It’s mid-game, the trinity are still working under Dave, Steve, and Devin’s orders. Maybe right before Bury The Hatchet so M and T are completely feral with one another.
They’re supposed to meet up with Steve and Dave later, but Michael gets a text from Franklin early that morning, around 7AM.
Dog I ain’t feeling great. Do you think your FIB friends would be okay delaying this shit for a few days?
Michael frowns. First off, they’re not my friends. Second, what’s wrong, kid?
Just feel like shit, man. I think I may have caught something.
Well shit. They couldn’t go through with a score without everyone being alert and prepared. Michael certainly wouldn’t be heartbroken over not shooting some random people because a douche in a shit said so. He texts Dave, explains what’s going on, and waits for a response.
Of course, it doesn’t go in their favor. Nothing ever does. Steve is anything but sympathetic and says to tell Clinton to take some medicine and be a man, or some shit like that. Dave is useless in the conversation, leaving Michael no other choice but to tell Franklin it’s not good news.
They meet up a few hours later. Trevor is Trevor, Michael looks unamused, then Franklin shows up last, looking like death. His skin is pale, his eyes are glassy and tired, there’s sweat gleaming across his face. It pulls on Michael’s heart strings, and he immediately turns to Steve with a angry glare.
“Absolutely not. We’re not doing shit with him looking like that. He could get hurt.”
“That’s not my problem, Slick.”
“Actually it is your fucking problem, agent dickwad. He gets hurt, we’re down a guy, and you don’t have your little team of puppets anymore.” Michael challenges, “So how about you send us home, and we’ll try again when he’s better?”
Steve, of course, isn’t about to let Michael Townley tell him what to do. He squares his shoulders and gets in Michael’s face, shoving him hard in the chest.
“How about you shut your fucking yap and listen to what I say like how you’re supposed to, puppet?”
Dave gets in between the two then, and that’s sadly the end of that. Steve leaves them no choice, and before they know it they’re leaving the lot in a car together, on their way to their next job.
“S’okay, Mike.” Franklin sniffs from the backseat. He sounds terribly congested “I’ll be okay.”
And he is, for the most part.
Franklin’s a bit more slower than usual, his aim is a bit off, but he still manages to get the job done. For the most part. It’s not until halfway through their mission that it starts to go sour.
Franklin’s leaning against a wall, his gun gripped tight in his sweaty hands. It’s so hot, he feels like he can’t breathe. He’s sweating bullets, he can barely keep his grip on his weapon, he’s growing dizzy as hell and holy shit does he feel nauseous.
“Kid,” Michael calls on the ear piece, “Hey, F, you okay? Where are you?”
Franklin’s voice is weak and breathless, “Yeah I’m… I’m fine, just uh… needed a- a second…”
“Where are you Frank?” Trevor parrots Michael, “I’ll come help.”
Franklin blinks hard when he notices his vision go blurry. It fixes it for a moment, but it goes right back to a jumble of blurred colors, darkening around the edges. His head is floating and he suddenly can’t feel his feet on the floor anymore.
“I… I’m… eh…” Franklin tries to spit words out but it’s no use. Overheated, his brain had gone offline. His eyes start to cross and roll back and before he knows it, he’s falling.
Michael and Trevor both freeze at the clattering in their ears. The sound of something solid hitting the ground, and a gun being thrown across concrete.
“Frank?” Michael calls, heart in his throat. “Franklin!”
The score quickly becomes the last thing on their minds, and both set out to find their fallen friend, money abandoned.
The next time Franklin opens his eyes, he’s in a familiar high class looking living room. The white couch he’s lying on is too bright for his eyes and there’s way too many fucking blankets, christ, he’s melting. He starts to kick them off when a hand lands on his shoulder.
“Leave them,” Michael says softly, “You have a nasty fever. Gotta sweat that shit out.”
“It’s fucking hot.” Franklin whines with a cracking voice.
“I know kid, but it’ll be better for you in the end.” Michael insists. He takes a seat in the chair beside the couch, slowly, grunting a bit from joint pain. His vision is still a bit off, but Franklin could see again, and looks towards his older mentor.
“You passed out,” Michael explains, “Scared the shit out of me and Trevor. We didn’t know where you were, didn’t want the bad guys to find you first.”
Franklin would smile if he had the energy. How cute that they were worried. “Sorry, man.” he whispers, then “How’d the score go?”
Franklin blinks his eyes open again, looking towards Michael. “Hm?”
“You went down, kid. You’re part of our team. Fuck the score. We found you and got the fuck outta there. Steve can bite me.” Michael explains, “But enough of that. You still gotta rest. Go back to sleep.”
Franklin’s stable enough to know it’s no use fighting with Michael, so he just sighs a tad heavy and closes his eyes again. “Can I have water first?”
He hears Michael stand and leave the living room, then the clanking of glasses and the fridge door pouring water. Franklin takes the time to take a deep breath and relax his body, melting into the expensive couch, feeling looked after for once.
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