TITLE: Nurse Michael 1/1
RATING: To err on the side of caution, I'll say R. There's some nasty
language in here.
SUMMARY/SPOILERS: ARCC. Izzy gets sick.
DISCLAIMER: The whole kit and kaboodle belongs to Jason Katims and all those
other lucky, creative folks, not me. Please don't sue, I work in a bagel
store.
"Michael? It's Max."
"Yeah, I noticed," Michael sighed, filling a glass with water and looking longingly at the book he had been forced to put down at the phone's insistence. He could hear Max rolling his eyes on the other end of the line.
"Listen, I need you to do a favor for me."
"Right now?" Michael whined.
"Yes, right now! Look, I'm worried about Isabel. I tried calling her to tell her that nobody would be home tonight, but nobody answered the phone." Michael furrowed his brow in confusion.
"Why won't anybody be home?" he asked distractedly as he tried to reach his box of bendy-straws that were on the other end of the counter without snapping the phone cord or falling over.
"Because Mom and Dad are away on business, and I'm stuck here at UNM with Liz." Michael raised an eyebrow at that.
"What were you and Lizzie-poo doing at UNM all by yourselves?" Michael asked mockingly.
"Extra credit for attending this public lecture given by a famous chemist who is… really long-winded, look, that's really not what I called to discuss with you, and I told you not to call her that anymore!" Max informed him irritably. Michael could hear Liz insisting that Max tell her what he had called her, and chuckled to himself. He should have known that those two would be at some science-y thing. Dorks.
"Okay, okay, okay, so you want me to check on Isabel, but why? I bet she's probably just out somewhere," Michael tried to persuade his friend to no avail.
"She told me that she wasn't going anywhere tonight, and now she won't answer the phone. Please, Michael, it's a ten minute walk from your house to mine." Michael sighed.
"Fine, I'll go," he grumbled.
"Thank you," Max sang into the phone before hanging up.
"For pity's sake, its not like she's helpless or anything…" Michael muttered under his breath as he approached the Evans' back gate. Not fifteen minutes earlier, his quiet reading time had been interrupted by none other than Max Evans, who asked him to swing by the house to check on Isabel. He was in the middle of a really good book, "Of Human Bondage", and really wanted nothing more than to get back to it as soon as was humanly possible. In a series of movements made fluid by years of repetition, Michael hopped over the back gate, jogged around Diane's herb garden, hurdled the dwarf lilac bush, and retrieved the back door key from the loose third-down, fourth-in brick of the patio walk.
"Isabel? You here?" Michael called out as he let himself in, freezing in confusion as the loud and raucous music filtered down the stairs to his ears.
"What's Bob gonna do/now that he can't drink…"
"What the hell…" he exclaimed softly as he identified the noise as coming from Isabel's room. Taking the stairs two at a time, he threw the door open and burst inside.
"Iz…" Any and all words died in his throat at the sight that met his eyes. Isabel hadn't even moved when he entered, and she lay curled up in a fetal position on her bed, surrounded by what looked like hundreds of wadded up tissues. Michael grimaced slightly as he swept an armful of them off the bed and onto the floor, seating himself gingerly on the cleared off area he had made.
"Isabel… are you okay?" he queried gently, brushing her hair out of her face with one hand, and wincing at how hot her forehead felt. He observed with concern the way her body moved slightly, like she had just tried to vocalize something and it hadn't worked.
"I'll break through the glass/I'll break it down… I'll break through the glass/I'll break it down…"
The pounding, scratchy music registered again once he had recovered from the shock of finding Isabel like this.
"Izzy, what the hell are you listening to?" he asked more of himself than of her, crossing the room to turn it down several notches. He walked back to her side, and sat down again, shaking her shoulder more insistently this time.
"Iz! Iz, you gotta wake up for a second, okay?" He chewed on his lower lip with worry when she responded with a cough that sounded like her lungs had liquefied. Her hand smacked him square in the chest as she flailed it around aimlessly, and he realized that she was searching for the kleenex box. He turned around while she hacked away, trying not to listen to it. That was just… really gross. Once she was through, she moaned, but the voice was so decimated that it was barely recognizable.
"Iz? Can you sit up?" he asked, but she just shook her head, crossing her wrists over her throat and let a lone tear escape one closed eye.
"Dammit," he whispered, resting his forehead against her arm for a moment. He could feel her shivering, and sat back up.
"Maaaaaan, Max is going to fuckin kill me," Michael muttered as he tossed the remaining kleenexes off the bed and pulled the comforter up over Isabel's shoulders.
"Iz? Listen to me, I'm going to go for a second, but I swear that I'll be right back, okay?" He didn't wait for an answer before sprinting down to the kitchen to grab a garbage bag. After hurriedly cleaning up all the tissues that he could see and tossing the bag out the window to be taken care of later, he regarded the girl on the bed with pity and no small amount of anxiety. The next part of his plan was to get Isabel changed into some pajamas. When Michael shook her this time, she regarded him with annoyance and confusion.
"Isabel, where do you keep your pajamas?" Her sense of embarrassment must have been fully intact, because instead of answering, she just turned her face into the pillow and groaned. Michael made a strangled noise of aggravation, and turned his wrath on her dresser drawers. The underwear drawer got slammed closed quickly, and he blushed as he ripped open the rest of the drawers until he found a comfy-looking pair of cow-print pajamas.
"Iz, come on, get up. Change into these, okay?" he entreated her, pulling her into a sitting position on the bed.
"Why won't you go away?" Isabel croaked, and Michael smiled crookedly.
"My lady speaks. Max was worried about you because you didn't answer the phone and made me come over here to check on you," he explained.
"Shoulda ignored him like you always do," she grumped.
"Nope, and I'm glad I didn't. If he were to come home and find you in this state, he'd kick my ass six ways to Tuesday," Michael chuckled. "Now come on. Change," he demanded, turning his back on her. Isabel stared dumbly at the pajamas for a long moment, trying to figure out which part was the bottom and which was the top. Having deciphered that much, she turned her attention to the tiny white and black buttons that lined the front of the top, but she was shaking too hard. She felt like her muscles wouldn't abide anything but lying down and doing nothing.
"Michael… help?" At the quiet plea, Michael turned around. Isabel's lower lip trembled as tears began to pool in her eyes. He sighed.
"Okay, okay, don't cry. Lessee here…" Michael took the pajama top from her hands and expertly undid all the buttons. Once done, he grabbed the hem of her t-shirt in both hands, grateful that she wasn't wearing one of her more complicated tops. "Now… arms up," he instructed, and Isabel obeyed, feeling too tired to be embarrassed as he pulled the shirt up over her head and quickly slipped the top over her outstretched arms. Moving around so that he was facing her, he redid the buttons, telling himself that he was not looking at the smooth skin of her stomach as he did so. Nope. He wasn't. Michael turned wary eyes on the drawstring bottoms before turning the same look on Isabel. "Um…you think you can handle the pants?" Isabel nodded, and he let out a breath of relief. "Good. Um, then when you're done, come on downstairs.
"Why?" Isabel whined, and Michael rolled his eyes.
"Because, Iz, look at your room. It's a disaster. Nope, you're parking your butt downstairs on the couch. I'm gonna go set it up, just ah… yell if you need something. Or… you know. Do something loud," he corrected himself quickly. Isabel smiled crookedly at him, and he cupped the back of her head with his hand, dropping a kiss on her forehead before leaving the room and making his way downstairs. Letting out a ragged breath, he allowed himself a second to sit on the couch, letting himself be scared for a bit before he had to be all confident and "I know what I'm doing" again for Isabel. Isabel… she was really scaring him. She looked like death warmed over. He hastily grabbed some sheets and blankets from the downstairs linen cabinet and turned the couch into a makeshift bed. Having finished that task, he picked up the phone and dialed Max's cell phone number.
"Hello?!?" Max yelled into the phone, covering his other ear and crouching down to try to minimize the noise.
"Max?" Michael asked, puzzled. "What's going on? Where are you?"
"We're still at UNM," Max replied. "There's some kind of… I don't know, riot? Protest? Whatever it is, we can't get out of here. There are people with signs all over the place, we'll run someone over…" he trailed off as he saw a topless girl carrying a sign for support of a pesticide-free campus run by the window. He looked incredulously at Liz, who was sitting in the passenger seat mouthing 'I'm never going to college!' at him. Max just locked the door of the jeep.
"So?" Michael shot back before moving on to more pressing business. "Look, Max, you need to get home as soon as you can. Isabel…" As if on cue, Isabel made her appearance, taking the stairs like a child might; one foot first, then the other, repeat with the next step. She looked miserable, and Michael gestured for her to lie down on the couch.
"Isabel? Did something happen, what's the matter?" Max let out in a rush.
"Well, she's sick," Michael clarified, casting a nervous glance at the blonde girl. He saw that she was looking at him, and he smiled briefly before taking the cordless phone into the kitchen, mouthing 'juice' so that Isabel wouldn't follow him. Safely out of earshot, Michael continued. "I mean, she's seriously sick, Max. She's got this really gross cough… she's just sick, okay?"
"Like RiverDog sick?" Max asked in a strained voice, referring to the time that Michael had fallen seriously ill last year.
"No, no… this isn't alien sick, this is human sick. But, you know, bad human sick." On the other end, Max rolled his eyes.
"Is there another kind of human sick, Michael?" Max deadpanned.
"Max!! I mean it, just get your ass back here as soon as you can, okay? I have, like, no experience with how to fix sick people!" Michael exploded.
"Well, can't you call Maria?"
"She's out for a girl's night with her mom, and I'm under strict instructions to not disturb them." Michael said wearily.
"Well, I think she might make an exception for this," Max reasoned.
"Max, she said that I shouldn't call her, even if the world was ending. Verbatim."
"All right, okay… um, Liz, what do you do when you're sick? No, besides stay home from school. Isabel hates Jerry Springer, which is beside the point. No… I mean, what would you do to make it better?" As Max discussed remedies with Liz, Michael got a glass out of the cabinet and the OJ out of the fridge, pouring a glass for Isabel and taking it out to her. She looked at it with disgust and set it on the coffee table.
"Drink. It." Michael ordered, and she picked it up again as he headed back into the kitchen.
"Okay, here's Liz's list. Number one, orange juice."
"Check."
"All right, then the only other things she suggests are Nyquil, chicken soup, expectorant for the quote-unquote gross cough, and Halls for her throat." Michael quickly scribbled the items on the refrigerator door with a marker. Then, he realized that the marker was a permanent one.
"Oops…"
"What is it?"
"Nothing, nothing, got it. Thank Liz for me and get home five minutes ago," he finished before hanging up and walking back into the living room. Michael noted the unfinished glass of orange juice on the coffee table and scowled. How did she ever expect to get better if she didn't do what he told her to?
"Iz…" he trailed off and sighed. She was fast asleep, and making a noise that he was pretty sure she shouldn't be making when she breathed. Michael opened up the end-table drawer and produced a small pad of post-it notes and a pen.
Isabel-
I just went to the store to buy some stuff for your cold, I'll be back soon.
Michael
He threw on his jacket and shoes and exited the front door - quietly, though, he didn't want to wake her. As he began walking, he ran his hands roughly over his face. He HATED sick. He could handle BEING sick, but taking care of sick was quite another thing. He wanted Max to get here. He wanted Max back so that he could just… heal her, do whatever, just take it all away so that he could talk to the firecracker Iz that he knew.
Michael whistled aimlessly as he let himself back into the Evans' house. Slowly leaning over the back of the couch, he saw that Isabel was still sleeping. Sighing, he kicked off his boots and flopped into the armchair situated at one end of the couch. The guy at the pharmacy counter had told him that he should just let her sleep for as long as she could, so Michael settled in and hefted the backpack he had retrieved from his apartment into his lap. Now, there was algebra, English Lit, Biology…
Michael uttered a tired noise as he dragged out his Algebra. If he went one more day without turning in an assignment, he'd be in D-range, and that wasn't good. If his grades dropped below Cs, there was every possibility that he could get dropped right back into the foster care system, and he really did not want that. Algebra it was. Michael struggled to keep his mind on the homework, but just couldn't do it. It felt like his brain was trying to run in every which direction at once, thus making any rational thought impossible.
"Why… is this… so hard?" Michael growled softly, tossing the offending book over his left shoulder. At the sudden noise, Isabel whimpered and turned over onto her side so that she was facing the room.
"You know… this is all your fault." Michael accused the sleeping blonde softly. "Not the getting sick… that's not really anyone's fault. But me not being able to concentrate, that's your fault. At least partially. I mean, come on! I knew that I could always depend on you, that you wouldn't just go off and do weird things like Max. Max… I could never really understand. He's the kind of person who would just haul off and save Liz Parker's life for no reason at all, who would go heal a bunch of kids in a hospital because he thinks he's being haunted. That was never you." Michael scratched his head absently as he continued, not even really aware that he was talking to his sleeping friend.
"You I could always depend on. You're… you're Isabel, you're the Christmas Nazi, the teen queen of West Roswell, you don't do crazy things. And I mean that apart from some of your wardrobe choices, some of those are really out there. But, no, seriously!" At this point, Michael stood up and began pacing in front of the couch; his eyes fixed on Isabel's fever-flushed face, listening to her soft snoring.
"I mean, my life gets crazy, and I don't handle it well. That's not a big secret. I do strange things, and I don't think before I do them, but all I really need is to just look at you. There you'd be, just all calm and rational, and telling me that I must be colorblind to have picked this shirt with those pants, or cutting off some crazy paranoid drivel of mine with some scathing commentary on one of your school-friend-people. Or you'd just order some french fries, pour tabasco sauce all over them and just take one and shove the rest of the plate over to me because you know I love that and it'll put my feet back on the ground. That was you, you'd do things to make me see that some things don't change, and that can help me to not just explode. If Max was the one who always set me off, you're the one that would grab my shirt and haul me back down again. But now… now I don't know who you are anymore, I mean, you won't talk to me. Hell, you won't even talk to Maxwell, and you'd always tell him stuff. You're always by yourself, and sometimes you get these looks on your face like even you don't know quite where or who you are. That… that really… that's not good. And sometimes you look like you just want to cry, but you won't because you hate that. And I can't, you know, do anything about it because it's not my place anymore, or it's like we're not supposed to even look at each other anymore because of this destiny crap. You know that sometimes I wish we'd never found those orbs? Because maybe then it would be okay for us to just hang out like we used to. I could just sit with you, or talk to you and Maria wouldn't be giving me that look like I just shot her dog, not that she actually has one. Because they don't really see how that is, you know? Like all of a sudden, everything that ever happens with me and you or Max and Tess isn't about us being friends or a team or just being us, it's this destiny thing, like it's making us do things we don't wanna do. And that's bullshit! I feel just the same now as I did before that stupid message. Well, except now I have to feel guilty about things that I never had to before. How come I can't know you anymore? How come that's wrong now? I hate that, I fucking hate it, I feel like someone cut my big toes off. Did you know that without your big toes you couldn't keep your balance? It's true, I read it somewhere. Maybe in biology. I bet you didn't know that, but you would have. If we could just talk with each other like before, I probably would have told you that a lot sooner. You'd think that was funny, that if you lost your big toes you couldn't walk, that you'd just fall over like a sack of potatoes or something, because you think that shit is hilarious, you always have. I mean, I bet Alex doesn't know that. I bet he doesn't know that all he'd ever need to do to make you laugh is to hit Max in the head with a shoe." Michael paused and chuckled a little at that, thinking of Alex Whitman taking off his shoe and chucking it at Max's head.
"That would make you laugh so hard, I know that, it would take you… at least a week to fully recover. I would do that, just to make you laugh, if I didn't know that Max would take it all personal and turn it into this huge thing and not speak to me for days. I might just risk it anyway, and Max might even forgive me in a year or so, just because it made you smile for real." Michael sighed and sat down on the floor, putting his face level with Isabel's.
"I need you back, Iz. Wish I had the balls to say this to you while you're awake, but hell. Maybe you'll remember some of it and think it was a dream or something and you'll come back a little. I just… I want…" he set his lips in a thin line and regarded Isabel intensely. After a moment, he tentatively brushed a stray lock of hair off of her face and inhaled deeply.
"Isabel, you mean more to me than I will ever, in any lifetime, be able to say to you. I just can't, you know? I know you know, because you've always known. That it's too hard for me to say stuff like that. Look at me, I can only say this much when you're sleeping and you can't hear me." Michael regarded the ceiling for a long moment as if expecting the words to come from above. Shaking his head, he settled for watching her sleep.
"Michael?" Max's voice rang out through the house and Michael jumped. Isabel moaned and curled up into a ball.
"Jeez, Max, you scared the crap out of me!" Michael exclaimed loudly enough for Max to locate him but quiet enough to not be screaming in Isabel's ear. Picking himself up off the floor, he met Max in the doorway of the kitchen. "And keep it down a little, wouldja? She's sleeping," he informed Max, gesturing to the living room couch. Max strode purposefully over to his sister, shaking her gently, before picking up the unopened bottle of Nyquil from the floor.
"Michael, the general idea of getting medicine is to give it to the sick person so that they can feel better," Max said irritably, and Michael bristled.
"Yeah, well, she was sleeping, and the guy at the pharmacy said that I should just let her sleep if that was what she was doing already." Max just shot him a look, and placed the palm of his hand over Isabel's chest.
"Whatever. Thanks, though, for keeping an eye on her," he offered, not looking at him. Michael just rolled his eyes and collected his scattered belongings.
"Okay, Maxwell, I'm gone."
"Michael?" Isabel sounded as she stepped into the dimly-lit apartment. "Oh, Michael… are you home? Why weren't you at school?" she called, picking up a book from the coffee table. Of Human Bondage. Hmm. She made her way past the kitchen, which smelled kind of foul, she noted, wrinkling her nose.
"Michael?" she called to the partially opened bathroom door. No answer. She peeked inside; no Michael, just more cleaning that needed to be done. Double hmm.
"Michael?" she queried again at the bedroom door before stepping in. "Ohhhh…" she trailed off as she beheld the man himself, curled up in bed. She kicked aside wadded-up tissues to blaze a trail to his bedside. Rubbing his shoulder soothingly with one hand, she bent over to look into his face. "Hey, you."
"Iz?" he croaked back, and she shushed him.
"S'okay, I gotcha," Isabel murmured as she ran her hands over his face and chest experimentally, trying to find the correct location for… "Here." She announced, looking thoughtfully at the spot, trying to remember it as she reached for her cell phone to call Max over. She only got a chance to dial the first two numbers before an intense burning sensation filled her hand where she was touching Michael. The phone dropped to the floor, unheeded, as she stared with amazement at her hand.
"Heal me," Michael managed, and Isabel shook her head.
"Michael, you know I can't heal, that's Max's-" she broke off in a gasp as the heat flashed all the way up to her shoulder and back, making her entire body throb. What the hell was this?
"Do it," he whispered, and Isabel met his eyes. The wind was knocked out of her as somehow, she made a connection with Michael. A series of images assaulted her mind, making her cry out with their lucidity. She wanted desperately to remove her hand as the burning pain filled her body to the limit, but found she could not, and then it left her as suddenly as it had come. Shaking, she dropped to her knees, breathing heavily as Michael sat up.
"Wow."
Isabel raised her head to see Michael staring at her like he wasn't quite sure of who she was or how she got there.
"Michael… did I just…"
"You healed me," he declared a little dubiously.
"But I can't do that."
"Well… it appears that you can now," Michael observed, and Isabel let out a small laugh in agreement before turning large and somber eyes on him. She didn't look away, and Michael began checking himself over to make sure he was fully dressed and that he didn't have anything stupid sticking to him. "What?"
"You…" Isabel trailed off, tears standing out in her eyes.
"Yeah, me…" Michael affirmed, the beginnings of concern rising in him.
"You were going to throw a shoe at Max," she whispered, and Michael looked at her as if she had grown a second head.
"Izzy, are you sure you're feeling okay now?"
"Yes, I'm sure! You wanted to throw your shoe and hit Max in the head to make me laugh." Michael swore that his heart stopped for a second.
"How did you know that?" he whispered wonderingly, and she shook her head.
"It was… when I healed you, I saw it. I saw… I heard you," Isabel said with amazement and reached out a hand to Michael, who shook his head and rose from the bed.
"No."
"Yes, Michael, you were there and you took care of me, and you said… you said you could depend on me-"
"No," he repeated, and walked out of the bedroom, but Isabel followed him.
"You said you could depend on me, and that you didn't know if you know me anymore because we don't get to talk-"
"No."
"You said that you hate that, and that you wished we could talk again without it just being destiny-"
"No!" he shouted, and shut himself in the bathroom. Isabel just shouted through the door.
"I saw it, Michael, you said those things! You said that you needed me to keep you sane-" he interrupted her yet again by opening the bathroom door and grabbing her by the arms, pushing her roughly up against the wall opposite the door.
"Stop this," he whimpered pleadingly, and her face softened.
"Fine, you want payback? How about this: You keep me sane, Michael. Or this: I feel like dying inside because all I want to do is talk to you about this whole stupid Vilandra thing because I know you're the only person in the world who could make me feel better about it instead of worse. Or this: That you're the only person that really knows what makes me tick. Or how about this: I'll never be able to tell you how much you really mean to me because anything I say would be a pale shadow of what you told me while I was sleeping." Michael searched her face for a long moment, unsure of what to say.
"You… I…" Isabel placed one finger over his lips, silencing him.
"I know," she told him, staring deeply into his eyes before enfolding him in her embrace. They stood there for what seemed like years, just holding each other. After a while, Michael felt Isabel's shoulders shake slightly under his hands.
"Are you crying?" he asked quietly, pulling back to look at her. Instead, she glanced shyly back at him, trying to hide a smile. "Whaaaat?" he questioned warily. She shook her head.
"Nothing."
"Ah, no, you gotta tell me. You were laughing, weren't you?" he accused, leveling a finger at her, and she let another giggle escape.
"Is it really true that people can't walk without their big toes?"
end