Christine sat down in the kitchen and caught the thin wash cloth and handful of ice he tossed to her. She pressed the makeshift icepack to her eye and winced when pressure was applied to the bruise. Michael wouldn't let her help put the groceries away and she didn't want to start off their relationship with arguments, so she settled for watching him. And listening to him hum softly to a song she didn't recognize. Christine was mesmorized at just how beautiful his singing voice actually was. Having only known 'Thriller', she hadn't had the chance to experience the full capacity of it. He made even the flattest and sharpest of notes sound magnificent. Before she realized what she was doing, Christine was humming along with him, following his notes to the swooping song. Michael stopped what he was doing and Christine froze. She could feel her entire face turn red when he turned to look at her over his shoulder.

"Do that again." He said in a soft, but orderly tone.

"Do what again?" She asked slowly.

"Sing that again. Just like you were."

"I don't remember how it goes..." He pursed his lips, shrugged and then turned back to the cupboard, resuming his song. This time Christine didn't hum along.

With Michael's file tucked under her arm, Christine explored her new office. She opened the door and stifled a small gasp. The office looked like it had an entire library forced into one room and her fingers itched to open each and every one of the books. Frank must have told Michael that she was an avid reader. As a matter of fact, 'avid' wasn't even the right word to use to describe her intense love for reading. She was an American Hermione Granger, per se, with a PhD. Almost everything she knew, she learned from books. She had the sudden urge to hug her new boss but stopped herself at the door, turned back around and sat down in the wing backed chair behind the oak desk. Christine grinned to herself when she found that the chair swivvled. There couldn't be anything more fun than a swivvle chair. After a few turns, she cleared her throat and decided that it would be a good idea to get some work done.

She pulled out a pen and some paper from one the drawers of the desk. They were fully stocked, she could have squealed with joy. In the late 1980's, Michael had been diagnosed with Vitiligo. That actually explained a lot. Christine pushed her surprise aside and kept reading. Not long after that, he'd been diagnosed with lupus. She spent a moment wondering if there were any other autoimmune conditions hiding out in his body, then moved on. Just last year, he'd had a lung transplant. She made a small note to watch out for Vitiligo, Lupus and alpha-1 antitrypsin deficiency in the children, as they were all genetic disorders that may inevitably effect them.

The last time Christine looked at the clock, it was midnight. The last time Christine opened her eyes, she was being shook awake by Michael and sat up with a jerk.

"I wa'n't sleeping..." She said groggily and heard him laugh next to her.

"It's two in the morning, you should probably get to bed." It took her a moment or two to register this, but nodded regardless and stood up. He took her by the elbow and she allowed him to lead her to her room. At the doorway, he stopped and turned to face her, then carefully placed a finger under the tender bruised tissue under her black eye. At her short intake of breath, he removed it and shook his head.

"This shouldn't have happened." He said. "I'm so sorry."

"Why are you apologizing for something that isn't your fault?" Christine asked with a small, sleepy smile. Michael, unable to say that he felt completely responsible, simply shrugged and left her to sleep.

The phone was ringing next to his head and he sat up as though a gun had had been fired. Only the slightest bit annoyed, he pressed the talk button and said a rather frantic 'Hello?' The woman on the other end sounded as though she'd been crying and all he could make out from her sobs of despair were the words 'talk to Christine.' Because the woman sounded so depressing and worried, he got up as quickly as possible and nearly ran to Christine's bedroom door. He knocked three times and, without waiting for an answer, opened the door and tossed the phone to her. She'd barely opened her eyes and had to lunge to catch the phone whilst giving Michael strange looks as he caught his breath. Slowly, fearing the worst, she placed the receiver to her ear and whispered her greeting. Her mother let out one quick sob and Christine caught her breath.

"Chris...I know it's early-but your father-" No. "he couldn't breath and-" No. God No. Please... "It's spreading too quickly-He doesn't have much time-" By this time Christine was close to hyperventilation. She couldn't feel her body, the room had gone hazy. She wasn't aware of her boss sitting next to her, stroking her hair, wiping away the traitor tears that had escaped from their ducts. She wasn't aware of how badly she was shaking and she'd unconsciously tuned out what her mother was saying. She had to listen again.

"-wants to see you. Christine, he doesn't have a lot of time...I think you need to be here. No. Christine, you have to be here."

"Okay," Because she didn't trust her voice enough to speak out loud, she only whispered and hung up the phone too late after the line went dead.