A/N: I couldn't help but take the bit about Michael eating jet ski polish and Daniel's line, "No, the doctor said any more would kill you!" from "If TV Commercials Invaded the Real World" and imaging what happened the first time Michael did it. Yep, here I am again, injecting a whole bunch of feels into this silly series. I have a problem, you guys. I can't stop.
It was not unheard of for Michael to miss work. He tended to lose track of what day it was fairly easily, so Daniel wasn't typically surprised when he would disappear for a couple days, only to call Daniel on Saturday wondering why no one else was at the office.
So he didn't think anything of it at first, when Michael was nowhere to be found on Wednesday morning. He tried calling him, of course, but he felt safe to assume that when there was no answer after the third try, it was because his partner was on a drunken and/or high bender and didn't even remember he had a phone.
By the third day of Michael's absence, however, Daniel started to worry. In vain he called Michael's phone one last time as he was leaving work, only to get Michael's ridiculous voicemail once again.
"This is the MIKE MASTER, the S. W. A. I. M., short for Surely Wants Ass Immediately Man, if you know what I mean! Drop a sick beat after the cue, dude- a-bum-chic..."
Dan sighed heavily and rolled his eyes as Michael's extremely poor beatboxing took up the rest of the recording, until the time limit cut him off with a beep.
"Michael, it's Daniel. I don't even know if you're getting these calls... where are you? You've been gone from work for three days and I can't get a hold of you, I'm starting to worry." Daniel cringed, instantly regretting saying that. Michael would tease him for a month, "Look, just... call me back when you get this, okay? You know I'll come get you if you can't remember where Cracked is. Just... call me."
Daniel hung up with another sigh. He was legitimately starting to worry, and not just because the Chief would have his head (probably literally) if something happened to Michael.
He tried to put it out of his mind as he made his way home in the ridiculous LA traffic.
He considered going to Sarge and asking for his help in tracking Michael down. It was certainly not his first choice, but he considered how he could word such a request that would be least likely to get him punched.
He let himself into his apartment, and immediately jumped in fright at the unexpected sight of Michael curled up on his couch.
"Michael!" he gasped, rushing forward and shaking his shoulder, "Michael!"
Slowly Michael opened his eyes, and it became blatantly apparent that something was really wrong. Michael's complexion was ghostly pale and vaguely green, and Dan could see sweat beaded across his face.
"Michael, can you hear me?" Daniel asked, emotions quickly moving toward alarmed, and Michael squinted at him blearily.
"T-Bone?" Michael asked weakly, and Daniel sighed in frustration.
"No, Michael," he replied, "It's Daniel. Your partner, remember?"
"Horses?" Michael said deliriously, and Dan just gave up.
"Nevermind. Michael, what's happened to you?"
"I just wanted to be fast," Michael said slowly, "Like a dolphin, you know? Fwoosh!"
Michael waved his hand weakly, and Daniel was completely lost. He knelt beside the couch and placed a hand on Michael's forehead, thinking rapidly of what he should do. Michael was burning hot and sweaty, and his eyes were unfocused with pinprick pupils.
"Jesus, Michael," Dan said quietly, "What did you take?"
Michael just sighed and closed his eyes, and Daniel felt his heart rate shoot up as panic started to set in. He grabbed Michael's shoulder and shook it rigorously, rousing Michael back to wakefulness.
"Michael!" he said loudly, and Michael frowned at him, "Michael, what did you take?"
"Told you," Michael said, "I wanted to be fast like a dolphin."
"That doesn't make any sense, Michael. What did you do to try to be fast like a dolphin?"
Clumsily Michael reached for his pocket, fumbling to get his hand in, and Daniel moved his hand out of the way to do it instead. He pulled out a little container and frowned at the label.
"Jet ski polish? Mike, what the hell?"
"I couldn't get a dolphin heart, so it was the next best thing," Michael justified quietly, frowning.
"What-! No, nevermind," Daniel said exasperatedly, "I don't even want to know."
Daniel's eyes widened as Michael's face suddenly seemed to grow greener in front of his very eyes.
"Dan," Michael wheezed, "I think I'm gonna throw up."
Daniel sprang up and raced for the trashcan under his desk, bringing it back to Michael and getting it under his head just in time for Michael to vomit loudly and forcefully.
Daniel's own stomach churned nauseatingly at the sound, and he concentrated on breathing slowly and calmingly and staring very hard at a spot of wall across the room to keep from being sick himself.
Michael collapsed limply after the last, hard dry heave, shaking like a leaf and groaning. Daniel put the trashcan aside, his alarm skyrocketing at the bloody steak smeared messily across Michael's lower lip and chin.
"Hospital," he said firmly, and Michael clumsily wiped his mouth on his sleeve with a hoarse protest.
"Hospital," Daniel insisted again, impervious to the pathetic whine Michael aimed at him, "Come on."
Gritting his teeth and steeling himself, he pulled Michael's legs off the side of the sofa and crouched to pull Michael's arm around his shoulders.
"Help me out, here, Michael," he said sternly, pulling, and Michael begrudgingly allowed Daniel to pull him to his feet.
"I don't like doctors," Michael whined, "It's never like it is in porn."
"Too bad," Daniel grunted, "You're not allowed to die in my apartment."
"Pfft," Michael sputtered, but still allowed Dan to guide him toward the door, albeit unsteadily, "Not gonna die. You'll see."
"That's right, because we're taking you to the hospital and you're going to let them help you."
"Cold, black heart," Michael grumbled, leaning heavily on Dan and shaking, and Daniel ignored him in favor of getting the door open.
It took way longer than Daniel would have liked to get to the car, and he was panting and sweating with the effort of holding up most of Michael's weight by the time they did.
He decided to put his partner in the back seat so he could lay down, and the whole, agonizingly slow drive to the hospital made Daniel feel like he was sitting on the edge of a razor.
Of course, because this was his life, Michael threw up again about halfway there. Daniel cringed at the horrible, painful sound of his empty stomach heaving uselessly; bringing up only bile and blood that would absolutely be a nightmare to clean up later.
He angled his rearview mirror to look into the backseat, checking on Michael as best he could while still keeping them safely on the road.
It was shocking how small and pathetic he looked; curled up on himself, shaking and whimpering. Dan tried not to think too hard about the pang of affection and worry in his chest that had nothing to do with his obligations as Michael's Cracked partner, and everything to do with the feelings for Michael he had been staunchly refusing to analyze.
Finally, finally, finally they made it to the emergency room, and Daniel had only to hand over the empty container of jet ski polish and point out the blood clinging to Michael's sleeve for him to be admitted.
Then all there was to do was wait, during which time Daniel tried to calm the ball of anxiety and worry that was sitting like a lead weight in his stomach. He failed miserably, and by the time a doctor came to talk to him a couple of hours later, he felt like he was about to crawl out of his skin.
"You're Michael Swaim's...?"
"Partner," Daniel supplied, not even thinking about what they would assume until the word was out of his mouth. He cringed inside, and hastened to add, "Work partners."
"Right," the doctor said skeptically, and Daniel didn't even bother trying to correct her further. There was no point.
"He's lucky to be alive," the doctor continued, looking serious and unhappy, "I recommended committing him for further observation-" Daniel's heart sank, "-as his reason for ingesting a dangerous chemical seems to suggest mental instability, but there's been word from on high to release him into your care."
Daniel made his expression as blank as possible. That could only mean that the Chief had found out and intervened, and dread sank into his guts at what punishment that could mean for him.
He barely paid attention as the doctor laid out a slew of medical talk about what they had done to help him, and solemnly accepted the print out of what Daniel was to do and look out for once Michael was discharged. Finally he was allowed to see him, and followed the doctor to the bed Michael was in.
He still looked sick and pathetic, lying on his side with his knees curled up toward his chest. The color in his face was better, though, and his skin was no longer shiny with sweat. There was an I.V. taped to the back of Michael's hand, and the doctor informed him that he would be allowed to go once the full bag of clear fluid attached to it was empty.
He nodded and thanked her, then pulled the curtains closed around them and sat down in a chair next to Michael's bed.
Michael opened his eyes blearily, and a dopey smile crossed his face when he saw Daniel.
"Dan," Michael murmured, "You weren't a dream."
"Nope," Daniel said simply, bouncing his knee and pulling at a loose thread in Michael's blanket. Now that he knew Michael was out of danger, anger had started to set in. Babysitting his idiotic partner all weekend because he had poisoned himself was the very last thing he wanted to do, and resentment nudged the worry he had felt up to that point forcefully out of the way.
"What the fuck is wrong with you, Michael?" he found himself saying, and the smile slowly fell off Michael's face, "I mean really, what the fuck were you thinking?"
"I wanted-"
"Fast like a dolphin, I know," Daniel interrupted, "Why the hell that was so important to you, I don't even want to know."
He huffed and folded his arms, leaning back in his chair and glaring at the ceiling.
"Are you mad at me?" Michael asked softly, and Daniel snorted.
"You think?"
Silence. Daniel looked back down at the feel of a hesitant touch on his knee. His anger waned slightly at the anxious, apologetic look on Michael's face, and his eyes flicked to Michael's hand.
"I'm sorry," Michael said quietly, his fingers curling around the bunched fabric on the outseam of Dan's pants, and Michael's palm bled warmth against Daniel's kneecap, "I'm really sorry, Dan."
Daniel looked at Michael's face quietly, flabbergasted. Michael never apologized for anything.
He almost looked like a little kid, brows furrowed worriedly and the corner of his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Despite himself, Daniel felt his heart soften.
"No more eating things because you think they'll magically make you better at something," Daniel said seriously, "I mean it, Michael. Normal food only, understand?"
Michael nodded sheepishly, though Daniel was sure his partner would conveniently "forget" at some point in the future and they'd be right back here again. He just hoped there was a long span of time before then.
"Thank you for taking care of me," Michael added meekly, and Daniel's eyebrows rose in shock. First an apology, and now Michael was thanking him? Daniel just sat there dumbly, staring at his partner's earnest face.
"Did you hear me, Dan?"
"Yeah, buddy," Daniel murmured. It was hard to hold onto his anger when Michael was looking at him like that, and despite himself, Daniel found his instinct to care for his idiot partner overriding his temper.
Michael gave a solemn nod, hand flexing on Daniel's knee briefly before he closed his eyes.
Dan sat quietly, just thinking as the I.V. continued its steady drip and Michael dozed.
Michael was part of his job. Looking after him was a condition of being hired at Cracked, and he had taken it on as his due diligence for the opportunity to get his writing online in such a prominent way. He never imagined he'd actually start to care about the stupid bastard.
Yet here he was, watching him sleep and still recovering from the emotional stress of the last few hours.
I'm so fucked, he thought hopelessly, staring at the hand Michael still had on his knee; he was fighting the temptation to trace the tendons and faint blue veins under his skin, You idiot.
He sighed as he looked back up to Michael's face.
Goddammit.
A/N: I was genuinely afraid to put "what would happen if you ate jet ski polish" into google, so I honestly don't know if any fraction of this is accurate. Writer's privilege?