"Is the brat in his room for the night?"

Sully took his cigar out of his mouth and waved it towards the kitchen entrance, where Sam was standing. "If he wasn't, I wouldn't be doing this, would I?"

He was hunched over the coffee table with a newspaper spread out and a model Spanish galleon slowly coming together in front of him. Nate was always saying that he needed some healthier hobbies, and here on the island there wasn't a whole lot of schmoozing and intermingling he could do, so he thought he'd try his hand at this instead. It wasn't going too badly so far, if he did say so himself, but it was a hobby that, for now, had to wait for the times when Rafe was locked in his room, so he hadn't had a lot of practice yet.

"You might." Sam strode into the living room. "If I remember right, my little brother always protested the cigars, but it never stopped you. This isn't that different." He stood in front of Sully's chair and held up Rafe's bottle of soap. "Open your mouth for a minute."

"Nate always had the option to leave, that's the difference." When Sully saw the bottle, he dipped his head back instinctively and pushed Sam's hand away. "If this is Nate's new scheme to get me to quit, both of you boys are going to end up very sorry," he warned him, clearly unamused.

Sam rolled his eyes. "First off, I'm not that kind of hypocrite. Second, Nate would be the sorry one, not me. I'm too old for that crap." He grabbed Sully's finger to pump a little bit of soap on the tip. "Give it a taste. Just trust me on this one."

"Sam, what's gotten into you?" Sully eyed him.

In response, Sam held the bottle closer for Sully to focus on it. "I know I've been locked away for a bit, but I'm fairly certain that soap isn't supposed to do this."

"Huh." Sully raised a brow. There were small crystals forming around the spout and down the sides of the bottle. Sam was right, that wasn't soap residue. He gave Sam a look to make sure he knew that if this was a prank, he was going to regret it, then he braced himself and brought the orange-red liquid to his tongue.

He was prepared for bitter, not sickly sweet. "Honey?" he scrunched his nose.

"Yes, dear?" Sam responded facetiously, then grew serious again when Sully shot him another look. "I'm guessing that incident last week was more than just him acting out. I noticed a bottle of food coloring missing from the pantry, and that's the only time he's been in there unsupervised."

"Sonuva… I'll be go to hell." Suddenly, things were beginning to make a lot of sense. He'd kept it to himself, but he had begun to second-guess mouth-washing as a working form of punishment for Rafe. He knew the kid's first reaction was real, but he'd had a nagging feeling about the following ones- even when he'd tried to quell Sam's doubts, that feeling didn't go away. Now he knew why. "He really is clever, ain't he?"

"Not as clever as I am," Sam set the bottle down on the coffee table. "The question is, what do you want to do about it?"

Sully mulled it over in his mind, then took a drag of his cigar when he came to a conclusion. "Nothing," he answered, "For now, anyway. I'll need some time to prepare. I'll have to arrange a meeting with Shoreline tomorrow, which means I'll be gone for the day. If he gives you any trouble just act like everything's normal. Think you can handle that?"

"So, if he lies, you want me to keep washing his mouth out with honey?" Sam asked incredulously. "You don't even want me to replace the bottle?"

"Just for tomorrow," Sully answered. "Don't do anything that's going to put his guard up. Let him think he's still got the drop on us or he might start scheming again. He lies after I get back, you let me handle it." He saw the look on Sam's face, then added, "Don't worry, he's going to regret this."

Sam crossed his arms. "He better."

Sully frowned a little. "Why the hell did we have food coloring, anyway?"

"I didn't want it, I thought you asked for it," Sam shrugged and reached in his pocket for a cigarette. "Maybe someone in Shoreline thought we'd be icing cakes and dying Easter eggs or some shit like that. I heard there were some pretty unflattering rumors going around."

"Huh. Damn Shoreline." Sully shook his head. "Anyway, I was gonna ask you; you've done some freelance construction before, right? You think you know enough to patch that hole in the bathroom?"

"Easily," Sam answered, flicking his lighter on. "Might not be pretty, but I can do it."

"Good to know, but you'll just be giving instructions this time around. Get me a list of what you'll need, I'll get it while I'm out tomorrow."

Sam deeply inhaled the smoke and let it out in a slow breath. "Sounds like you're setting me up for a headache for the rest of the week."

"Don't worry, I'll make it up to you with your brand of beer," Sully smirked.

"My favorite beer, and one of your cigars," Sam amended.

Sully considered that for a moment. "Fine," he reluctantly agreed, "But don't get used to it. This is a once-in-a-lifetime type deal."

"I'll be sure to savor it, then."

Sam sat comfortably in the living room with a book on Grace O'Malley open in his lap, trying to drown out the incessant pounding noise in the background.

It wasn't a headache, although it was certainly causing one to form. That morning, the minute Rafe had found out about Sully leaving for the day, the brat had squirreled away to his room in hiding. Apparently, he had remembered the tennis ball that Sully had given him a week ago and suddenly found an interest in it.

Since then, Sam was treated to an irritating exposition of the tennis ball hitting the walls of Rafe's room at different tempos, rhythm, and intensities. The only way Rafe could be that inconsistent was if he was doing it on purpose, to try and get a reaction out of the older Drake.

Sam wasn't stupid. Rafe had already tried to get him in trouble once when Sully was out; he wasn't going to overreact to something now and give him any leverage.

He was going to have a beer to cope, though. He was already halfway through a bottle, so he might even have two. At this point, he didn't care if Rafe saw it or not.

The drumming stopped suddenly. After three and a half hours, it seemed like Rafe was finally giving up. Sam took a long, celebratory sip and tried to refocus on the paragraph he had been reading.

"What is that?"

Sam looked over at the kitchen entrance way where Rafe had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. Damn it, the kid knew how to sneak around when he really wanted to. Looks like he was graduating from 'annoying background presence' to 'upfront nuisance that wouldn't be ignored'. Great.

He was eying him suspiciously, tennis ball in hand, and when he saw he had Sam's attention his gaze shifted to the bottle.

"I thought you were supposed to be the smart one. What does it look like?" Sam asked, holding it up for him to see. "It's beer."

"We have beer?" Rafe asked, his voice heavy with accusation. His mind immediately started going over the potential hiding places that Sully hadn't shown him when they went over the inventory. Really, he should have expected that these two were withholding alcohol, especially the old man. "What else do we have?"

"I have beer," Sam corrected matter-of-factly, "And you don't need to know what else, because it's not for you. The last thing we need is for you to get shit-faced and throw a tantrum."

He lifted the bottle again to take another swig, but before he could swallow anything the tennis ball bounced off of his head, making him spill the drink down his shirt and get a little on his book. It didn't hurt, but it was a hard throw.

Sam took a moment to compose himself and brush the droplets away. "Alright." He stood up and retrieved the ball from where it had rolled on the floor, then looked over at Rafe. The brat was looking at him defiantly, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, mouth a thin line.

"Sorry," Rafe commented, raising a brow. "I had a tantrum. Clearly, I have no control over my actions. Looks like drinking isn't a factor at all." The idea that he was the one with the drinking problem, who didn't know his own limits, was laughable. It was just another way they could separate their status from him to let him know he was the prisoner here. Well, Sam could try to play that game all he wanted to, Rafe was strong enough to keep it from bothering him.

Sam's hand itched, but the last thing he needed was for Rafe to go to Sully at the end of the day complaining that he had the audacity to talk tohim over nothing. He had to keep a cool head and remind himself that he'd been through worse, although he wasn't sure whether his teenage brother or Rafe was the cockier shit. Instead of using his hand, he just rolled his eyes and walked past Rafe into the kitchen. There were other ways to convey a message.

Rafe relaxed once Sam had passed. He hadn't been expecting that to happen, and was almost disappointed. Almost. Sam was proving to be harder to crack than he thought he'd be. That just meant he hadn't found the right buttons to push; eventually he was sure that he could provoke a black eye out of him, or worse. Just as long as he avoided talkable offenses- for now, he was including obvious lying on that list, after the last incident.

Still, the older Drake was carrying his tennis ball. He turned around to follow him. "Samuel, give it back."

"No." Sam set his beer down on the counter and dragged a chair over from the table. He stepped on top of it and set the ball down on top of the cupboards. If he could barely reach it from the chair, there was no way in hell Rafe would be able to get to it.

Rafe glared at him as he climbed back down and replaced the chair at the table. Sam ignored it and picked up his beer, then walked back to the living room. "Behave and maybe you'll get that back when Victor comes home," he called over his shoulder.

Rafe didn't respond. He stayed rooted in his spot, continuing to glower. Well, that was fine with Sam. He could sulk all he wanted, at least he wouldn't make any noise that way.

He hadn't even settled back in his seat when he heard the chair being dragged back across the kitchen floor, a long and deliberate sound. Sam rubbed at the bridge of his nose and stood up again, leaving his beer behind. He walked to the entrance and looked into the kitchen, just in time to see Rafe climb off the chair onto the counter, where he actually was tall enough to reach the cabinet top.

"Yeah, no." Sam walked over and hooked an arm around Rafe's waist, lifting him up and dropping him back on the floor. "Either go to your room, go outside, or come into the living room with me, but stay out of the kitchen. You have no reason to be in here anyway, unless you want me to watch you wash dishes."

Rafe scowled, a vein bulging in his forehead. If he got picked up one more time in this house, he was going to kill something. He was also going to get his property back.

When Sam turned to put the chair back at the table he felt the flat of Rafe's fist hit his shoulder blade, right above his heart, then drag down a few inches before dropping off.

He sighed and put a hand on his hip, turning sideways to look at him. "Did you just pretend to stab me?"

Rafe looked just as defiant as before. He crossed his arms casually. "Everyone's allowed to daydream, right? Gotta work off this temper somehow."

Sam's palm itched. "You know what? You're absolutely right about that." He reached over and grabbed Rafe's arm to pull him over to the table. "I think I need to work mine off, too." Rafe could say what he wanted to Sully later. Victor should know that if he really lost his temper, Rafe would be getting more than just a warming.

"What?" Rafe went rigid, digging his heels against the hardwood floor. This wasn't what he wanted. "You can't do this, Samuel. That wasn't a real hit." He was pretty sure that Sully had said something about them not taking their anger out on him, too. He'd wanted to provoke Sam into breaking that rule, but not like this.

"You've been trying to get me to do this all morning," Sam argued. He didn't feel like dealing with Rafe's struggling, so he used his free hand to grab Rafe's waistband and he lifted him off the floor completely, then hauled him across the table. He kept his left hand on Rafe's arm to pin it behind his back and he brought his right hand down on his bottom hard. "Don't get upset with me for giving you what you wanted."

Rafe grunted when his stomach hit the table, and he tried to push himself off with his free hand. That settled it, he was going to have to murder Sam. "Why the hell would I want this?" he growled. "At least let me go to my room first. We eat on this table, you know."

Sam increased the pressure on Rafe's other arm to force him back down. "Which part are you worried about? The table germs getting on you, or your germs getting on the table? I could easily swing you around to your spot, if you want." He continued to bring his hand down, going straight for his sit spots.

Rafe squirmed. He couldn't push himself up and he couldn't roll on his side. Crawling across the table was only going to make him an easier target, and there wasn't enough traction on the wooden surface to keep Sam from pulling him back to his original position, anyway. There was no escaping it, so he took a deep breath and lay still. "I want you to let me go. Haven't you figured out yet that you don't shit where you eat?"

Sam eased his grip. They were already at the stage where Rafe resorted to just waiting it out, which meant he probably realized this wasn't going to be a very long one. "I stopped caring about that in Panama. Besides, you've still got your pants on, for now."

"That's still unhygienic," Rafe complained through grit teeth.

"Somehow, I think we'll live," Sam responded evenly, hitting the back of his thigh. "Luckily, being a brat isn't contagious."

Rafe stiffened with indignation and he lifted his leg, aiming a kick Sam's way.

Sam sidestepped it, letting it glance off his hip. "You're not really in a good position to be doing that," he said calmly, "And if you succeed, you'll just be laying there while we talk-" he smacked one of his sit-spots extra hard for emphasis, "-for a lot longer than you were going to be."

Rafe tried to kick him one last time, then he went limp over the table again, staying silent. He couldn't wait for Sully to get back. Part of him wasn't convinced that leaving him here with Sam for the day wasn't a punishment for putting a hole in the wall, even if he said it had been the right thing to do at the time. Either way, he had a lot of complaints to file when the old man returned.

Sam finished up with four more hits, then took a step back and let him go. That was probably enough to make Rafe think twice before trying to bait him again, and hopefully he'd stay out of his hair for the rest of the afternoon.

Rafe took a few seconds to regain his composure. When he was ready, he pushed himself to his feet and turned his back away from Sam, giving him a scathing glare. He took a few steps backwards, then, when he was a safe distance away, he turned around and walked back to his room, forcing himself not to rush.

Sam snorted. Heaven forbid he thought for one second that Rafe was actually sorry, or at least felt the repercussions of his actions. Whatever. He knew the brat was probably rubbing his ass the moment he closed the door to his room anyway.

With the confrontation out of the way, Sam went back to the living room to finish off his beer. With Rafe pouting, he might even get the chance to enjoy a cigarette with his book, too.

Sully didn't get back until Sam was preparing dinner. He had decided to just wash the dishes himself, even though Rafe didn't really need the reprieve. His punishment hadn't been that bad, but he didn't think the fight would be worth it. Besides, this way he knew the dishes would be cleaned the right way the first time around.

"Sorry I'm late," the older man said when he walked in. "It took a little longer than I expected to convince Nadine we needed everything I was asking for."

"What else is new?" Sam smirked as he shaved the scales off a fish fillet he planned on throwing in the oven. "I take it you finally compromised on something?"

"What do you take me for, an amateur?" Sully feigned offense. "There's a reason I'm in charge of negotiations." He looked past Sam's shoulder at the hallway. "How's it going, kid? I see one day without me didn't kill you."

Sam turned his head and watched Rafe walk silently from the hallway over to the counter, ignoring Victor. He looked up at the cupboards pointedly, then looked over at Sam. He was still sulking.

"Right." Sam rinsed off his hands and dried them, then pulled a chair over to retrieve the ball. Sully raised a questioning brow, but he'd have to wait to get his answers.

Before giving it back, Sam held the ball up to get Rafe's attention. "You throw this at me again and it goes away for a week. I don't care if it's yours or not." He tossed it over to him without waiting for a response, then went back to the piece of fish.

A few seconds later he heard Rafe's footsteps going down the hallway. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rafe give him one last glare over his shoulder, then without a word enter his room.

Sully chuckled. "I'd love to know what that was about."

"Why are you laughing?" Sam demanded, giving Sully an annoyed look. "He threw that ball at my head, Victor."

"Yeah, and he was about to do it again," Sully grinned and drew a cigar from his pocket. "Had the pitch lined up and everything. Seems he changed his mind last minute. You're going to have to tell me what happened while I was away."

Sam shook his head. "I'll started by saying that you are never allowed to leave me alone with him for the day again."