Steve woke up with a start, soaked in sweat and panting like he'd just ran a marathon.
Grunting at the discomfort, he reached for his sheets and tried to roll onto his back, finding that it wasn't possible. As his sluggish mind fully came to, he realized in horror that he was still on Mike's couch, curled up like a pretzel and sounding like a train making its way uphill.
Swallowing the emotions from his nightmare back down, Steve took several seconds to calm his senses, trying to tell himself that the past was just that, and that no harm could come from it this far into the game.
As his vision adjusted to the darkness of Mike's living room, his eyes fell onto the handmade wooden coaster he'd set his beer bottle on earlier in the night; a present from Jeanie for her dad, dating back to one of her craftier days.
Dreadfully realizing that his idea of working through self-pity had included finishing three beers and rejecting any offers for food to go along with it, Steve ran his tongue over his teeth, hating the sandpaper feel as much as the acidic taste in his mouth, that came from too much alcohol consumption.
Stretching out his cramping legs past the armrest of the comfortable couch, he noticed that Mike had draped the old wool comforter over him at one point. After several years of intense partnership, this had turned into a running joke amongst them. Steve falling asleep practically anywhere, and Mike fussing over him with the old blanket.
Then again, even though they might treat it as a joke to the outside world, he considered it a gesture of genuine and deep caring, something he wasn't accustomed to whatsoever in his adult life.
It was still pitch-black out and a nearby thunderstorm was sending high winds and the occasional rain drops their way.
It was an omen of what was to come in their investigation, he could practically feel it.
Curling up deeper into the couch and pulling the blanket up to his chin, Steve listened for the sprinkles to hit Mike's bay window, incrementally growing stronger, before pounding against the glass in raw fury. It was a bad time to realize that he'd left his Porsche parked back downtown with the windows cracked.
Sighing, as the deluge hit San Francisco with full force, he resigned to the inevitable and decided to sleep off the oncoming headache as best as possible, determined to prove to Mike tomorrow morning that he could handle the new situation and any potential drama that might come with it, just like any good cop would.
Steve was about to close his eyes again, when he heard something throughout the noise of the storm.
It was a faint grunt, then a deep breath.
Glancing around as best as the darkness allowed, he made out the shape of another sleeping form a few feet away from him, shifting slightly, then falling quiet again. Spread eagle on the wooden rocking chair, Mike hadn't gone to bed like he normally did in this situation. Instead, he'd fallen asleep right here in the living room, presumably after a long night of watching his partner go from one alcohol-induced childhood nightmare to another.
Feeling the welcome warmth of amicable companionship return to his heart, he smiled faintly, thankful that the turbulent and winding path of his life miraculously ended up right here at the DeHaro house, with a friend many people could only ever dream of having.