Fandom: Burn Notice
Characters: Sam, Michael (Gen, Humor)
Summary: Sam raises some obvious questions about Michael's living arrangements.
Author's Notes: Mild spoilers through early S4, which reveal nothing important except that the show's creators are ignoring a glaring background issue that desperately begs to be mocked. Written for writers_choice, this is "home".
"So Michael, it's been what, three years?" Sam began.
"Three years. And you're still living in this dump, where every spy or cop or drug lord knows how to find you."
Michael glanced through the folder on his current case. "So?"
"So… don't you think it's time you looked for a new hideout?" Sam asked.
Michael pulled out two of the photographs and laid them side-by-side. "I like it here."
"Here," Sam said. "In this fire trap, with the same crappy furniture you pulled together when you first moved in."
"It's not that bad. And it's got a steel door," Michael pointed out.
"The fridge is rusted, your bed's in the living room, and this chair is what, something from a barbershop?"
"That's your favorite chair," Michael said.
"It's practically the only chair! Though it is pretty comfortable," Sam admitted.
Michael got up and went to the fridge, pulling out a yogurt. "And where have you been living all this time since I got back? Oh, wait, I remember. With your sugar-mamas and my mother." He stopped suddenly. "Tell me you didn't—"
"Of course not. Maddy and I are just friends."
Michael's eyes narrowed. "I'll bet."
"Michael! She's your mother, for crying out loud!"
"She's not pretty enough for you? What's wrong with her?" Michael sounded angry.
Sam sighed. "Your mother is a very attractive woman. But I would never betray our friendship that way."
"Is that all?"
"The smoking drives me nuts—I just can't handle it."
Michael shrugged and nodded. "I hear you…"
"Okay, then." Sam took a long drink of beer and looked around the room. That overhead loft could fall down practically any minute.
"But you're still in no position to get all worked up about my living arrangements," Michael said unexpectedly. "Even Chuck Finley couldn't do much better."
"Hey, I'll have you know, Chuck Finley's a happening guy!" Sam said. "He'd live someplace good."
"Riiiiight," Michael said. "On his social worker's salary, or that other thing—neighborhood yard inspector?"
"Community regulations enforcement, please," Sam said. "And Chuck could have aspirations you don't know about. Chuck could be anything he wanted!" Sam spotted movement outside. "Hang on, someone's coming up the stairs."
Michael glanced out the window. "Avon lady."
"In this neighborhood? She's a spy."
Michael crossed his arms. "I'm not home."
"Your car's home."
"Maybe I went out for a run or something. How would she know?"
There was a loud banging on the door. Michael put his finger to his lips and shook his head.
After a moment, there were the scraping and clicking sounds of someone trying to pick the lock.
Sam scowled and pulled out his gun, throwing the lock and opening the door in one swift movement. He put his gun in the woman's face. "We're busy. Go away."
The woman raised her arms and stepped back, her face the picture of innocence.
"Leave a card," Michael called out from inside the room.
The woman turned and stepped neatly down the stairs, whipping through the outside gate and off around the corner.
Sam shut the door and locked it again. "This is what I'm talking about!"
Michael seemed unperturbed. "Keeps me on my toes." He put his yogurt container in the sink.
Sam shook his head. He'd had conversations with brick walls in the past, mostly as a joke. They usually went better than this. "Fi has a nice place," he commented.
"Fi doesn’t have people looking for her all the time, ready to trash her possessions on sight."
Sam rolled his eyes. "That was kind of my point. Shouldn't you at least be moving around on a regular basis, instead of staying parked in one place like a sitting duck?"
"Maybe. But even if I do put in the effort, somebody'll eventually torch wherever I'm living. Might as well be this place." Michael paused. "What's that look for?"
"Nothing," Sam said.
"Then why are you upset?"
Sam waved his beer vaguely. "Things didn't work out so well with Ms. Reynolds, and I need somewhere to stay for awhile. So until you mentioned the firebombing, I was kind of wondering…"
Michael looked as if he was ready to set Sam on fire.
"You've got to be kidding."
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