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It's not even wrestling.
Mike Walters (prime, before any of that ARG digging) did some in high school, and caught the odd AEW tournament here and there, so, in theory, Michael should be able to tell what wrestling is. And he did, which is why he knew this wasn't even wrestling. He's not gonna say that, mind you, but he does know. He might be a cowboy now but he's still as stubborn about semantics as the day he blew up in Marissa's rigged van.
Moving on.
This here fighting is not wrestling. It's not actual honest to god fighting either, thank heavens, because Michael can't even stomach the idea of having an actual altercation with Sly, physical or otherwise. Sly's the only part of his life with such minimal genuine strife he doesn't know what he'd do if that peace ever changed.
Taking a page from his Mike's book, it started with some drinks. Although in his defense, Sly mans a bar, so it's not an entirely uncommon end of the night for them. And, as further proof, it was Sly who initiated anything. And thank god for that.
It was closing time (also known as whatever time the two of them got tired enough to be unable to keep conversing regardless of the actual hour it was) when Sly popped the question.
I mean, not the question. It's still early days (early days of what, Michael? You can barely call what he's done flirting) and whether he'd... y'know... anyone again after his Edgar... that's quite the contemplative query for later, alone in Latvia with way more drinks and way less company.
"I ever tell you how I've had to kick fellas out of here?"
Michael shook his head no despite a slowly forming headache's mild protest.
"Yeah," Sly continued, putting their glasses away, "sometimes people passing by town don't know 'bout my special closing rules." These days the rules depended on his and Michael's awakeness, but they typically relied on how much Sly could be bothered when it was just him and the guys playing pool for 5 hours straight, and they didn't even get a beer most nights. Sly does have the decency to wait for their game to be over before he does so, and they're nothing but kind to one another. It's a living, as they say.
"And you do what?" Michael asked, "Throw 'em out by force?"
Sly was conspicuously quiet in response.
Michael laughed a genuinely hearty chuckle. It only died down when he noticed the even look Sly was leveling on the other side of the bar, its intensity contrasting his casual lean against the far wall.
"Oh, you were tryin' to be serious there, were you? You expect me to believe your old ass could forcibly throw-"
That was as far as Michael got when Sly launched himself over the bar. Grabbing onto Michael's shoulders, he used the force to get them both on the ground, Michael's back hitting the floor at an alarming speed. The wind was immediately knocked out of him.
Smug as ever (and like he hadn't pulled the craziest tackle of his life), Sly smiled over a heaving Michael. The now-coughing cowboy had taken the brunt of the impact and the only pain Sly felt was on his knees, each on either side of Michael on the hardwood floor.
"You were saying?" He gloated, lower legs killing him.
Michael was now not saying anything and instead in need of a medic. Like, genuinely.
The smile was wiped clean off Sly's face as he realized the consequences of his actions.
"Oh. Oh, no."
He took his hands off Michael's shoulders (was his face always this pale? This looks unnaturally pale. Can he breathe? Is he currently able to breathe?) and tried to get up. His knees immediately complained over the struggle and he fell sideways unto the floor. Ouch.
Michael was still gasping for air to his left, so he tried to get up again. Nope, knees can't. Goddammit.
"Goddammit."
Sighing, he purloined Michael's phone from his pocket.
"Give me a hand here, big guy."
Michael gave him a disbelieving look through his pain and Sly rolled his eyes.
"Literally, I mean. Unlock your phone."
Michael reached a hand up and put his thumb on the home button.
"Thank you kindly."
After the most embarrassing phone call of his life, their savior arrived.
"Ho-ly shit, you guys." Said a lilting voice from somewhere behind them, a startling sound as they were the only two in the bar. Oh, yeah, the time travel included space. Right.
"Hi there, Miss Anne, mighty nice to meet you," Sly said, rolling over to face her. Michael coughed, also in welcome.
One very disorienting time trip later, they were both at Anne's home. She helped Michael onto the pull-out in the basement and pointed Sly in the direction of a very nice chair next to it. She ran back upstairs for some painkillers and ice and muttered something about them being unbelievable, which was completely fair and deserved.
Sly grimaced at the slightly better-looking Michael on the makeshift bed.
"Sorry, Michael," he said genuinely "I let my pride get the better of us both."
"You're..." Came the very small and breathless reply "You're only saying that to stop me from beating your ass next time."
Now it was Sly's turn to laugh. "I'll take you up on that anytime, partner."
'Anytime' came a few days later. Although Michael was alright again the next morning (and Sly became right as rain after a nice tour of Base from their hostess), Sly was hesitant to bring it up again. Maybe he went too far? Not only with the damage but the contact. He didn't really process it at the moment, but he was fully straddling that man. That married man. That married man who was technically almost twice his age but also never had a wooden TV. That impossible man. That impossibly handsome man with eyebrows that-
There he goes again. He sighed into his drink.
"What's the matter, Sly?"
Quick, misdirect!
"Oh, nothing, old timer, just feeling sorry for how you'll look next time I get my hands on you."
Woah. That was. Wow. What? "Get my hands on you?" That was the exact opposite of a misdirect. That's just a direct with a follow-up. Good grief.
Michael laughs good-naturedly "That was no fair and you know it. Put me in a proper ring and we'll see who's crying mercy."
They didn't have a ring (just an empty backroom area) but they made do. After Sly not at all casually declared the bar closed because "it didn't look like they'd have much company that night" (it was 9 PM and no one really got there until 10 PM most nights), they were ready to wrestle.
"Okay, I want a good, clean fight. No hitting below the belt, no headbutts, no-"
That's when Michael charged him with what can only be described as a growl (italics included). Woah, Nelly. Absolutely no comment from Sly on that one.
Though slightly dazed, he ducked out in time to see Michael almost run clean against the wall behind Sly. With Michael being the one off balance now, Sly took the opportunity to grab him by the arm and put him in a hammerlock. Pushing his own body into the twist, Sly put his entire weight unto the captured arm at Michael's back, the motion closing the minute gap between Michael's body and the wall, effectively trapping him against Sly.
"Gonna have to do better than that." Sly gloated.
The growl came again as Michael tried to push himself off the wall, but Sly just pressed tighter into him until his resolve crumbled.
"Three, two, one!" Teased Sly before letting him go. Michael scowled, turning back around and rubbing at his roughed-up shoulder. "That's two-nil for August 'The Badger' Baxter."
That broke Michael out of his sulking. "Badger?"
"That was my wrestler name back in college. Reckon it came from sounding like Baxter, but who's to say? I like it. Makes people underestimate me."
Sly decided to take a shot that worried him far more than warranted for someone who had very recently pressed his entire body into the other's backside.
"Not like Bear. Now that's one mighty name."
Michael grunted. "'S not Bear. That's not my name no more."
Fuck. Sly froze as he thought about how to begin to phrase his apology.
"Also kind of a shit wrestling title. Gotta be something more commanding like... Big Bear. That's strong."
O-okay? Was that a go-ahead? Was it fine now?
"Well, then, Big Bear," Sly said, making sure to put a special sort of inflection on the newly granted epithet, "You ready for round two?"
"You guys cannot keep showing up to Base like this."
They at least had the decency to teleport themselves there this time. Michael wanted to drop in unannounced into the middle of Anne's living room, but Sly was more courteous than that. That's why they were instead knocking unannounced on an almost-empty Base's door to a very tired Anne's chagrin.
"Pardon the intrusion, ma'am, Big Bear and I got a bit carried away," said Sly, sporting a brand new black eye and carrying a Michael in a similar but worse shape on his back.
That gave Anne a pause. The corner of her mouth turned up into a tiny smirk. "Oh, it's Big Bear now, is it?"
Sly flushed in a way he could blame on exhaustion later. Damn it all, Anne was right; they really could not keep showing up to Base like this.
She decided to let it slide. She did like August, after all. She barely knew him but he had been a very nice house guest and did seem to care a lot about Michael. Given the new title, Michael probably cared about him more than she initially caught on to. Not that it wasn't immediately obvious, but the Mike she knew had to be really committed to break out the petnames. Emphasis on "pet" there; she never learned where the Bear/Panther thing came from, but she saw brief glimpses of variations in university. She will never let him live down the Great "Kittycat" incident of '14 and that's a promise.
They didn't really need that much of a patching up, from the looks of it. As far as she could tell, August accidentally drew blood and panicked. She set them up with some icepacks and Advil and went off to bed. As she had decided you never knew how much time you had left in this line of work (and she'd seen what the geriatrics already did given even an ounce of spare time), she decided to kickstart things a bit. There are better ways to bond than getting your shit rocked, Mike. I mean, I know you like that, we talked about a lot of shit in college, but damn - there are better ways around it.
When Sly arrived downstairs (Michael slowly limping down after him), he saw a suspicious lack of chairs and the addition of a second pillow on the already-made pull-out bed.
He stopped at the bottom step, considering. Should he go back up and grab a kitchen stool? Should he use the calculator to go back home? Sleep on the floor? His back really was killing him. He knew that they both knew they might be heading in this direction, but they should really talk about it. I mean, who's to say Michael was even ready for something new? Who's to say he wanted anything new? Or anything at all?
Michael made a questioning sound at Sly's sudden halt. Stopping on the step before him, he put his head on Sly's shoulder. It was only on account of Sly's incredible resolve that he didn't melt on the spot.
"Oh, I see. Damn, she really is the same Anne as always" Michael chuckled to himself. Sly kept his head straight towards the middle distance, trying not to let his face betray his feelings. Smooth, even breaths, buddy.
"Your call on this one," Sly said with the intention of stopping there. He didn't. "Big Bear." There it is.
Michael hummed. "You beat me up quite roughly there, Badger" Sly could tell he was looking directly at him - his peripheral vision was all Michael, and his resolve was no longer all there. Lord help him.
"Yup." Was the incredibly insightful response. His face turned even redder.
As a man pushing 60, it really was incredibly Sly had such amazing eyesight without glasses. He was no longer thankful for this ability when he was able to tell Michael was definitely not only looking at his eyes just now.
"You gonna help me heal up, too?"
"Mhm!" Truly great dialogue from Sly, here. Where was this going? I mean, Sly did have an idea (one he often entertained by his lonesome), but also this was Anne's home and his back was genuinely doing him no favors but he guessed he could push it. It's not like it would be too far a change from that mock wrestling that was going on, which, sidenote, was the worst attempt at wrestling he'd ever seen. Was Michael letting him win? He could not possibly be that bad, right?
"Good." Michael decided, and walked the rest of the way to the bed, before very unceremoniously flopping onto it. "Great match, Badger. C'mere, we're cuddlin' now, if that's good with you."
His shoulders dropped in relief and immense contentment.
"Anytime, Big Bear, anytime."