"You're my friend, Michael, okay?"He closes his eyes again, wearily. His head is buzzing angrily, and his stomach is still churning weakly from when he got sick in the cab earlier. Dwight and Michael--of all people, he thinks; the irony is definitely not lost on him--sit patiently on either side of him. He realizes drearily that he cannot think of anyone else in his life that would have taken him home--did they pay for the cab?--cleaned him up, stayed with him. Thank you, he tries to say. His mouth will not cooperate, so he just thinks it, fiercely as he can. Thank you, Michael. I'm sorry. Tears burn suddenly behind his eyes, and, frustrated, he squeezes them back. A deep sense of injustice washes over him, followed closely by a deeper (and more honest) last thought he has before drifting into uneasy sleep is that he kind of hopes Michael will still be there in the wouldn't mind if Dwight left, though.
end