Disclaimer: I do NOT own Burn Notice or ANY of its characters... this is purely fan ...fiction
AN: This is dedicated to : ilovemyboys
This was originally their idea... to have Sam help Michael out when Mike got a bit...er... drunk during a job xD
Sometimes... it's the small things that make the biggest differences.
Small Differences
"Sam, where's Michael?", Fiona asked as she finished off her second pizza slice, "Do you think he's alright?". She snapped the box closed and moved it out of Sam's grasp before the ex-Navy SEAL could snatch his fifth slice.
His eyelid twitched involuntarily before he answered, "He'll be back later, Fiona… He's out with a client, you expect him to be home by curfew?" he joked. The older man almost fell sideways off his chair as he leant over to grab his next slice.
"He always checks in… " she countered and slapped Sam's hand, "Besides, he's not over his cold yet… ".
Sam furrowed his eyebrows and sighed before checking his cell. 1 new message.
He opened the message. Pick me up. ASAP.
…and that ASAP was an hour ago.
"Got a text from Mike, I'm going to pick him up…" Sam said and grabbed Michael's car keys, "You think he'll mind if I take his car?".
"You want to walk him home from your prom date?" Fiona sarcastically countered.
Sam huffed before walking to the car. The drive itself didn't take too long. At least The Yellow Banana bar wasn't too far into the heart of Miami. With traffic the way it is in summer, it'll be a miracle to get in and out in under an hour. He parked a ways down the road and headed into the bar.
The warm air inside the bar could quite possibly cook an egg right out of the air. It hit Sam square on the chest and set his moodring from green right down to yellow –border lining red. Jolly good fun.
"Mike?" Sam called as he headed over to the bar. It was peak happy-hour and all the local patrons were thoroughly enjoying their beers. Well, beer and soccer…. always the happy combo –accompanied by the choir of free cashews.
He skimmed through the crowd until he reached Michael. He was slumped forwards over the bar, one arm propping up his head and the other still holding a cider. Two beers, four empty glasses and a whole round of shots stood empty in front of the man… But, Sam had never known Michael to ever go overboard with his clientele drinking game… Maybe it wasn't him… It looked like him?
"Mikey?" he repeated, putting his hand on the man's shoulder.
Bad move. Michael started and stumbled backwards, causing him –and his barstool- to go flying backwards. Sam, on the other hand, was too shocked from his friend's actions to even try and break the fall. He leaned down and hooked his arms under Michael's and hoisted him upright.
"You alright, pal? You took quite a dive," Sam joked and turned his friend to face him.
Michael rubbed the back of his head, "Y-yeah… I –ush…" he cleared his throat before continuing, "I'm fine… uh… let's get out oshh here". He stood still though, his eyes swimming.
Sam smiled awkwardly, "Kay… let's go…" he stealthily put his hand on Michael's back and guided him to the exit. He knew, even while Michael was plastered, that the young man would still be utterly humiliated by his own lack of focus during a job. Even if it did serve a purpose, he would still hate himself for it for some time.
They exited the noisy bar without too much of trouble, but then, it struck.
Any time you have to submit yourself to heavy drinking, staying warm and hydrated helps to keep your focus. Your body metabolizes the alcohol faster, and that allows you to keep your bearings without the hangover. But, anytime you stop blasting your system with water or get exposed to the cold, your body will do what comes naturally.
By the second dry heave into the alley trashcan Sam was officially worried. Michael spat out the remaining acid taste in his mouth and coughed. "I think that laffhs round wash a bit overboard," Michael stated darkly and straightened up.
The rush of blood sent him nearly collapsing again, but this time Sam was ready. He grabbed Michael by the shoulders and didn't waste time guiding him to Michael's 1973 Dodge Charger.
He unlocked the passenger door and helped Michael into the car. It took some effort, but Sam always knew that Michael never really did like doing things the easy way. And of course, just to prove that theory Michael insisted on curling into himself when Sam tried trapping him into the seatbelt.
"Move your arm, Mikey," Sam repeated the second time as he tried to worm the seatbelt to underneath Michael's arms. But, it was obvious that the ex-spy wasn't about to move any time soon. He figured the nausea hadn't died down just yet. Sam resorted into pulling the belt –that would've covered his chest- up and over Michael's head until only the belt at his waist remained. "Is that okay?".
Michael nodded stiffly, "Mmm sorry, Sam," he muttered, his eyes still clamped shut. He moved his hand up to his head and dug his fingers into his hair.
And there's the headache. Sam would've laughed if he wasn't so worried. He shut the door and walked to his own. "I'll drop you off at the loft," he said and put the keys in the ignition, "… or, rather crash at my place?".
Michael's annoyed dismissive hand was all reply he got. Sam shrugged and started the Charger.
When Michael shot forwards and yelped momentarily, Sam almost planted a round into an innocent bystander. "What's wrong?" he asked, his hand hovering in the air, unsure of what to do to help.
"Headache… mmhh cold ishn't over," Michael slurred and coughed again.
Sam shoved his Glock back into the back of his pants, "That's okay, Mikey, we'll dope you up once we get you back home" he replied and started the drive, "So, you got the intel on the mobster?".
"He washhnntt the guy… hesshh the poster boy… thinngghks he's the leader," Michael chuckled to himself before sneezing loudly. Even as completely drunk the burnt spy was, he couldn't help his habit of trying to pass it off as just dust in the air.
The older man noticed this though and sighed internally in relief… if he was still worried about his pride and appearances, then he wasn't about to die from the bout of alcohol poisoning. "You think it's Val?" Sam asked, making the last turn into the road to the loft.
"Yeashh…" Michael paused, his voice catching in his throat. He cleared his throat twice before continuing, "She's been shhtrinnging them … I ffiinkk her recoorrds is-" he paused again.
Sam glanced at Michael to see him slumping forwards and trying hard to stifle a yawn. "-are fake? It's possible… I can't believe I didn't check hers… I'll get on it as soon as I can," he said and parked in front of the loft, shutting down the engine and getting out.
By the time Michael had managed to find the handle to the door, Sam was already by his side. "Soon asshh you pickiinnhhgg me up?" Michael snapped angrily and grabbed hold of the door frame to help himself out. When his grip failed and he was sent stumbling back into the car, Sam held out his arm.
"Sorry about that… I don't really check my messages often…" the older man apologized sincerely, "But… why didn't you just call?".
The look Michael sent Sam at that moment proved that the young man was indeed family of Madeline Westen. It was quite possible "The Look" was invented by the Westen family.
Sam practically dragged his friend up the steps to the top and unlocked the door. He managed to drag Michael up to the mattress, but just let his friend fall face-first into the old mattress. The FBI-informant waltzed up to the fridge and pulled out an ice-pack and a bottle of water.
"You got some cold-meds stashed here somewhere?" Sam asked and walked back to the younger man.
Michael sneezed loudly into the mattress before pushing himself up, "I've goohht some … over… ove…" he resorted to pointing to the last drawer in the kitchen next to the stove. He gladly accepted the icepack and water bottle, but seemed much more at ease to cuddling with the objects, instead of using them for a practical application.
Opening the drawer slightly, Sam wasn't surprised when he saw the slight glint of a wire right on the edge of it. He reached up into the upper drawer and pulled out a knife. He cut the wire and opened the drawer fully. It didn't surprise him that Michael had set up that booby-trap. Not after his loft was broken into last time. Although it was primitive, a trip-wire was still the most effective trap of them all. The wire was attached to the pin of the grenade to the back of the cabinet, behind the drawer.
Shoving the first-aid, emergency blanket and ibuprofen to the side, he spotted the cold meds right at the back.
"You should thank Fiona for this… really, Mike… extra-strength and it's cherry-flavoured… " Sam popped two tablets out for his friend and held it out towards him, "A woman must really like a man if she buys him something like that".
"Thankkghs, Sam," Michael said, completely oblivious to Sam's insinuation, and lied down on the mattress again.
Sam smiled and left the cold medicine next to Michael's mattress, "You want anything else? You look pretty bad," Sam said and placed a hand on his friend's forehead.
"I'mm fine!" Michael snapped, agitatedly. He was just too tired to work up enough steam to actually stay angry at this point.
"Right… well… I'll just be upstairs if you need me," Sam assured. He reached over and moved the icepack from Michael's stomach up to his forehead, earning a sigh of relief from the ex-spy. Once Michael took over the job of holding the icepack in place, Sam quickly undid his friend's shoes and dumped them beside Michael's bed. When Michael grunted, Sam knew that his efforts weren't for nothing.
"There you go, nighty night, Mikey," Sam muttered and headed up to his spare room.