the bathroom. "You know that scared me when you dropped." She said, her stern tone blunted by the smile on her face. "Sorry. Didn't try to." He said, turning back to her. He was looking at her face, but she didn't think he understood that she was not mad. "Mickey, it's ok. See me smiling? It's alright." She said softly as she walked over to him. "Ok. Push-up just felt right." He said, frowning a little. She was ecstatic to hear this normal sounding conversation from him, but was careful to keep calm, to avoid ending the moment. "Well, they looked pretty good too. Using your fists, that's a thing you picked up in the Marines?" "Yes. Sergeant said we always had to do them fisted. Fisted. Fists." "What about 'one for Chesty'? What was that all about?" "Chesty Puller. Hero of the Marine Corps. Goodnight Chesty, wherever you are." She didn't know if this was jumbled ideas again or just some military saying from the Corps, so she let it pass. "Do you want to add stuff like push-ups to what we usually do? Because I can tell you right now I won't be able to keep up with push-ups like that." She chuckled. "You don't have to. I can push-ups alone. I can do. Do." He was starting to jumble again, but she tried to act as though it was nothing, hoping to get him back to clearer speech. "Ok, as long as you don't expect me to put my fists on the floor like that. Are there any other exercises you want to start doing regularly?" "Climbing a mountain." He said and frowned deeply, thinking hard. "That may have to wait, and I don't think I could do that with you. It's probably a bit much for me. I'm not as fit as you are, you know." "No. Climbing mountains. Mountains climb. Mountain climbers. Mountain climbers." He managed. After he had said it his face cleared a bit and he dropped to the floor again, this time on his hands and toes, but with his hips bent and his ass in the air. He began hopping and switching his legs back forth, one curled up to his chest, one extended, and switching them with each hop. After a moment he stood again. "Those are called mountain climbers?" She asked. "Yes. Good heart and lungs. Blood pumping. Cardio." He answered, his face still frowning a little. "Okay, we can do that. That does look like it can get your blood pumping, I'll give you that. Let's leave that for tomorrow, and get cleaned up for now. What do you say?" She asked, running her hand across his chest, showing him the thin layer of sweat. "Ok. Clean now, climb then." He replied before turning back towards the bathroom. She followed him, running the conversation back through her mind again, picking it apart over and over, noting everything that was an improvement. It seemed to be a fair bit. She smiled as he stripped, dropping his clothes into the hamper. She watched him closely as he stepped into the tub and started the water running. She smiled a little wider as she thought 'Save some water, right?' and began stripping herself. She stepped into the spray with him just as the water was starting to warm up. She helped him lather up, running the soapy washcloth over his shoulders and back, and rubbing his shoulders and chest as the spray rinsed. When she began running the cloth over herself, Mickey took the cloth from her gently and began to wash her. She closed her eyes and focused on the feeling of his hands running along her body. He worked slowly and softly, one hand running the cloth and the other following along behind it, rubbing her across the fresh layer of suds. He started at her shoulders and worked his way down. She turned for him as he went, letting him clean her front and back. His hands lingered on her breasts and shoulder blades, making several passes before moving on. When he reached the small of her back, he stepped close to her, and reached around to wash her stomach, holding her close as he did. Her breathing was a bit rougher as he did, and she gasped as his hands ran across the top of her slit. She was almost panting as moved to her thighs, and she could feel his cock pressing against her ass as he went. She noticed his breathing had picked up a bit as well. She felt his lips on her neck as his hands rested on her hips. She bent her head to the side for him and he nuzzled more. His hands turned her to face him and she ran her hands down his chest when she was turned. His hands held her ass, pulling her close as he kissed her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and a leg around his, rubbing his calf with her foot. He broke the kiss and simply stared into her eyes for a while, the warm water running over them the steam billowing. She was about to lean back in when they heard the phone ring in the living room. They both smiled a bit as Susan groaned. She gave him a quick peck on the lips before stepping out and wrapping in a towel to go answer it. 'Oh, this better be someone important or I'm gonna be pissed.' She thought to herself as she dripped her way to the phone. She picked it up and heard Mickey's doctor. --- Mickey came into the living room as she was hanging up, dry and dressed. "It was Dr. Bannister, He said that the last of the tests were in, and you seem to be doing pretty well. He's scheduling a few more MRIs and stuff for a few weeks from now, but said to keep you playing guitar and trying the things you used to do to help keep you stimulated. Now, I believe I'll go get dry properly and dressed as well." She said with a smile as she started off to her bedroom. She had dried and was pulling out some underwear when she thought she heard something behind her. She turned and there was Mickey, standing a couple feet away. She made a mental note to listen a little harder for his footsteps, as he was walking much better, without the stiff legged clumping that she was used to. She saw he was frowning deeply, and walked over to him, clothes forgotten for the moment. "What is it Mick? Are you okay?" She asked, rubbing his arm. "It's, it's white hallway." He said, and the distant, distracted tone of his voice gave her a small shiver. "What's white hallway Mickey? What's bothering you?" "White hallway. Shower, phone, dry. Dry phone. Phone." He sputtered, his eyes darting back and forth, as if watching a high speed tennis match. She was deeply concerned at that, as it was something new. "What about the phone? Dry? I don't understand Mick." She said, watching him closely. He turned and walked back out to the living room. She followed him and watched as he picked up the phone, listened a moment, and hung it back up. He stared at it a moment, then repeated the routine. When he picked it up the third time, he stopped with the phone against his ear. "Hello? Are you there?" He asked before hanging up again. He immediately picked the phone back up and listened before asking again if anyone was there. "Mickey? Who is it you're trying to talk to?" Susan asked, trying to stay calm. "White hallway. Right here. Phone. White hallway on the line. A call coming in from the black. A path in the dim." He said quickly before picking up the phone again. "Hello? Are you there?" He asked before hanging up again. "Mickey, you're starting to scare me. Who, or what, are you trying to talk to?" She asked, her voice trembling a bit. He stopped and turned to her, his face filled with frustration and effort. "It's right here. White hallway. All around. In the phone. Dry." He was making tight grasping motions with his hands, clutching at something that wasn't there. "White hallway, Susan. All around. Close. Dry phone is a part. What part? A part of hallway. Almost there, almost gone. Call your family. He's close to gone. We don't know how long he might last like this." Mickey said, looking back and forth again. Realization struck Susan like a truck. She jerked a bit as she recognized the words he was saying. "Mickey, that's what the doctor said when they had stabilized you. I was sitting next to your bed when the neurosurgeon came in. He told me to the family. You were on a coma at the time. Do you remember him saying those words?" She said in a breathless rush. Mickey walked over to her and took her shoulders, his grip firm but gentle. His eyes were wide and nearly frantic. "It's all there. All there. All around. A white hallway with voices. A light in the bright, a path in the dim. Make sure if he wakes up he sees you with your eyes dry. If he wakes up, he needs hope and comfort, not fear and pity, alright?" "Mickey, that was Dr. Bannister the first time I talked to him, in the doorway to your room. You remember all this?" "Remember? Remember everything. It's all there. White hallway. It's all there, all around." He said, his voice shaky and his eyes bright. He swept her into his arms and held her. She held him tightly, her tears soaking into his t-shirt. "It's all there, Susan. It's all there. Coming home." He whispered, rubbing her back. "Come home, Mickey, I'm waiting for you here." She answered, finally allowing herself to see a light at the end of the tunnel. Finally allowing herself to feel a real hope. Helping Mickey Ch. 03 +++ I kept count. I've listened to Astronomy by BOC 77 times throughout writing these three parts of this story. The only other songs I listened to were An Old Fashioned Love Song by Three Dog Night and Hell Awaits by Slayer. All music and lyrics belong to their respective owners, used without permission. I hope that you enjoy this story. I've enjoyed writing it. +++ Susan sat up. She realized that Mickey wasn't in the bed with her. She stood up and went to the door, listening for any sounds from the hall. She called his name as she opened the door, but got no response. She turned on the hall light. As it came on Mickey seemed to simply materialize in front of her with the speed that he shot up the hall from the bathroom. He grabbed her arm and her throat, clamping down on her wrist like an iron manacle, but held her throat only tight enough to keep her from making any noise. She stared into his eyes, her eyes wide and shocked and scared. His eyes were wild and empty. His face was set in a grim scowl. She tried to speak, her voice a weak husk. His hand tightened a moment before his face changed. He seemed to snap back into himself and his face fell from scowl to scared in a heartbeat. His hands released her wrist and throat and went to her hip and shoulder, supporting instead of restraining. "Susan? Susan? Where when here? What are we here? Are you ok?" He was rambling, his voice shaky and stuttering. Susan coughed a couple times and put her hand on his shoulder to keep herself steady. She tried to tell him that she was alright but her first attempt was a ragged croak. She coughed, swallowed and tried again. "Mickey, I'm alright. You just caught me by surprise. I'll be okay." He didn't seem all that convinced. He was close to tears, and didn't seem to know what to do with himself. He was fidgeting and reaching out to touch her face and neck, but pulling his hands back at the last moment. After a few of these, Susan took his hand pulled it to her cheek. She held it there, gently rubbing her cheek against his palm. "It's ok, Mick. I'm alright, you're alright, we're both alright." She said quietly, hoping she was right. She guided him back to the bed and got him to lay down. She lay next to him, her head resting on his shoulder as was becoming the normal, and wondered if this was an indication of things to come. Mickey was asleep quickly, his breathing growing slow and deep. Susan was up a bit longer, thinking about her sore throat and wrist. Wondering if he might hurt her one night without realizing it. While in the middle of one of those terrifying flashbacks. She found herself wondering, not for the first time, just how much fighting he had done while in the Marines. He had been deployed three times, and each time he had said that yes, he had 'seen some action,' as he put it, when he talked about it at all. She knew that he had lost a few friends over there, and that he had been in a few large battles, but that vague description was all she had, as he didn't like to talk about it much. She couldn't really blame him; she didn't think that she would want to talk too much about it if it was her. She thought that if these nighttime excursions were glimpses into what he had done over there, then she didn't want to know. He seemed so intense, so focused and aggressive, that it scared the daylights out of her. That he was in a position where that kind of driven force was a necessity was scary by itself. She hoped that as he progressed with his recovery that these flashbacks would ease as well. Her mind was still turning over this line of thought as sleep finally came. --- She was fixing breakfast while Mickey played guitar, which seemed to be the new morning routine. He was playing more metal, but still the occasional classic rock song here and there. She thought that his playing was getting better, as well. He was good when he first picked it up again, to be sure, but now he sounded more sure of himself. The metal songs were getting faster and less muddled, and the classic rock sounded like the radio. She set out two plates of pancakes, bacon, and hash browns before walking towards the bedroom where his guitar was set up. She stood outside the door for a moment, listening. He finished the metal song he was playing and launched straight into an old Dio song with barely a moment between the two. She listened carefully as he began to sing, gauging how his speech patterns were so different when he sang as compared to when he was just trying to talk. He sang clear and confident. She recognized the song because he had been a big Dio fan when they were in school. He was playing Straight Through The Heart, one of his favorite from Dio. He was a good singer, not nearly as good as Ronnie James Dio, but good enough that it was always nice to hear him sing. When he finished, she poked her head in and told him that breakfast was ready. He turned off the amp and set the guitar aside. He gave her a kiss on his way past her, and she smiled as she followed him to the table. She watched him eat, and noted that he was moving like he had before the attack. His movement was smooth and steady, he looked completely normal as he sped through the meal. He put his dishes into the sink gently, nothing dropping of breaking, and she smiled. It seemed that his recovery was back on track it was before. His speech and cognitive functions were still a bit off, and when he got excited, as he had last night, it got worse, but overall he was improving by leaps and bounds. She looked down at her wrist as she put her own dishes away. There was a bruise there, the shape of Mickey's hand clear. She put it out of her mind for the time being. When she turned around Mickey was standing directly behind her. She jumped a bit and put a hand on his chest. "Oh! Mickey, honey, you've got to stop doing that. You'll give a heart attack someday." She said, smiling. Mickey traced a finger down the side of her neck, and gently turned her head to the side, ignoring her remark. He was examining her neck closely, and she realized that the bruise there was probably pretty apparent today. He was frowning and looked a bit sad as he turned her head again and touched a couple more places. Susan took his hand and kissed his fingers before looking him in the eye and smiling a bit. "Mickey. It's ok. I know you didn't mean to. I'm not mad. It's just something else we have to figure out. That's all." She said quietly. "No. What about when I didn't mean to you go to a hospital. I didn't mean to is not like I didn't. Not ok, not safe. Can't hurt you. I hurt you I hurt me. I hurt us. Not ok. I'm sorry. I can't control black flashes. Back, flashback. Not safe." He looked sadder than ever, like he had hit her on purpose or worse. She knew he felt bad about it, but she didn't know how to make him feel better. He turned and began his stretches, staring at the floor. She joined him, and tried to get him talking, but he remained quiet for the most part. His exercises went well, with him moving fluidly and gracefully. At the end of the regular workout, he went through a few extras from his day in the Marines. His battery of push-ups on his fist, with Susan doing a few on her palms. He went through fifty four count mountain climbers, Susan through about twenty before she gave up. Afterwards, he went through the push-ups again, with her just standing next to him, hands on her hips and breathing a little heavy. She was still impressed with his strength and endurance. He must have been a real terror in the gym when he in the Marines and in far better shape. He stood up when he was finished and started down the hall to the bathroom. She followed him and closed the door behind them. She took his shoulders and turned him towards her, making him look at her. She couldn't take this standoffishness anymore. She put her hands on his shoulders and pulled him down for a kiss. She held it for quite a bit longer than she had planned to make her point. When she finally eased up, he leaned back a bit but not much. With his face only inches from hers, she spoke softly. "Mickey, I love you. Whatever may happen, for whatever reason, I will always love you. Nothing can change that. Please, don't try to shut me out or pull away just because you're scared you might hurt me, ok? I'm not going anywhere, and I don't want you to go anywhere." She said, trying to keep the tears from falling. He was still a moment after she finished, then he put his arms around her and pulled her close. She kissed his neck and shoulder, holding tight to his neck, savoring the feeling of his arms around her, holding her tight. "Don't want to lose you. Don't want to hurt you. Want to coming home. So sorry." He whispered, his voice rough. "Mickey, the only way you could hurt me is by leaving." She answered, the tears unavoidable now. She stepped back from him and started the shower. She helped him out of his clothes, taking her time, and he helped her out of hers. She followed him into the shower and washed his back, enjoying the solid feel of his shoulders and ribs. He turned and started washing her, taking his time and never breaking eye contact. She could feel his dick when it stood up and nudged her stomach. She smiled a bit and stepped closer, pinning it between them as she kissed him again. She decided that if the phone rang she would ignore it. If it was the doctor he could call back, she didn't care right now. He put his hands on her hips and lifted her up, turning as he did so and putting her against the wall of the shower. She wrapped her legs around him to help keep herself up, and he grabbed her ass to take her weight. She was still surprised by his strength, he didn't seem to struggle to lift her at all, and didn't seem to mind holding most of her weight once she was up. His other hand roamed across her tits, squeezing and pulling on her nipples, driving her mad. She felt his head push against her opening, and he paused, looking at her. "Yes. Yes, Mickey. Please." She said simply, her fingernails dug into his back. He entered her in one slow, fluid motion. She gasped at the feeling of her pussy stretching to accommodate him. He kissed her hard and began rocking his hips slowly, thrusting deeply. She moved with his rhythm, lifting her hips in time with his thrusts to let him get as deep as he could. She could feel his breathing speed up, as was hers. She couldn't believe that she was finally getting to have him. She had dreamed of this for years, had thought that it would never happen. She held him tighter as she thought all this, and he responded by speeding up and thrusting harder. She felt her orgasm building and pushed for it. Her heels dug into his back as her legs started shaking. His thrusts had become frantic, and she could feel his dick throbbing. He looked into her eyes. "Fifteen-fifteen first." He whispered as he started to cum. The first warm jet was enough to push her over, and her own orgasm crashed over her in full force. They both moaned and grunted as he slammed into her. When he finally slowed down, she kissed him, letting her tongue tell him what she felt in its own fashion. They took their time in actually showering after that, but she didn't think that there was a second during that time when they weren't touching each other in one way or another. Her hand on his back, or his hip pressed to hers, or his hand on her ass. They stepped out and grabbed towels to dry each other off. Susan couldn't keep from smiling a small, content smile the whole time. When they were dressed, they went to the living room. He sat in the couch and she stretched out next to him, lying on her side, her head in his lap, looking up at him. He stroked her hair slowly, just watching her. "Fifteen-fifteen first." She said, smiling. "First again for us. First now, coming home. Susan." He said quietly, smiling himself. "How long have you wanted to be with me? Is it something new, or did you feel this way since I have?" She asked. "Seventeen. After birthday party. Cleaning Kenny's pool. You fall in to get the shoe off the bottom. When you climbed out you were wet. So beautiful. Laughing and tossing shoe. Saw you as woman, as not sister. So beautiful." He said, picking his words carefully. "I remember that. I was wearing shorts an old tank top. It was hot, and we had been picking crap up with Kenny and June for like an hour. When June saw the shoe at the bottom I said to hell with it and just dove in. The water felt great. We joked about that for a long time. So it was seeing me all wet with my shirt sticking to me that made you realize I was a woman? Not just your sister?" "No. Saw that you are woman AND sister. Both at same when. Didn't know what to do. Lost. Wanted you and couldn't want you. Come Suzie dear and doesn't count. You know?" He said, thinking hard but keeping the grin at bay. "Hmm. Kinda like I felt for so long. Did it fuck with your relationships with other women? Because all my boyfriends could never quite figure out why I was so critical of them." "Yeah. Miss Carrie nurse was never Suzie dear. Not as pretty, or not as smart, or not, not Susan. Not the same. Not the same." He answered, repeating the last phrase while smiling down at her, his fingers gently twirling a bit of hair as he did. "Yeah, that's what I kept thinking. God, how come we didn't figure this out earlier? We could have avoided wasting years." She said, mostly to herself. Mickey answered by taking her hand. As one hand ran lightly through her hair, the other gave her hand a couple light squeezes. She smiled widely and answered with a few squeezes of her own. It was just like when they were kids again, talking in the complex series of squeezes, using different combinations of fingers and patterns, their own little twin language from childhood. In many ways, they were speaking clearer this way than with words, especially Mickey. --- Susan woke as Mickey was sliding out from under her. She immediately grabbed his arm, hoping to cut the flashback short before it could really take off. "Mickey! Mickey it's me, it's Susan, you're alright." She said as she tried to turn him to face her. "It's all here. Susan it's all here." He answered, his voice shaky. Realizing that this wasn't a flashback, Susan turned on the lamp and looked at Mickey. He was pale and shaking, his eyes were wide, his nasty grin as wide and toothy as she had ever seen it. She jumped out of bed and went to him, taking his hand "What is it Mickey? What's going on, honey?" She asked, excited and scared. "White hallway. It's all white hallway. It's all here. Come Suzie dear a light in the bright. It's all here. Where we are and when we were." His eyes snapped over to hers and he smiled. "Susan, it's all here. It's all here. Let's take a walk out there upon the beach. Susan, it's all here." He was speaking quickly, his voice rough, almost cracking. "Mickey, please slow down, what's all here? You're not making much sense." She said, trying to remain calm herself. "Ok, Susan, ok," He said quietly, gathering himself. "It's all here, in my head. All of it. Summer at Butcher's Pond, a Birthday at Kenny's, a Christmas at mom's when we shared a bedroom for uncle Troy to have his own, coming home from discharge, you and mom picking me up at airport, all of it. A bastard in an alley with a pipe and a gun, lost in the dim, chasing a light in a bright, all of it." He said, taking her hands in his and squeezing out a message. His hands said something different than his words. His hands said he was not lost, but found, that everything was opening, that doors were not locked anymore. She tried to reconcile the two messages into one and she thought that she knew what he was trying to say. "Oh god, Mickey. You're getting it all back aren't you, honey?" She asked quietly. "Yes. Some things are still locked, but most of it is white hallway. Susan, I'm coming home. Coming home to you." He finished, his voice shaking badly. He was smiling now, not the rictus grin but a real smile, and tears were starting to roll down his cheeks. "Yes, come home Mickey. Come home." She answered, wrapping her arms around him and crying into his chest. She led him back over to the bed and got him to sit down. He held her close as he sat and talked. "More and more it clicks. A motor turning over, a door unlocking, a path taken. No more ice. No more iron skies. Cold inside getting warm. I'm waking up. I'm coming home. Please, stay with me Susan. Help me home. You brought me back. I couldn't come this far without Suzie dear. I want to keep to this when and where. Fifteen --fifteen first is so long ago and now. I want to stay." All the while his hands were squeezing out a similar message on her arm where he held her. His hands spoke of relearning the world, of staying in a when where she was. She squeezed back her own message of reassurance that she would always be there. When he had calmed a bit, they slipped back under the sheets and held each other close, occasionally squeezing out a message until they both found sleep again. --- At Mickey's next appointment with Dr. Bannister, the usual test were run; MRI, blood work, general physical. At the end of it, Dr. Bannister sat and spoke with Mickey for almost an hour with the neurosurgeon. Both were more than impressed with Mickey's recovery. When Dr. Bannister sat down with Mickey and Susan at the end of all of it, Susan was curious to hear what he thought overall. "Well, first off, Michael is doing very well physically. His scars are slowly diminishing, as expected, nothing extraordinary there. His body is healthy and fit, his range of motion is great, reflexes almost normal, motor control almost normal, and if it weren't for his knee and cognitive damage I would say he could go back into the Marines. His cognitive damage is what I really wanted to talk to you about though. For someone that had his skull smashed with a chunk of metal just before being shot point blank in the forehead his cognitive function is nothing short of amazing. One or the other things happening to someone is typically fatal, but Mickey went through both, in the same incident, and is now close to normal. I expect a very nearly full recovery. You have already thrown the expected prognosis models out the window and shown that you are either very lucky, very tough, or very blessed. And believe me; no one survives a headshot like you did because of 'tough.' The human brain is simply not tougher than a bullet. The speed of your recovery and the consistent improvement is astounding. Not unheard of, but definitely uncommon. Whatever you and your sister have been doing to aid your recovery, by all means, keep doing it." Susan had to smile a bit at that. "Your speech and conceptual aptitude are both improving greatly, and I expect you communication to catch up with all your other improvements in time. I understand you are still having trouble expressing what you are trying to say, and that is expected. Just keep trying, and I think that you will see that problem diminishing in time as well. Overall, I think that you are an excellent example of the human brain adapting to and overcoming a terrible trauma. I hope you two realize just how lucky Mickey is." Dr. Bannister finished, smiling a little. "Oh, we know that we are very lucky indeed." Susan said, holding Mickey's hand tightly. Mickey nodded as well. --- Susan had ordered pizza, and they sat at the table, enjoying a quiet evening. Mickey took a slice and set it on his plate. As he was reaching for his napkin, his hand froze. Susan noticed it and set her slice down. "Mickey?" She asked, her voice quiet. He was still as a statue except for his eyes; they were doing their high speed tennis match thing again. She waited a few more seconds before saying his name again. When she did, his head snapped up to her. His mouth started to tremble a bit, looking like it wanted split into that nasty grin again. After a second he spoke. Helping Mickey Ch. 03 "Christmas. At mom's. When we shared the room." He said, speaking quietly. "Yeah, the year you got out, right?" She asked, wondering where this was going. She was pretty sure she knew, but wanted to hear him say it. "The last night. Day after Christmas. Raining outside. I was on the floor, lying on blankets. Back hurt. You said hop onto bed. We're both adults, and it's not like we haven't shared a bed before. No reason for you to suffer on the carpet Mick." "Yes, that's what I said. What else do you remember?" She asked, smiling a bit now. "Woke up in the morning. Spooned. Spooned against you. Wooden ass." He said the last and frowned. "You jumped up and apologized. 'I wasn't trying to put my woody in your ass, Suze, I'm so sorry.' You looked so embarrassed." She was giggling now, remembering it clearly. "You just laughed. Said a Mick dick was okay with you, not to worry." "Yeah. Can I make a little confession?" She asked, her cheeks getting red. He just nodded. "I spent, like, twenty minute trying to get your arm around me and to get snuggled up against you without waking you up. I stayed like that for almost an hour before you woke up. I couldn't help it. I woke up and you were on your side, facing me. I was facing you when I woke up. I stayed there for a couple minutes wishing that you were holding me. I figured it wasn't very often that we slept in the same bed, so I'd better take advantage of it if I was going to ever know what it felt like to have you hold me in bed. I'm so sorry, but I just had to. I felt your dick; it was already hard when I scooted up to you. I was surprised at first, but I liked it. I felt so guilty about it for long time, but I would do it again the same way if I had to. I'm just sorry it embarrassed you so much. I felt bad about that, it's why I was telling you not to worry about it so much. And yes, I knew what I was saying when I said a Mick dick was okay with me. It wasn't just a joke to ease the tension. I meant it then. I guess I was kind of hoping that you would, I don't know, try to take it somewhere. But you laughed a bit and I thought 'oh, well, probably for the best.'" She said, staring at her pizza and picking at the onions while she spoke, not quite daring to look at him, feeling the same as when she told him about their first kiss. "I liked it. Why I was so sorry. I liked it and knew it was wrong. Figured you thought I was perv brother, poking dick at you and spooning. So scared you would be mad. Just thought about it more. Though about it a lot. Jacked off thinking of it few times." He answered, his cheeks getting a little red as well. "No you didn't!" She laughed, "You really whacked off thinking about spooning me?" She was trying not to laugh to hard, and think now about how Mickey might have looked masturbating to the thought of her. It made her feel good. "Yeah. Felt guilty. Felt good. Felt right. Felt wrong. Waking up with you next to me like that. Dream come true." He said, looking down at his own plate. "That is pretty flattering. I like the thought of you liking it that much. That I aroused you that much." She said, smiling widely, and feeling her stomach get a little fluttery at the thought. "Wanted to stay like that, but couldn't. Couldn't' risk hurting you and me. How our relationship." He said, looking a little distracted in the memory. "Well, to be perfectly honest, I rubbed a few out thinking about it myself a few times. Ok, more than a few." She answered. She liked this; this exploration of the past, seeing what seemed innocent or playful in an entirely different light. It felt like he was coming back more and more with each conversation about the past, that he was getting better and better as they spoke. She hoped it was right, and she hoped that it would continue. He sat for a moment, just smiling over at her, then went back to eating. When they finished, they went back to the living and went to the couch. Mickey sitting, Susan using his lap as a pillow again. His fingers went straight to her hair, running through it and twirling little bits, and smoothing it out again. She loved how it felt. She had her eyes closed, and was on the verge of drifting off to sleep when she noticed his hand stopped. She opened her eyes and saw that he was asleep. His head was lolled off to the side, and he was snoring softly. She looked at the clock and decided an early bed time couldn't hurt if they were both dozing off. She got up and took Mickey's hand, calling his name softly till he stirred. When he lifted his head and opened his eyes, she smiled and told him it was time for bed. He nodded and stood, stretching a little. He followed her into the bedroom. She changed into her short cut off sweatpants and old ratty t-shirt that she used for pajamas. He just stripped to his boxers and crawled into bed. She curled up next to him, relaxing at the feel of his strong arm around her. She ran her fingertips back and forth across his chest, just enjoying the feeling of laying in bed with him. When she moved her leg to cross his, she felt his dick on her thigh. He was pretty hard. She smiled and began rubbing her thigh back and forth along the length of him. His hand began rubbing across her back, pulling at the shirt a bit, pulling it up. His other hand went to her thigh, rubbing it as it moved. She kissed his chest lightly and looked up to the shadow of his face. "You know, a Mick dick is okay with me." She said softly, her thigh pressing a little harder. His hand crept from her thigh to her ass in reply. --- The sun was just starting to light the room when she woke up. Mickey wasn't in the bed. She got up, calling his name as she went to the hallway. He wasn't in the hallway, so she went to the living room. She flipped on the light and didn't see him. She went to the other bedroom and there he was. He was just standing up when she flipped on the light. It looked like he had been kneeling at the foot of the bed. "Mickey, are you alright?" She asked quietly. "I. I. Yeah." He stuttered, looking around. She could see that he was just coming out of one of his flashbacks. At least this one didn't end in her with a new bruise. "Come back to bed, honey. You're okay now." She said, rubbing his back. He nodded and walked slowly. His foot falls were silent, but his walking was a little stiff. She thought that was from their little romp earlier more than anything though. They got back into bed and he held her again. She gave him a nice long kiss and settled her face into the hollow of his neck. "Love you." "Love too."