Just a little something that came to me today while doing laundry. As usual, I don't own any of these characters, just having a little fun with them!

Dirty Laundry

By WritePassion

Michael

When you're a spy, and you find yourself in the field, whether you're in Moscow or the Amazon jungle, there's one thing that is always necessary. In addition to guns, ammunition, listening devices and other tools of the craft, you need clothes. Preferably clean. And if they get dirty, you need a place to wash them. Preferably not on a rock in the Amazon River.

Michael sat in a chair as he slurped his cup of coffee while he held his head up with one hand. It was extremely late, but there was no time to do this during the day, and he was in serious need of clean clothes. He'd just returned from his latest mission, and after the paperwork and debriefing were done, he was still wound up. So instead of going home, he decided to clear up another priority on his list: do laundry. He was trying to keep a low profile, but hanging out in a laundromat would not achieve that goal. He had to be careful. Keeping his eyes open for fear of falling asleep, he glanced around him. No one else was there but him, which was the way he wanted it. He didn't need someone barging in and disturbing the peace, except for the swishing and rumbling of the washer and dryer behind him. Although, it might have been nice to have someone to talk to.

Fiona was at the loft, long gone to sleep, unless she and Sam picked up a job while he was gone and they were out working. He didn't bother calling, and didn't want to wake her if she was asleep. It wasn't necessary. When he got home, he got home, and she would be happy to see him. It suddenly occurred to him that he and Fi had been living together for awhile now, but they never co-mingled their wash. She took hers away, but she never told him where. Sometimes he caught her as she arrived home with a couple of baskets full of nicely folded clothes and a large jug of laundry detergent. Did she use dryer sheets? He had no idea. Strange, how you could know someone a long time, experience the highs and lows, good times and bad, and yet not know everything about them. It was trivial, sure, but little things like that could tell him a lot about a person.

When Sam lived with him for a week, he didn't do laundry. Everything wound up in a large sack and when he moved out, it went with him. For awhile Sam lived with his mom, Madeline, and no doubt he did laundry at her house. Or she did it for him. That was the way she was. She offered time and again to do his laundry, but Michael liked to take care of it himself. He was funny about that, because he followed the label instructions to the letter, only because he knew it would make them last longer. Unless he was pressed for time, or he was in a location where soap and some water were a luxury, and he wasn't in the middle of a crisis.

The dryer buzzed and Michael cringed. It broke him out of his reverie, and cut through the silence like one of Fiona's bombs exploding on a cool, peaceful evening. He set his cup down and hurried to pull the dry clothes out, replace them with the load in the washer, and quickly fold everything. He placed the underwear on one side of the basket, the t-shirts on another. He brought hangers for the shirts and pants. If he did it right, he wouldn't have to iron anything. He hated ironing.

The laundry room light snapped on, and he turned to face the perpetrator. Seeing the bleary eyed look on her face, he grimaced. "Hi, Ma."

"Michael, what are you doing," she mumbled as she slowly looked around. "Laundry? It's three in the morning!"

"Sorry, Ma, I wanted to get it done before I went home."

"You wanted to get it done so I wouldn't do it for you, is that right?" She threw him an accusatory glare that softened as quickly as it came. She approached him, looked up, and gave him a warm smile. "You know I'm more than happy to do your laundry for you."

"I know, Ma. But I have a system, and it works for me." Michael sighed softly. "I know you mean well, but..."

"It's okay," she spoke tenderly and patted his cheek. "You remind me of your father. He was like that, and he always did his own laundry. He didn't trust me to get it right."

Michael rolled his head and looked down at her. "Please, don't start with that."

"What? I'm not starting anything, I'm just saying!" She shook her head. "Fine, you just finish up your laundry." She turned away and headed for her room. At the opening between the kitchen and dining room, she shot back with a growing smile, "You could have brought it along with Fiona. She's coming over tomorrow to do hers while she plays cards with me and the girls."

He smiled. "Maybe next time."

"Yeah. Maybe. Night, honey." Then she was gone.

Now he knew the secret to Fiona's laundry escapades. Since they were doing their laundry at the same place, maybe it was time to co-mingle. No doubt she would be amicable to his rules, because she seemed to be particular about her clothes. Bringing along her own detergent was a good tip off. The laundry sheet issue, that they might have to talk about, though.