A/N:

DODGING RAINDROPS

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Chapter Thirty Eight

Four large shots of premium strength Tequila, taken one right after the other, had left Sam feeling hungry. He was on his way inside to pay visit to the kitchen before going to check on Michael, hoping that he was going to find his friend in a better state than when he had left room. Watching as Michael struggled to separate reality from the chaos of his damaged mind had been heartbreaking. It was hard to admit, but he was finding his best friend's mental state far more disturbing than his physical condition.

A few good meals and plenty of rest would see Michael's body returned to health, but the spy's mind was a totally different matter. Weeks of mental torture and experimental drug treatments had left Michael confused and disorientated. There was a small fear building in the back of Sam's mind that the psychological damage done to his friend was going to leave a permanent scar. Each improvement seemed to be followed by a fresh crisis.

"Sam!"

"Billy, what are –? Whose watching Mikey?" Sam scowled as the medic came into the kitchen.

"I came to get him something to eat and, for your information, he needed some alone time," Billy answered, as he pushed by Sam to open the refrigerator door.

"What's up with him now?"

"He had a nightmare, a really bad one. Took me forever to wake him up and, when I did, he threw up everywhere. Whatever it was really shook him up. Listen, I dragged a chair over into the bathroom so he could clean himself up. Like I said, he needed some time alone." The medic removed a plastic container holding the last of the chicken soup Trini had made the day before.

"But, it was just a nightmare, right? Not anything –?" Sam closed his eyes, waiting for the medic's answer. Not another relapse, please, not another one.

"I'm pretty sure." Billy shrugged. "Well, as sure as I can be. When he woke up he was lucid. Shook up, but he knew who I was and he could hold a conversation."

Removing the lid, Clemens placed the container in the microwave and turned to face Sam. "Look, I'm gonna take my time getting him something to eat. Why don't you go in and see how he's doin'... He needs somebody to talk to, but I don't think that somebody is me."

Sam took an apple from the nearby fruit bowl and took a big bite. "Mikey's not a big talker, in case you haven't noticed."

"Maybe, but I'm starting to agree with what you said earlier. He's better off when he has somebody there keeping him in the here and now and with Fiona gone, you're on deck for that task."

He still had work to do making sure the Delaney home was safe and he had to check in with the men he had watching the harbor and the airport. Sam took his time finishing the apple. He wanted to help Michael in any way he could, but he also had defenses he needed to check on if he was to keep them all safe.

Tossing the apple core into the kitchen waste bin, he stood up straight. He would just have to trust Jojo's men knew what they were doing for awhile longer. Right now, Michael needed his help.

"Sam," Billy called him back. "Encourage him to talk about what's going on in his head. If we know what he's going through, maybe we can help him. Oh, and remind him he's getting better. He's gotta believe he's gonna make a full recovery."

"Sure thing." He remembered something he had seen in the refrigerator which might help Mikey feel better. "You know what would cheer him up? There's a coupla blueberry yogurts in there... Can I promise him one?"

"Yogurt?... Sure, yeah... Tomorrow, if he does as he's told... As long as there's no set backs."

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Michael stared at his reflection in the small mirror attached to the wall above the sink and gulped back the wave of depression which threatened to overwhelm him at the sight of his ravaged features. The face staring back at him was thin and deathly pale. His blue eyes were sunken and blood shot, surrounded by dark rings as if the skin was bruised.

Raising a hand which felt like a lead weight, he skimmed his fingers along his sharp cheekbones and then over his smooth cheeks. Blinking slowly, he reminded himself of his recent bath, when Fiona had washed his hair, and then later while he had slept, she had given him a shave.

A tremor ran through his hand as another memory pushed in, reminding him of other times when icy water had been poured over his head and face, getting into his eyes, mouth and nose, choking him until he lost consciousness. Fear, panic, his limbs thrashing, as he desperately tried to break free of the restraints holding him down, and all the while the calm reasonable voice of Viktor Markov, filling his head with lies.

Closing his eyes, he forced the memory back into a little box, shutting it away in the back of his mind; it was the past, it was over and done. He pursed his lips tightly together and breathed deeply through his nose. He had survived the ordeal. It was time to move on.

When he opened his eyes, he let out the breath in a long sigh before reaching for the toothbrush Billy Clemens had left laying beside the sink. His hand landed heavily over the narrow plastic handle and, with a concentrated effort, he managed to get his fingers to curl around and grip the article.

How could he move on, when he couldn't even pick up a damned toothbrush? This was something that he'd normally do without giving it a second thought. Michael scowled angrily as he had to use all his willpower just to complete the simple task of gripping and lifting a toothbrush.

He was on the verge of hurling the toothbrush onto the floor and giving up the fight when a tiny sliver of reason broke through his self pity.

He was sick. They had all told him he had been put through hell by a man named Markov. He could see the evidence before his eyes, even though he had only brief, jumbled memories of the last few months. His friends had also told him he was getting better... He had to trust their judgement.

Trust, he sighed and let the toothbrush fall into the sink. When had he learned to trust? Not at home, certainly not as Frank Westen's second favorite punch bag.

"There's only two people I trust." He remembered saying those words and it was true. Michael blinked and clumsily wiped a hand over his eyes. Fiona had come back to him regardless of how badly he had hurt her and she had stayed by his side, no matter how many times he'd pushed her away. She said she would be back. He had to trust that she would keep her word.

Sam had stuck by him through the years. His best friend had seen him at his very worst, when the last thing he deserved had been help and support. Sam had rescued him and protected him when he'd been unable to stand up on his own before. If the ex-Seal told him he would get through this, that he was getting better, then he was and he would. Michael took another look in the mirror. It was true, he had been worse than this... And he had got better.

Hell, on his last official mission with Larry Sizemore, when everybody thought his old partner had been incinerated in the same explosion which had left him barely alive, he had still survived and eventually been able to return to duty.

He remembered how the staff in the ICU had jokingly refered to him as Frankenstein, saying he'd had more stitches and staples in his head than Boris Karloff had ever imagined. Hearing them calling him "Frankie" while they thought he was unconscious had spurred his efforts to regain his ability to speak just so he could tell them to cut it the hell out.

He had spent months in intensive care, followed by even longer recuperating with long sessions of physiotherapy. Most importantly, he had recovered. It had taken a long time and dedication, but he had done it then and he could do it again.

The incident in St Petersburg hadn't been the only time he had dodged death. He felt his resolve growing stronger, as in a flash other times when he had fought back against the odds came to the fore, reminding him he was stronger than he thought.

He could hear his mother whining to the last family counsellor she had dragged him to see, desperate to manipulate him into opening up about where he had been during his long absence from his family home.

"Michael always called me on my birthday. But about eight years ago, he forgot." She had complained.

"I was injured. I spent six weeks in a field hospital without a phone. So, I could not communicate."

He had been pleased with his answer. Almost as pleased as he had been when the doctors had told him the bullet that had hit him in the back had missed his spine and he would indeed walk again.

"Hey Mikey, how are ya doin', buddy?" At the sound of his friend's voice, Michael turned his head in time to see Sam Axe stroll across the bedroom with a wide welcoming smile on his face. "So, how're ya feelin' after your nap?" The older man stopped long enough to pick up a clean set of pyjamas which had been on the pile of clothes Fiona had bought before she had left for her secret meeting.

"I'm fine, Sam," Michael answered, as he carefully lowered himself back into the chair. "Where's Fi? Is she coming back yet?" He hadn't meant to sound so needy, but he couldn't stop himself asking the question.

"Tomorrow, buddy, she only left a coupla hours ago, remember? C'mon, I saw Billy in the kitchen. He's getting you some more of that chicken soup and a milkshake, a strawberry one, I think."

"Great." Michael tried to show a little enthusiasm, but he could already feel his stomach rebelling at the mere thought of food.

"Hey, don't knock the chicken soup, mister. You tore it up before and I happen to know that there's a blueberry yogurt with your name on it for breakfast if you eat up all your dinner tonight." Sam was in front of him now, holding out a set of light blue cotton pyjamas. "So, you get into these an' I'll get your bed ready."

Michael knew what Sam was doing and he was grateful that his friend was giving him the space he needed to work out how to dress himself. As Michael struggled with the buttons on the top, he could hear Sam making small talk while he pulled back the bed covers and made a big deal of plumping up the pillows.

"C'mon, Mikey, you wanta hold my hand or are you ready to make your own way back to bed?"

Walk on his own...? Michael looked out of the bathroom to where the bed was positioned in the next room. It was maybe six or seven steps. Under normal circumstances, it wouldn't be a problem. Now, it felt like Sam was asking him to climb a mountain. Sucking in a breath, he pulled himself onto his feet. Sam wouldn't have suggested it if the older man didn't think he could do it...

You're getting better, Mikey... You might not feel like it, but you're stronger than you think...

"I don't need you to hold my hand, Sam." Michael offered up a tired smile.

"Good man. Now, move out, soldier. I hear Billy coming down the hall with your chow."

Taking a second to gather up all his strength and concentration, Michael slowly walked out of the bathroom. Each shuffling step caused his heart to beat harder and his chest to ache as his breaths came faster and more forced. But, in no time at all, he found himself standing next to his bed and he gratefully slumped down into it, letting Sam pull the covers over his legs.

"Good work there, fella," Sam beamed enthusiastically. "And here's your dinner."

They watched as Billy came into the room carrying a tray with a bowl of soup and a tall glass filled with a thick pale pink liquid.

"Here you go." Billy placed the tray on Michael's lap. "The soup is a little thicker than what you had yesterday, so take it slow. Your stomach's still getting used to digesting food." The medic glanced over to the bathroom. "I'm gonna be over there, cleaning up the bathroom... Sam, give me a hand with the chair, will ya?"

Left to his own devices, Michael followed Billy's advice and started on the soup. He struggled to grip the spoon, but was grateful that neither man came over to offer to help him. Instead he was left to figure out how to do it himself. It took him a while, but finally he picked it up and managed to sup half the bowl before he dropped the spoon down and sank back into the pillows.

He had no idea how long he lay in an exhausted semi-daze, but he was suddenly aware of somebody lifting his arm and fitting a band around his bicep. Opening his eyes wide, he watched as Billy went through the usual medical checks. Blood pressure, heart rate and then the cold touch of a stethoscope over his heart, then his stomach and finally his back to listen to his lungs.

"Everything is fine," The medic announced as he removed the blood pressure cuff. "Your heart rate is staying within the normal range... And," he looked down at the soup bowl. "You're appetite seems to be improving." He picked up the bowl and turned towards the door, but then turned back and gestured to the untouched drink. "Make sure you have at least some of that milkshake. You still need all the extra vitamins and minerals."

Once they were alone, Michael let out a long sigh and carefully reached out for the milkshake. He smiled and felt a rush of relief when his hand easily closed around the glass, gripping it firmly enough that he managed in one relatively smooth movement raise it up to his mouth. Lost in the joy of being able to do something so simple, he was unaware when his hand began to tremble and it wasn't until Sam gently took the drink away from him that Michael realized he had began to spill the shake.

"I thought -" Michael stopped, deflated by the sight of the small pink pool of liquid on the tray. It was only a small spill, but …...

"Mike, it's an itty bitty bit of milkshake. That's all... You've been through a lot. Don't let it rattle ya," Sam spoke quietly.

Michael could hear the hesitation in his friend's encouragement. He knew he had been through a lot. He knew physically, he had been a lot worse... But this was different, it felt different.

Sam coughed nervously. "Er, so...Billy said you hadda nightmare."

Michael kept his eyes down, staring at the blob of spreading milkshake. He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't have anything to say; however, the compulsion was there to seek some sort of reassurance from one of the only two people he trusted.

"It was a dream, just a bad dream." The words came out as a whisper.

"Uh huh... Yeah, I know what ya mean, brother. I've hadda a few of them in my time," Sam answered.

Another long silence and then... "When I sleep, I think... I think I'm remembering things that happened and -" His words dried up.

"But when you wake up, you know it was a dream, right?"

Michael still couldn't look up, but he nodded. "Yeah, but it -" He pursed his lips and shook his head again unable, or maybe more like unwilling, to explain the nausea inducing confusion.

You never show weakness. You hide your injuries. You deny meaningful relationships that could used against you. He had learnt those lessons early in the Westen household and it had been reinforced during his years in the military and working in Intelligence.

"It's okay ,Mikey, you don't wanna talk about it, it's fine... But, when you're ready, I'm here for you, buddy."

"Thanks, Sam," Michael muttered, wiping a hand over his face, a sudden shudder ran up his spine as the spectre of Frank Westen came to mind.

"C'mere, boy! Show me your face... Whud the hell are ya belly achin' about, boy? Westens don't cry... Ya hear me? Ya wan' me to remind ya agin, ya little shit?" A heavy handed slap rocked his head to the side, bringing more tears to his eyes. "Ya need me to give ya sommit to cry about? Ya think I'm made a money, dumb ass? Ya think I have the cash to waste on feeding some damn mutt?" Another blow, this one a sharp stinging thwack as his dad had gotten his belt free in an instant. Another hit, followed by more, as he learned the harsh lesson being imparted by his sire: Westens don't feed free loading stray puppies.

"Mike, you know this is all cuz of the drugs Markov put into you?... You're gonna get through this. Me an' Fi have got your back while you fight it."

Michael's head reeled as Sam's voice chased away the memory of the beating he had taken as a seven year old boy after his dear old dad discovered he and Nate had secretly been keeping a stray puppy in the garage. He hadn't thought about that skinny little dog for years. It had been a harsh lesson and one his dad had done his utmost to make sure it stuck: Helping the little guy is for suckers.

"I know you do, Sam," Michael finally found his voice. "It's just -" He came to a stop as he caught sight of a figure in the doorway.

"Sam, I need a word... Now."

Instantly, Michael was high alert, his head snapping from Sam's startled expression to the angry glare of the woman standing in the doorway.

"What –?"

"It's nothing." She obviously meant to sound reassuring, but with his heightened awareness and paranoia, Michael saw straight through her.

"Sam?" Michael reached out for his friend, even as he read the minuscule signs of agitation in the former SEAL's body language.

"It'll be fine, Mikey," Sam smiled. "I'm just going outside with Trini... What is it, just one of the kid's kittens got stuck up a tree, right, Trini?"

"Er, yeah..." She answered her expression stony and her eyes urging him to hurry up. "Stupid cat is stuck... Sam, now."

"Mike, it's nothing..." Then his friend let out a long sigh of relief. "Great, Billy's here to keep you company... Now, off to rescue the kitty..."

Michael bit down on his lip, as without another word, Sam left the room following after the woman. They were lying to him and now Billy Clemens was standing there, looking at him with fear in his eyes.

"It's just a precaution, Mike. It will help you get some rest."

It was only then he realized Billy had injected him and, seconds later, he felt the heavy numbing effects of a sedative coursing through his veins.

"No!" he protested and tried to rise up out of the bed.

But it was too late, he was already slipping back into a dream state.

()()

"Sorry, we didn't want to disturb your friend, but you need hear this..." Trini walked along the hall, leading the way back into the lounge.

"What? What's happened?" Sam followed her and once in the lounge he moved towards the windows, expecting to find an attack under way.

"I hadda call from the girl who looks after our office in Miami... The place has been tossed. She says it looks like vandals. We don't keep any money - or anything of value there." Her voice was cracking as she spoke.

Sam knew exactly what she was saying. Whoever was coming after them had found them.

"Okay, it'll be fine... How far out is Jojo and Fiona?"

Trini gulped. "I know they left Cuba an hour ago. I didn't want to call him, when there's nothing he can do."

"Do you know what intel they could have got from your office... This location? Names and addresses for your crew?"

She shook her head. "The only ones who know about this place are already here... They have a phone number, for emergencies, that's all."

Sam closed his eyes for a second, a phone number was probably all these people needed. It was time to lock everything down. "Is there anywhere you can go with the kids?"

"No, no... After what happened to JJ, we hadda a safe room built here. Come on, I'll show you." She set off for the front door. "It needs a cleaning out and stocking... We only keep a few essentials in there -"

"Hey, hold on." Sam caught hold of her arm bringing her to a stop. "Slow down." He ran his tongue over his lips, all the while his mind was running through everything that needed to be done. "Call Jojo and tell him not to spare the horsepower. Then you call your doctor friend. Let her know she's gonna have visitors pretty soon and, if she can, she should get out of there on the double. I'm gonna make a sweep of the perimeter and then start the lock down."

He patted Trini's arm and gave her his best smile. "It'll be fine. We know somebody is coming. So, we've got the advantage here. Nobody's breaching this compound, not on my watch," he assured her. The ex-SEAL watched as Jojo's wife nodded her assent and hurried away.

Now, he just had to convince himself he was right.