When you're a spy, you've been trained to handle any situation. You're cover being blown in front of ten trigger-happy Afghanis with assault rifles isn't not a problem. Walking in on your mother kissing someone…that's something all of the training in the world couldn't prepare you for.

It had been a good day. For the first time in awhile, there wasn't any shooting or violence of any kind. It was just a nice Miami afternoon and all he needed was one little file he left at his mom's house. That was it. One file.

He walked through the door rather cheerfully. Nothing could mess with his mood. A job—a well paying job—just ended and all that left was lunch out with Fi. Not even the two hours of shopping she dragged him along on ruined his warm and tingly feeling.

And then all of that circled the drain, plummeting to the depths of somewhere that had to be Hell.

His eyes. Oh God, his eyes. Surely he had to have been blinded by the sight. They couldn't take this. Too much information could be a bad thing. This was a bad thing. A bad, bad thing. Why couldn't he maintain what little complacency he had left? He never wanted to see his mother kissing anyone. She was in the kitchen with someone making everything except dinner.

He wanted to say something, but the words couldn't form. Generally, oxygen is required for speaking, and at the moment he had no more oxygen in his lungs than a guppy. He would have settled for a dramatic clearing of the throat or even just a grunt. Something.

Instead, once feeling returned to his limbs, he shut the door to alert her and whoever she was smooching of his presence. She pulled away from her mystery man and looked at him. The look on her face was like a deer caught in the headlights of a semi-truck.

"Michael," she choked nervously.

He swallowed and forced the words out, "Hi Mom."

The mystery man still had his back to him, and his hands on her waist. Somehow, he looked familiar. And then it all made sense.

After everything with Fi and Strickler, he felt that his mom needed some protection. Sean went home and that left the house empty. Mrs. Reynolds was a little ticked about her car, so Sam was out on the street…again. It was the perfect arrangement. Sam could have a place to crash and his mom could have someone there to protect her.

The man that was kissing his mother had on a tacky Hawaiian shirt and his hairstyle looked a lot like Sam's.

This. Was. Too. Much.

"What brings you by?" Madeline asked, trying to sound casual.

His eyes were still glued to the man standing in front of her. "Where's Sam?" he finally asked.

Slowly, the man turned around. Sam looked at him shamefully. "Hey Mike. We uh…weren't expecting you…"

His gaze shifted between them. They had guilt written all over their faces. The kind of guilt a five year old had when his mom caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. And boy did he catch Sam's hand in the cookie jar.

"You…and Sam…?" Michael asked calmly. All of the emotions were brewing under the surface. He wouldn't show them yet. Later, when he beat Sam up, maybe.

"Look, Mikey, I didn't want you to find out this way…" Sam tried.

"We didn't," she agreed.

Find out? How long had this been going on? The thought made him cringe, or it might have been the knife sticking out of his back.

He had nothing more to say. Not with his words anyway. His fists were itching to speak their piece, but since Sam was his friend once upon a time, he'd hold back for a bit. The best move at this juncture was just to get the hell out of there. Maybe he had fallen asleep while Fi shopped for shoes and this was all a bad, very bad, dream.

"Where are you going?" Madeline asked worriedly. "You aren't leaving are you?"

"I have to go," he replied in a rush.

Sam followed him out the door and onto the lawn.

"Mikey! Don't go! I can explain!"

"Stop talking before I run you over," Michael warned once he was half in his car.

"We need to talk about this! You can't run from your problems, Mike! It isn't healthy!"

"I'm not running. I'm driving."

He stepped on the gas. Sam stopped on the sidewalk. "We'll talk later then? No?"

Madeline joined him. "That didn't go well," she grumbled as she lit up a cigarette.

"Oh yes it did. He didn't shoot me or even hit me," he paused and grimly added, "yet."