Cohabitation is not easy for your average run of the mill couple. It's a finely choreographed dance of adaptation, learning and adjusting to having that significant other in your face at times you're used to being alone.

For two ex spies, it also involves a healthy dose of ego adjustment and learning to drop the walls long ago built to shelter your emotions and keep from getting hurt. Spies learn to look at people differently. Some people see each person they meet as a possible friend or lover. Spies see them as a possible target, or worse, a possible assassin.

Domesticity isn't something that you're required to excel in when you do intelligence work. Many spies could build a homemade aircraft out of the contents of someone's garage before they would know how to grocery shop or fix a stopped up toilet, or paint a living room.

When Mercy and Sam told me they were buying the house across the street from my mother's, I thought they were kidding. The thought of the two of them mowing the lawn or throwing a dinner party was too much to comprehend. Yet, there they were, moving into a nice three bedroom "Fixer Upper', in a quiet Palm Beach neighborhood. To the most of that neighborhood, they were the normal, if not slightly "colorful", couple who were friends of Madi's son.

Sam groused at the "fixer upper" part, after all, he was still trying to fix the damage he'd done to my mother's house, but Mercy seemed to embrace it. She spent hours picking out fabrics, and paints, and curtains and seemed determined to do as much of the work as she could on her own, while Sam took care of Mom's place.

About two weeks after they'd moved in, I'd needed Sam's help with a client. It wasn't a complicated job, but it would involve a couple of nights in Sarasota for both of us. Mercy, still enamored with her new home, said goodbye to Sam and returned to her paint chips and fabric swatches.

The job went surprisingly smootly and we returned to Miami four days later. He had tried to call Mercy on the way back to Miami, but got no answer on her cell phone. He tried to act like it didn't bother him, but I could see that it did. Despite the fact that Sam was playing it cool, I drove us straight to Sam and Mercy's house.

When we pulled up to the house to find the front door wide open, we had a suspicion that things were amiss. Loud metal rock music was blaring through Mercy's brand new Blaupunkt speakers. I'd heard that song before. We'd used it to drive an Afghani spy into revealing his mission. As the singer went on about letting the bodies hit the floor, we drew our guns and walked slowly into the house.

We didn't see Mercy, but we did see red liquid all over the plastic tarp that was covering the floor, a deep, crimson red that looked suspiciously like blood. Sam moved to the stereo and hit the power button, throwing the house into silence. Once our ears stopped ringing, we heard Mercy's voice coming from the kitchen, singing along with the now silent music.

"One - Something's got to give, Two - Something's got to give ,Three - Something's got to give. Now. Let the bodies hit the floor. Let the bodies hit the floor…" She must have realized that the music ended, because her singing was replaced with a sharp, "What the hell?"

A moment later, she walked into the room. She was sweating and her white cotton tank top was stained red, blood red. "Sam? Michael? When did you get back?"

"Merce, what happened?" Sam asked, making it to her in three long strides, "Are you okay?"

"Of course I'm okay," she replied, looking at him as if he'd lost his mind.

"If you're okay," he insisted, "whose blood is that all over the floor…and your shirt?"

"Blood?" she laughed, "It's not blood, its wood stain! I'm trying to stain the door frame and spilled the shit all over myself and the floor. Good damn thing I put the plastic down."

I bent down and dipped a finger in the red liquid, bringing it up to my nose; I could tell it was stain and wiped my finger off on the tarp over the dining room table.

"That's so cute," she mused, patting Sam on the cheek. "You were worried about me."

"Put yourself in our place," he said, feathers clearly ruffled. "We come walking into the house to hear Drowning Pool blaring on the stereo and find red stuff all over the floor…" he explained, but she silenced him with a kiss.

"I think it's cute," she smiled, then turned to me. "Besides, I like Drowning Pool."

"Mercy, I think you're the only person who actually learned to like the stuff we used to play for the prisoners," I laughed, being careful not to step in the stain. It would ruin the white interior of the Charger.

"When you spend that much time listening to it, you either start to like it or lose your mind," she returned, "Since most of my mind was gone by then, I decided to like it." She fixed Sam with a look, "So, do you wanna get out of the good clothes and help me with this stain before I create another bloodbath?"

"Yeah, give me a minute," he said with a roll of his eyes. "Mikey, you wanna help out?"

"I think I'll leave the carnage for you two," I said, begging off. Staining just wasn't my scene.

XXXXX

"So," Mercy said, standing in the middle of the dining room and examining her handiwork. "Looks pretty damn good if I say so myself."

Sam stepped up behind her and placed his hands on her waist, "Yeah, you're a regular Martha Stewart."

Mercy knew he was just teasing, if she thought he was even close to being serious, she would have dropped a back kick to his groin. ."I'm not kidding, Sammy. I kinda feel like…I dunno, this is the first thing I've ever really owned." She leaned against his chest and looked up at him. "I'm being a sap, huh?"

He kissed her cheek, "You're not a sap…you're just…different." And once again, Sam said the wrong thing.

"Different?" She turned to face him. "Different from what?"

And now he knew that he said the wrong thing. "Different from the Mercy I used to know," he shrugged. "I guess I never expected you to stain wood."

"You expected me to pay someone to do it, huh?"

He went for honestly and braced for her response, "I guess I didn't expect you to care."

She nodded, digesting his statement. "I guess," She began, something about his statement striking a chord deep within her. "That the person I was five years ago, wouldn't have cared."

He tried to make amends. "I think it's sexy," he said, taking her hand and pulling her close. "Seeing you in those little denim shorts, wielding a paint brush…"

Mercy recognized what he was trying to do and decided to cut him a rare break. She slipped her arms around him and with a smile, she said, "You think it's sexy? Me? All sweaty and covered with red wood stain?"

"Yeah, I do. Know what's even sexier? Me and you in the shower washing off the red wood stain." With a playful leer, he said, "What do you say, Giggles? Wanna go get cleaned up?"

"Yeah," she smiled, "Let's go."

One of the biggest dangers in any relationship is when couples avoid confrontation. Sometimes, it's better to face the issue and deal with it right away, instead of letting it fester beneath the surface and erode the most fragile part of the relationship – trust.

Spies are trained not to trust anyone and anything that erodes what little bit of trust they can actually muster is not a good thing. And on some level, both Sam and Mercy knew that eventually they'd have to deal with it. They just didn't want to deal with it tonight.