"I'm just... worried," Mike said.

It was hard to take Mike seriously at the most of times. It was much harder to take him seriously when he was wearing a plastic floral hair cap like you'd see on a grandma, his bright yellow soap covered gloves matching his bright yellow soap covered sneakers.

If only he didn't sound so dead serious when he said it, grey rings under his eyes and his words squeezed dry of any of the normal Michael Schmidt brand sarcasm. 

Vincent breathed in a swirling breath of new paint, carpet bleach and the stale smell of a forgotten childhood, breathed it out through his nose and concentrated on his heart beating in his chest, "What am I supposed to say to that?" 

"I just..." Mike sighed, stomped a yellow sneaker against the floor and shook his head like a saddled stallion, "I don't know. Are you sure everything's... alright?"

"I'm a more capable partner than you give me credit for," Vincent muttered, but only quietly. Not with the defensive bite his words usually carried. It was a reassurance. And not entirely for Mike alone, "We're doing what we can." 

"But are you doing everything you can?" Mike glanced over towards the closed office door, biting on his lip, "Linda is really worried about him, Vincent. She doesn't think he'll talk to her. They've had six sessions now and apparently all he does is lie back on the couch and stare at the ceiling. She says sometimes he reaches over to itch his fingers, or grab his coffee only to get this... look. Like pain. Like he still feels the pain."

 Vincent flinched slightly. He'd seen it too, when Scott was concentrating hard on talking to somebody and the desk phone rang, he'd reach over absentmindedly to pick up the handset before pausing, a quiet 'oh' escaping him. And for a few moments, he would look in pain. 

"Anyway," Vincent lifted his chin suddenly, breaking his thoughts with noise, "It's not break time yet, and I'm not going through another lecture about loitering and deadlines from my boyfriend. Let's get back to it, Schmidt."

He felt Mike's eyes burning into his back as he leaned down once again to pull the tattered orange rag from the bucket of soapy water. By the time he'd straightened up again he was already prepared for Mike's words.

"Vincent... hey," Mike reluctantly reached out, putting a hand on Vincent's back, apparently unaware of the way Vincent stiffened and clenched his fists, "This isn't... easy. For you, either. You're doing the best you can so... thanks. For looking after him. And just know... if it ever gets too much..."

"Thanks, Mike," Vincent interjected sarcastically, shrugging Mike's hand away, "But I think I'm a little stronger than that. I can look after Scott. For better or for worse." 

He felt the surprise radiate off of Mike rather than saw his surprised expression, knew that the surprise wasn't at the rejection of his help but at his choice of words. 

And despite himself, Vincent smiled.