Characters: Sam, Michael (Gen)
Summary: Friends stick by you in the bad times, even if it's just to make fun of it all later.
Author's Notes: For badboy_fangirl, who wanted Michael and Sam doing what they do.
Also for writers_choice, this is "Memories."
"So Michael, what's this piña colada yogurt doing in your fridge?"
Michael's past life as an agent had been even wilder than Sam's, but after getting stuck in Miami, his kitchen now offered little more than cereal, beer and blueberry yogurt. Sam didn't think it was humanly possible for anyone to love blueberry yogurt that much, but he'd seen Michael eat it, and the whole thing looked very sincere.
Maybe Michael was making up for spending too many years overseas in the company of dangerous dairy products and a diet based on chickpeas, garlic, and goats.
"What?" Michael came out of the bathroom, drying off his face. "I was in the shower."
"Piña colada—what's that about?"
"Oh. I thought you might like it—you and Fi are over often enough that I should probably have some variety on hand."
Sam shook his head. "Yogurt." He opened one of the cupboards. "So soup and crackers and bread and meat never occurred to you?"
Michael sat down at the table and opened a folder. "Supermarket's a mile that way," he said. "You want something different, you know where to find it." He picked up a photo, eyeing it warily. "I can't believe Carla wants me to resurrect this identity."
"What, with the porn-stache and that godawful suit?" Sam leaned in for a closer look. He frowned. "Not exactly your best work, Mikey…"
Michael rolled his eyes. "What about your retired bus-driver cover, Stanley-something, who dresses worse than you do? And anyway, the rich loser thing was the whole point of that ID—too much money and too little sense. The guy draws con men like a dictatorship draws death squads."
Sam chuckled suddenly. "You remember last summer, with the thing?"
"Where I was the first-born Nazi son, and you brokered a deal…"
"Oh, yeah. It almost fell through the first time you opened your mouth. Your German was rusty."
Sam shrugged. "It happens." He opened the fridge again and took out a beer. "Though at least I didn't kick off an international incident by insulting the Turkish ambassador—to his face."
"You always have to bring that up. Those Middle-Eastern languages are tough—and that was my third one in two months. You try keeping all those overlapping words straight!"
"No thanks," Sam said. "Got plenty to keep me busy here." He nodded at Michael's file. "New case?"
"Old business. More of a bureaucratic blackmail situation."
"So how long're you going to let Carla keep yanking your leash?"
"Until I find out who or what got me burned. Or she steps in front of a bus."
Sam pointed his beer at Michael thoughtfully. "You know, I'll bet Stanley had some friends in the bus-driving business…"
"Can't do it," Michael said. "Besides, you assassinate inside the agency and it's all over. They'll hunt you down."
"So you're going to break out old—"
"Old Rudy again, and—seriously? King Loser is Rudy? I'm embarrassed already…"
Michael spread out the remainder of the file's contents. "I could really use your help on this, Sam. God knows what Carla's up to. It'd be good to have someone else close to the action, just in case."
Sam thought about all the two of them had been through over the years, everything from shared missions and trading off favors to the way Michael had forgiven him for selling weak intel on him to the FBI awhile back.
What the hell.
"I think Rudy needs an accountant," he finally said.
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