FIC: Under the Influence
Dec. 2nd, 2009 06:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ficwizeTitle: Under the Influence
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wizefics
Fandom: Burn Notice
Pairing: Sam, Michael
Prompt: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
smallfandomfest prompt: Sam, tequila. Also written for 010. Under at 10_fics.
Rating: Adult
Warnings: Language. Frank discussion of the dangers of military life.
Summary: Sam grieves. And drinks.
Disclaimer: I don't own Burn Notice and don't make money doing this.
A/N: I've often wondered why someone with Sam's past drinks so much when it seems so unhealthy. This is my attempt at explaining why. Many thanks tosecond_batgirl for the beta!
Wearily, Sam pushed open the door to whatever nameless bar he'd managed to find in this particular corner of hell. The only patron beside himself didn't even look up from whatever booze he'd chosen and instead hunched down over the glass in front of him.
That was fine with Sam. He hadn't come here for company.
Debating for a moment, he picked a seat at the bar. It put his back to the door, and for once, Sam didn't care. If a bullet found his back, he would consider it fair turnabout. Sitting down, he ignored the brown stain on the seat and the dirt that marred the countertop. Raising a finger to the barman, Sam muttered, "Tequila, por favor."
The bartender took his sweet time before ambling over with the liquor in hand. He grunted and set down a shot glass in front of Sam. Sam watched him pour the clear liquor into the glass and caught his arm when he started to move back. The bartender raised an eyebrow but agreeably set the bottle down when Sam slapped money on the countertop. Pocketing it quickly, the bartender left him alone and Sam nodded his thanks. "Gracias."
Picking up the drink, he lifted it for a moment, studying it. The liquid sparkled in the dingy light, looking clean and pure and a sharp contrast to its surroundings. Sam breathed out slowly, then downed the shot in two swallows. The alcohol slid smoothly down his throat, leaving a soothing burn in its wake. Pausing a moment, Sam twirled the empty glass in his fingers and glanced through it, curious as to how it distorted the world.
After a moment, he decided alcohol served him better and poured himself a second shot. Then a third. The strength of it hit him slowly and he enjoyed the way it washed over him, robbing his muscles of strength, blurring the sharpness of his mind. Nothing dulled the harshness of reality this way anymore, nothing but the sharp taste of whatever poison he picked to kill the memories.
Behind him, the door opened. Sam didn't even bother to turn around. He knew who it was from the sound of the footsteps. He didn't look up, either, as the man slid into the seat next to him. Instead, he just signaled for the bartender to bring a second shot glass.
"You drink too much."
"No one asked you, Mikey." Sam replied, pleasantly. "And you fuck dangerous women who would just as soon see you dead most of the time. So we all have our vices."
He looked at his friend then and Michael's eyes tightened for a moment before he offered a sheepish grin and accepted the glass Sam shoved at him roughly. "What are we drinking to?"
"To maybe being next." Sam offered and started to throw the drink back, but Michael caught his wrist.
"No. Not to that."
"Then go and drink alone," Sam jerked his hand free, sloshing most of the tequila over his hand. He drank the remainder of the shot quickly, then licked the alcohol from where it ran down his wrist. "Because that's what I'm drinking to."
"Sam."
"Give it a rest, Mikey. When you've been doing this as long as I have – when you've buried as many friends as I have – then maybe you can lecture me on the right way to grieve, you pompous son of a bitch."
Michael tensed for a moment, but he didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he nodded and drank his own shot. He set the empty glass down with a soft clink. "To maybe being next."
"Now," Sam filled both glasses again, his voice slurring. "Now we drink to not being the paper-pushing asshole that has to call those boys' mamas and tell them that they'll get pieces of their sons back in body bags."
"Sam." Michael spoke softly, barely above a whisper. "It wasn't your fault."
"Hell, I know that." Sam snapped. "I didn't pull the goddamn trigger. Just drink your shot or go the fuck away, Mikey. I don't want or need a shrink and if I did, I wouldn't pick someone as fucked up as you are." He hesitated, craning his head around to see Michael and squinting one eye until he came into focus. "No offense, but sane people don't sign up for your job."
"I'm not offended." Michael sighed and drank his second shot with a grimace. "Tequila?"
"When in Rome." Sam shrugged. "Or where-the-hell-ever it is we are."
"We're in…" Michael started, but stopped at Sam's angry glare.
"A bar." Sam retorted. "So drink. You pour this time."
The bartender, off to one corner, pushed a button on an old stereo and overly perky music screeched out from a pair of scratchy speakers. He fiddled with it for a moment longer before settling on some talk radio and turning the volume down. Sam listened long enough to realize that the announcer was chattering about a soccer game and not the news, then he tuned it out.
"What are we drinking to now?" Michael asked, sliding Sam's shot over to him on the table. Sam stared at it for a while, not speaking and not moving. Michael seemed content to wander through his own thoughts for a while and they both listened to the sounds of foot traffic outside and down the street and the rapid chatter of the announcer as one team moved the ball methodically down the field.
Finally, Sam picked up his shot. "To Mercudo."
"To Mercudo." Michael nodded, carefully picking up his own shot and draining it in one swallow, with a hiss. He immediately poured himself a second shot, and then refilled Sam's when Sam set his empty glass on the container. "And to Baker."
"Yeah, to Baker." Sam acknowledged, the burn in his throat having little to do with the alcohol now. "He was just a baby."
"He's a good man."
"Was." Sam retorted, flatly. Michael looked at him and they drank in unison, their movements mirroring each other. Two empty shot glasses hit the bar at the same time.
"Was." Michael repeated.
Sam slumped forward and rested his forearms on the bar. "I'm too old for this shit."
"You're the best at what you do," Michael protested.
"Nah, not anymore." Sam dropped his head forward and let it hit the filthy bar with a thud. "Don't give a damn about the mission anymore. Just about the poor bastards they keep sending to me and hoping I can keep alive."
The announcer on the radio cheered, excitedly proclaiming a goal for one team or the other. Sam listened, waiting while the alcohol soaked into him and blurred away the rest of the pain ripping at his chest.
"You kept a lot of us alive." Michael finally answered.
"What are you even doing here?" Sam twisted so that his cheek lay on his hand and he stared up at Michael. "Thought you were shipping out to Afghanistan or something."
"Am." Michael shrugged. "A day or two won't matter so much."
"What do you want, Mikey?"
Michael shrugged again. "Nothing. Except maybe another shot."
Sam sat up swaying dangerously on his bar seat. "Well. That may be the only thing I've got left to offer. I'm done, Mikey. Time to get out before I quit wishing to be the next one and start planning it."
Carefully, Michael poured them both one more shot, draining the tequila from the bottle. "Then a new toast. To what comes next."
Sam thought about it for a moment before picking up his glass. "May it be scantily clad and soaked in booze." He held Michael's gaze for a moment. "And to friends, Mikey. May they always be there when we need them."
"I'll drink to that." Michael tipped his head back, spilling some of the booze down the front of him and Sam grinned before shooting the last of the tequila.
"So will I."
Author:
wizeficsFandom: Burn Notice
Pairing: Sam, Michael
Prompt: Written for
smallfandomfest prompt: Sam, tequila. Also written for 010. Under at 10_fics.Rating: Adult
Warnings: Language. Frank discussion of the dangers of military life.
Summary: Sam grieves. And drinks.
Disclaimer: I don't own Burn Notice and don't make money doing this.
A/N: I've often wondered why someone with Sam's past drinks so much when it seems so unhealthy. This is my attempt at explaining why. Many thanks to
second_batgirl for the beta!Wearily, Sam pushed open the door to whatever nameless bar he'd managed to find in this particular corner of hell. The only patron beside himself didn't even look up from whatever booze he'd chosen and instead hunched down over the glass in front of him.
That was fine with Sam. He hadn't come here for company.
Debating for a moment, he picked a seat at the bar. It put his back to the door, and for once, Sam didn't care. If a bullet found his back, he would consider it fair turnabout. Sitting down, he ignored the brown stain on the seat and the dirt that marred the countertop. Raising a finger to the barman, Sam muttered, "Tequila, por favor."
The bartender took his sweet time before ambling over with the liquor in hand. He grunted and set down a shot glass in front of Sam. Sam watched him pour the clear liquor into the glass and caught his arm when he started to move back. The bartender raised an eyebrow but agreeably set the bottle down when Sam slapped money on the countertop. Pocketing it quickly, the bartender left him alone and Sam nodded his thanks. "Gracias."
Picking up the drink, he lifted it for a moment, studying it. The liquid sparkled in the dingy light, looking clean and pure and a sharp contrast to its surroundings. Sam breathed out slowly, then downed the shot in two swallows. The alcohol slid smoothly down his throat, leaving a soothing burn in its wake. Pausing a moment, Sam twirled the empty glass in his fingers and glanced through it, curious as to how it distorted the world.
After a moment, he decided alcohol served him better and poured himself a second shot. Then a third. The strength of it hit him slowly and he enjoyed the way it washed over him, robbing his muscles of strength, blurring the sharpness of his mind. Nothing dulled the harshness of reality this way anymore, nothing but the sharp taste of whatever poison he picked to kill the memories.
Behind him, the door opened. Sam didn't even bother to turn around. He knew who it was from the sound of the footsteps. He didn't look up, either, as the man slid into the seat next to him. Instead, he just signaled for the bartender to bring a second shot glass.
"You drink too much."
"No one asked you, Mikey." Sam replied, pleasantly. "And you fuck dangerous women who would just as soon see you dead most of the time. So we all have our vices."
He looked at his friend then and Michael's eyes tightened for a moment before he offered a sheepish grin and accepted the glass Sam shoved at him roughly. "What are we drinking to?"
"To maybe being next." Sam offered and started to throw the drink back, but Michael caught his wrist.
"No. Not to that."
"Then go and drink alone," Sam jerked his hand free, sloshing most of the tequila over his hand. He drank the remainder of the shot quickly, then licked the alcohol from where it ran down his wrist. "Because that's what I'm drinking to."
"Sam."
"Give it a rest, Mikey. When you've been doing this as long as I have – when you've buried as many friends as I have – then maybe you can lecture me on the right way to grieve, you pompous son of a bitch."
Michael tensed for a moment, but he didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he nodded and drank his own shot. He set the empty glass down with a soft clink. "To maybe being next."
"Now," Sam filled both glasses again, his voice slurring. "Now we drink to not being the paper-pushing asshole that has to call those boys' mamas and tell them that they'll get pieces of their sons back in body bags."
"Sam." Michael spoke softly, barely above a whisper. "It wasn't your fault."
"Hell, I know that." Sam snapped. "I didn't pull the goddamn trigger. Just drink your shot or go the fuck away, Mikey. I don't want or need a shrink and if I did, I wouldn't pick someone as fucked up as you are." He hesitated, craning his head around to see Michael and squinting one eye until he came into focus. "No offense, but sane people don't sign up for your job."
"I'm not offended." Michael sighed and drank his second shot with a grimace. "Tequila?"
"When in Rome." Sam shrugged. "Or where-the-hell-ever it is we are."
"We're in…" Michael started, but stopped at Sam's angry glare.
"A bar." Sam retorted. "So drink. You pour this time."
The bartender, off to one corner, pushed a button on an old stereo and overly perky music screeched out from a pair of scratchy speakers. He fiddled with it for a moment longer before settling on some talk radio and turning the volume down. Sam listened long enough to realize that the announcer was chattering about a soccer game and not the news, then he tuned it out.
"What are we drinking to now?" Michael asked, sliding Sam's shot over to him on the table. Sam stared at it for a while, not speaking and not moving. Michael seemed content to wander through his own thoughts for a while and they both listened to the sounds of foot traffic outside and down the street and the rapid chatter of the announcer as one team moved the ball methodically down the field.
Finally, Sam picked up his shot. "To Mercudo."
"To Mercudo." Michael nodded, carefully picking up his own shot and draining it in one swallow, with a hiss. He immediately poured himself a second shot, and then refilled Sam's when Sam set his empty glass on the container. "And to Baker."
"Yeah, to Baker." Sam acknowledged, the burn in his throat having little to do with the alcohol now. "He was just a baby."
"He's a good man."
"Was." Sam retorted, flatly. Michael looked at him and they drank in unison, their movements mirroring each other. Two empty shot glasses hit the bar at the same time.
"Was." Michael repeated.
Sam slumped forward and rested his forearms on the bar. "I'm too old for this shit."
"You're the best at what you do," Michael protested.
"Nah, not anymore." Sam dropped his head forward and let it hit the filthy bar with a thud. "Don't give a damn about the mission anymore. Just about the poor bastards they keep sending to me and hoping I can keep alive."
The announcer on the radio cheered, excitedly proclaiming a goal for one team or the other. Sam listened, waiting while the alcohol soaked into him and blurred away the rest of the pain ripping at his chest.
"You kept a lot of us alive." Michael finally answered.
"What are you even doing here?" Sam twisted so that his cheek lay on his hand and he stared up at Michael. "Thought you were shipping out to Afghanistan or something."
"Am." Michael shrugged. "A day or two won't matter so much."
"What do you want, Mikey?"
Michael shrugged again. "Nothing. Except maybe another shot."
Sam sat up swaying dangerously on his bar seat. "Well. That may be the only thing I've got left to offer. I'm done, Mikey. Time to get out before I quit wishing to be the next one and start planning it."
Carefully, Michael poured them both one more shot, draining the tequila from the bottle. "Then a new toast. To what comes next."
Sam thought about it for a moment before picking up his glass. "May it be scantily clad and soaked in booze." He held Michael's gaze for a moment. "And to friends, Mikey. May they always be there when we need them."
"I'll drink to that." Michael tipped his head back, spilling some of the booze down the front of him and Sam grinned before shooting the last of the tequila.
"So will I."
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-12-03 01:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-03 03:39 am (UTC)I love Sam. I've wanted to write something about him and this was too good to pass up.
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Date: 2009-12-03 03:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-03 06:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-03 03:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-03 09:26 am (UTC)Thanks for a great fic!
Starfire
no subject
Date: 2009-12-03 03:07 pm (UTC)Headed over from Smallfandomfest
Date: 2009-12-03 09:13 pm (UTC)Everything's so beautifully handled - the atmosphere of the bar they're in, the weight of Sam's anger and self-recrimination, and the counterweight of the Sam/Michael friendship. Glorious stuff.
Re: Headed over from Smallfandomfest
Date: 2009-12-04 07:00 pm (UTC)Re: Headed over from Smallfandomfest
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