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“You know he ain't gonna quit pestering you, pard.”
Mike flopped face down on the couch in the living room at Sat Base, cringing as it tweaked his injured arm. Michael suppressed a grin. Served him right, the dramatic little shit.
“Leave me alone, I'm old and I'm dying,” Mike groaned into the cushions.
“Buck up there pilgrim, it's just a bit of tendonitis-”
“Really not making me feel any younger here.”
“What'd you say Edgar called it, tennis elb-”
“Michael, that's worse,” Mike groused, feeling around for a pillow and flinging blindly in Michael's direction. It thumped harmlessly to the ground two feet behind the couch. “We've had way worse injuries than this! Why he's decided to stick his heels in about me seeing a doctor now, I just don't get it.”
Michael rounded the couch. Scooting Mike's feet onto the floor, he sat down beside him and put a hand on his back, rubbing in soothing circles. He felt Mike's back tense up, then slowly relax into the touch.
“I think,” Michael said, “maybe that's part of the 'why.' This ain't like trying to explain a bullet wound or consolidation sickness, or something else we gotta deal with in-house.”
At that, Mike sat up, turning to face him. Michael's hand stayed on his back. “No. It's depressingly normal.”
“And it can be fixed normally. I think that appeals to him. It's one less hurt you gotta live with.” He shook his head. “Anyways, it's not so bad. See?”
Michael slid his hand over to Mikes arm, straightening out his elbow. He turned Mike's palm face up and laid his other hand over it, applying gentle pressure to his fingers, stretching out his wrist and forearm. Mike breathed in sharply, then sighed. Though if Michael wasn't mistaken, there was a bit of a blush to his cheeks. His shoulders and head slumped in relaxation. After a minute, he looked up at Michael through his eyelashes.
“Maybe if you helped me instead...?” he said, somehow shy and suggestive all at once. His free hand floated closer to Michael's thigh.
Well, that was new. The fucker usually wasn't so daring. Not yet, though.
Michael barked out a laugh and firmly set both of Mike's hands back on his own thighs, levering himself up from the couch. “Naw, pard, I ain't coming between you and your Edgar when he's already decided on a course of action. I don't think he'd thank either of us for it.”
Mike jerked away as if burned, not quite turning his head fast enough to hide the clear sting of rejection in his eyes. Well, that wouldn't do either.
Michael knelt back down in front of Mike. Slowly, giving Mike plenty of time to protest or pull away, he lifted Mike's hand and pressed his lips gently to each knuckle, savoring the way Mike's breath caught in his chest. Before Mike could say anything, he stood back up and sauntered toward the kitchen.
“Be a good boy, get that arm seen to, and there'll be plenty more where that came from, y'hear?” He turned his head to wink at Mike—still staring at Michael with his mouth open like a fish—before disappearing around the corner.
Not two minutes later he felt his own phone buzz in his pocket. He pulled it out to check—sure enough, a text from Edgar.
Well? Did he listen to you?
Michael chuckled, listening to the sound of a sullen Mike rattling off his name and date of birth in the other room as he typed his reply. Sure did, pard. Had to go a little off-book. Figured you wouldn't mind.
I can imagine. Tell me about it over coffee tomorrow? Usual place, usual time?
You bet.