Mike lifted the beer bottle to his lips. The bitter liquid flowed down his throat and eased his troubles away, if only for another fleeting moment.
Three weeks had passed after his little faceoff with Charlie and things were looking better. Mike was finally able to get a good night's sleep without consuming copious amounts of Valium, and the nightmares were slowly subsiding. Many aspects of his life had changed since the fight, but one thing remained constant.
Ryan.
The very name clung onto Mike's mind like the lingering scent of cigar smoke.
"Are you drinking to remember, or are you drinking to forget?" A gruff voice jolted Mike back into reality. He turned his head and met the steadfast gaze of one Detective Hardy, clad in dressy casual wear and clinging onto a glass of amber coloured liquid. Ryan took a seat on the empty barstool next to Mike, and set his glass down on a paper coaster.
Mike let slip a small smile. "I wish thered' be a way to do both."
"Wow. You're plastered." Ryan raised an eyebrow and took a sip of his needlessly expensive Haitian rum.
Mike hiccupped. "Not as plastered as I'd like to be."
Resting an elbow on the bar, Ryan sighed. He felt as though his brain was washing itself in a toxic bath of stress.
Mike's back suddenly turned rigid, and he coughed.
"The straight n' narrow Michael Emerson Weston. The youngest agent in The Bureau is drunk and alone at a bar at two in the morning." Ryan threw back another mouthful of rum and inhaled sharply.
"What can I say." Mike shrugged and laughed, "I was a damn good student. Kept on the narrow path." He gestured widely. A pink tinge crept onto his cheeks, and he felt a wave of heat rise from his toes to his head. "Although I can't say I kept on the straight path, if you know what I mean." He winked and grinned.
Ryan nearly spit out his drink. He was sure that he had misheard. Or, perhaps, he was finally going to hear a very rare alcohol induced confession.
Mike polished off the rest of his beer. With a loopy smile spreading across his face, he wrapped one arm around Detective Hardy.
They were at a popular bar: St. O'Flaherty's Inn. Even at 2 am on a work night, there were groups of hipsters, writers and failed artists alike, sitting around the bar or occupying the establishment's limited number of booths.
The agent giggled. He was never the type to drink to excess, but he figured that one day of absentmindedness wouldn't hurt anybody. He was always the good guy, the kind agent who was overly observant and wise beyond his years. An obvious side effect of the job.
"Call me a professional on the subject, but I'm pretty sure that you're a bit beyond plastered." Ryan pat Mike on his back. "Come on. It's time to call it a night."
"Why, Ryan?"
"Because you're shit-faced wasted and you're going to have one hell of a hangover tomorrow."
"No. I mean…why'd you stay with me when I was in the hospital? Damn it, Ryan, you even took care of my Terrier when I was in there." He slurred his words together into a jumbled heap.
"I should have known Carroll's lackeys were following you." Ryan admitted. He estimated that Mike would probably black out sometime in the next few hours and forget all about their little conversation.
"You saved me, you jerk." With his free hand, Mike playfully punched Ryan. "You stayed by my side on those nights when I couldn't even stand my own company."
Ryan picked up his glass, and drained the rest of the rum. Sweet and spicy all at once.
Mike rested his head on Ryan's shoulder, and Ryan was suddenly faced with two choices. Choice one. He could push Mike off of him and haul his drunk ass out of there. Or, option two. He could play along and entertain drunk-Mike, who may be so inclined to spill a few personal secrets.
Ryan grunted, and helped his friend sit up straight on his barstool once more. Option two it is.
"You, Hardy. I knew you way before you knew me," Mike paused and hiccupped. "You were a sarcastic douche bag, but I liked you. I like you, Ryan."
Ryan swallowed.
What. The. Hell.
His mind swirled, and his throat became dryer by the second.
Mike licked his lips, and peered up at his idol with a set of piercing, stunningly blue orbs.
God, Ryan thought, he's as adorable as a puppy.
He felt a sudden urge to slap himself for even thinking about his partner in such a childish way.
My Partner…
By now, patrons in the bar were starting to stare. Even the bald, extremely tall, muscular bartender was starting to cast wayward glances at the two.
"You took care of me, Ryan." Mike leaned against him, pressing his body into Ryan's side. "The only person who gave a real damn about me."
"What did you expect me to do?" Ryan bit the lining of his cheek in a vain act of self preservation.
"I know you didn't do it 'cause of guilt. You did it because you actually fuckin' wanted to spend time with me." Mike laughed loudly and brought his face closer to Ryan's. He reeked of hops and barley.
"You're the only friend I've got." Ryan watched as Mike's gaze drifted to his lips.
"Wait! No, Mike, I-" Hardy began to protest, but was then cut off by the light touch of Mike's lips against his.
Ryan was surprised. Pleasantly surprised, but confused none the less.
For a brief second, he wrestled with the commands spewing forth from his conscience. Should he do it? Shit, what if the agents at The Bureau found out? He wasn't gay. Maybe. Possibly. He swore that he'd try almost anything once.
It was too early to be thinking rationally, and Ryan found himself playing into the curious side of his psyche. He gave up trying to reason with himself, as one final thought crossed his mind:
Fuck it.
Ryan pulled Mike deeper into the awkward kiss, and he could swear he heard a few young women giggling in the background.
Their tongues met, and hands glided over each other's clothed backs. Ryan indulged, nipping Mike's lip gently.
They both knew that it was the farthest thing from a chaste kiss. It was slightly rough but kind. An intimate caress full of longing and desire, with a deep undertone of power.
It was twisted and perfect.
The two men reluctantly pulled away, and Ryan instinctively looked over his shoulder. Every single pair of eyes in the bar was focused on him. Hushed whispers rose from the darkened corners of the Irish pub.
He turned his attention back to Mike, who seemed to have stars in his irises and a perpetual glow radiating from his pupils, right behind those thick blonde lashes of his.
In that moment, Ryan smiled genuinely. For once he wasn't just a detective. He wasn't his job, or his badge, or his medical condition.
For an ethereal minute, in his mind and in the minds of the bar's customers, he was just a man.
Just Mike and Ryan.
Two beautiful people.