Finding Sam with the two FBI agents that had been following him was disappointing. Michael had expected it, he knows how the game is played, but there'd been some part of him hoping that Sam and Lucy being willing to talk to him, to help him, hadn't been part of some larger plot to keep him in line and under surveillance.

Sam was mostly silent through his confrontation with them, waiting until they left to defend himself, "Mike, they got me hooked on the line here. They got my pension tied up."

They both knew it wasn't about the pension. That was a threat to show that they could take more from him. Michael had never gotten the full story on what happened in Colombia--whatever had gone down, the brass didn't want it getting out, and even his clearance hadn't been enough to access those files--but he knew it was bad enough that Sam had ended in front of a military tribunal and was nearly court-martialed. For Mers, that was as good as a death sentence, no matter their rank. Whatever deal he had made with the brass, there were even higher-ups who could pull enough strings to make it go away and put Sam right back on the chopping block.

And there were several people who'd be happy to see him back on it. Sam had enlisted back in '76, when Mers were still being placed in the NMMP, and he'd been one of the first to complete training when the laws and regulations changed to allow them into previously human only branches. Had Sam been human, he would have easily worked his way up the ranks probably would have left the Navy SEALs as a commander instead of an ensign.

"Sam." Michael got up and moved to the opposite side of the table, leaning back over to grab his coffee. It hadn't escaped his notice that Sam hadn't touched his drink. The red liquid was guaranteed to be alcohol--it was slightly amazing to him that Sam hadn't yet managed to dehydrate himself with the way he indulged in diuretics--and him not touching was a bigger sign of the guilt he was feeling than anything he could say.

"Look, they said it would be better for you, that you can do anything you want basically, as long as you stay where they can see you, and you don't 'cause any trouble." They both knew asking Michael not to get into trouble was as effective as asking the sun not to shine on Miami.

"Sam, don't sprinkle sugar on this bull and call it candy."

Sam ducked his head, suddenly finding the tabletop very interesting. "I'm sorry, Mike. I don't know what to say."

"If I couldn't handle my friends informing on me, I wouldn't be in the business. The way I see it, better a friend than someone I don't know."

Sam raised his head, and Michael leaned forward before continuing, "The way I see it, a friend would tell them just enough to make them happy, but keep them out of my business."

"Well, hell, yeah, Mike. Absolutely."

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Sam had been acting off ever since he agreed to help Michael track down the conmen who'd scammed his ma's neighbor. Him asking if he could do research on printing shops in the area at Michael's new loft could mean the feds were putting more pressure on him or could be something else.

Currently, Sam was lounging on his bed, laptop open, legs and pants off. The tail of his Hawaiian shirt was thankfully long enough to cover his bottom half. There wasn't much to see there in terms of nudity, but the way his body just ended was unsettling to the eye. He kept alternating between looking at the screen and Michael.

Michael licked the yogurt he was eating off the spoon. "What is it, Sam?"

"I, uh, was wondering if I could crash here a couple days."

Michael slowly removed the spoon from his mouth. "What happened to your Olympic tank?"

"About that, seems the feds were askin' questions about me and the management thinks I'm the one under investigation." He paused. "They kicked me out, Mike."

He closed his eyes. "They kicked you out?" Being involved with a burned spy carried risks, but he hadn't expected it to blow back on Sam like that or that quickly.

"Yeah... Is that a no on the crashing?"

"Three days." That should give him enough time to make some calls and get set up somewhere else. There were other parks and aquariums in the area that would house a Mer, as long as Aquatica hadn't started spreading that rumor. A normal apartment would be trickier, finding one willing to have a Mer living there was hit or miss but Michael was sure there had to be some in Miami.

"I was thinking more like a week?"

Michael looked at him. Sam lowered his eyebrows and widened his eyes, pleadingly, in an unfairly effective puppy dog pout. Personally, Michael put it down to the eyes. That shade of deep brown would not be out of place on a puppy. "Fine." He pointed at him with the spoon. "Five days, and you're out by the weekend?"

"Deal." Sam looked like he wanted to say more, but the door rattled.

Michael got out of his chair, setting the yogurt down, and pulling out his SIG Sauer. A glance over showed that Sam had pulled a Beretta from somewhere. Since he had his left leg pulled closer than it had been a moment ago, it was possible the gun had been concealed on the prosthetic.

He reached the door just as it swung open. The gun was pointed and lowered almost in the same instant. "Fiona."

"I didn't know you were home."

"You could have knocked."

She shrugged, closing the door. "That's not as much--" She stopped, eyes landing on the bed, playful expression turning hard. "You."

"Uh, Fi."

She shoved past Michael. "You cost me a lot of money, you son of a bitch!"

Michael rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. There's a reason spies don't have a lot of parties. Everybody's got a history with everyone else.

Hopefully, he could keep them from shooting each other.

"I got a cover I.D. for you, Mikey. How do you like the name Peter Jordan?"

Michael looked up and immediately wished he hadn't. "Would you put some pants on?"

"What?" Sam looked down at his current attire--a tank top and boxers--and waved the file folder he was holding at his legs. "It's easier to take 'em on and off like this."

Remembering the trouble Sam had had getting his legs and pants back on earlier while Fi was threatening to kill him over some arms deal, Michael couldn't argue with him. He could add keeping the legs on as part of the requirements for staying at the loft, but Sam had told him once, after a mission and a few too many beers, that while the prostheses weren't painful to wear, they weren't comfortable. When a human lost a limb and had it replaced, they viewed it as an extension of their body. It was replacing something that was meant to be there and wasn't. For Mers, legs weren't natural. It was replacing a single part with two, and they could grow used to it, but it could never be accepted as part of them. It caused a constant but generally ignorable sense of wrongness.

But most Mers who could afford or were otherwise allowed prosthetics chose them for the freedom they allowed over other options.

"Do you want to hear about this guy or no?"

Michael blinked. "Yeah, tell me about Peter Jordan."

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If there was any pure positive to letting Sam crash at his place, it was waking up to freshly brewed coffee and breakfast already in process by the time he rolled out of bed. But, while Sam rose with the sun, he'd be back on the couch on the upstairs platform by one to sleep through the hottest part of the day.

The negative was Sam's insistence on having the tank and boxers as his default outfit for hanging around the loft, and the tank top was seemingly optional.

Another positive was that Sam had somehow talked Fi into giving him a ride to the store yesterday, and Michael's fridge and kitchen cabinets were now stocked with more than just the bare necessities.

"It's tuna scrambled eggs," Sam explained, setting the plate in front of Michael on the counter.

Mer digestive systems were close enough to humans that there was little in the way of dietary restrictions for them, though they did retain a leaning towards fish based foods.

Sam had his own plate but appeared more interested in watching Michael's reaction to the dish. He cautiously speared a bit and raised the fork to his lips. It was good, and he made a little sound of appreciation that made Sam beam at him.

After way through the mail, Sam interrupted the silence, "I'm thinking about buying a car."

Michael glanced over at him. "Why?" Cars were a hassle, they required upkeep, a driver's license, insurance... It was easier to steal one. Or ask Fi for a ride, but that came with a side of her wanting to talk about them. What they'd had back in Ireland had been special, he couldn't deny that, but he wasn't interested in trying to pick it up where they left off.

"It'll make it easier to get around now that I'm helping you with jobs." He took a sip of his second beer of the morning. "And I figure if things don't work out with finding a new place, I can sleep in it."

"I'm not letting you sleep in a car, Sam."

"Why not? I've slept in plenty of cars with you."

"On stakeouts." It was never comfortable, but you made do with what you had on missions. He shook his head. "You're not going to live out of a car."

"I never said live..." Sam trailed off when Michael gave him a look. "Okay, yeah, I'd be living out of it."

"Do you know the kidnap rates of homeless Mers?"

"No."

Michael know didn't the numbers either because they didn't exist. What he did know was that outside of ocean caught Mers, homeless land Mers were the second most likely to end up in kidnaped and sold on the black market. Because most Mers who returned home didn't keep in contact with those they'd met on land, those who ended up down on their luck were generally assumed to have returned home if they disappeared without a trace, and such cases were rarely investigated beyond preliminary checks. Since most professional Mer slave traders knew how to stage a kidnapping to look like a voluntary leaving, even when there was reason to expect foul play, it was difficult to progress any case to a missing persons.

"You think I'm gonna get kidnapped if I sleep in a car alone?" Sam looked torn between amused and insulted. "Mikey, I was a Navy SEAL, I can handle myself."

He didn't want to doubt Sam on that, but he'd been out two years and having watched him, Michael was getting the feeling that Sam, even with his freedom to come and go, had spent most of those two years in that tank. It wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Being able to spend continuous weeks, if not months, in water without being forced to get out of it had likely done him good after his time in the service, but it translated into his movements on land--it took him longer to put his prosthetics than Michael remembered, the spilt second hesitation when he stood up, that he always held onto the railing when going up or down stairs, he didn't seem to have any issues walking but Michael had yet to see him move faster than a leisurely pace and he wasn't sure Sam could right now. Everything pointed to him being out of practice with them, it would come back to him soon enough, but until it did, it would be a lie to say Sam was in any sort of shape to defend himself if he ended up outnumbered or outgunned right now.

"That's not it, Sam. We don't know who burned me yet. I don't want someone coming after you and finding you in an insecure position." He had no idea if the people who burned him would go after anyone he knew, but it was valid possibility and better than lying outright. Sam would see right through that.

"What do you want to do then, Mike?"

"We'll figure something out." He'd either let Sam stay longer or find a way to get him back into Aquatica's good graces if he had to, but he wasn't going to allow Sam to put himself in a compromised position.

Sam would not end up in someone's collection if he had anything to say about it.