I'm back bitches! yea, I bet you thought you were rid of me, but too bad fuckers, I gotta finish this off, or else you will always wonder. Wonder what? I don't fucking know, but someone's always wondering something. SO, to recap, Mikkie does, in fact, have black hair, and Austin can be professional every now and then. You up to date? Good.
"Hey Princess, did you miss me?"
I lean back, rest my head in my hands, and groan, "You've got to be fucking kidding me." He smirks.
"I'll take that as a yes." I glare and thump him upside the head.
"This isn't funny Michael Roberts! We're not seventeen anymore, I am top agent for the CIA, and you are in serious trouble," I say through clenched teeth. He just smirks more.
"Ooh, are you gonna spank me?" Michael asks, waggling his eyebrows. I roll my eyes.
"Please tell me you're not Samuel Clements and that I won't get in trouble for tearing your head off," I plead.
"Ease off Princess!" he exclaims. "Of course I'm not Samuel Clemnts, that's Mark Twain. Good thing my buddy Walter didn't know that," he says with a snicker. I groan.
"Good God Michael, what am I gonna do with you?" He smirks again.
"Would you like the PG-13 version?" I slap him, then pull him to his feet. "I suppose I deserved that." I start pushing him forward in the general direction of our rental car. "Where are we going?"
"Michael Roberts, you are under arrest for crimes committed against your country and the Central Intelligence Agency. You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to a speedy trial, you have to right to an attorney. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law," I recite tiredly as we walk. He seems completely unfazed by this.
"You gonna cuff me officer?" he asks suggestively.
"Have you always been this disgusting?" I ask.
"Yup, you just never noticed because you were too distracted by all this," he says, gesturing to his admittedly sexy body. I hate to say it, but boy, the years continue to be kind to him. "Plus, I toned it down because you're hot." I roll my eyes.
"Don't get cocky Roberts, the only distracting thing about you is how desperately you need a shave." I sniff the air and add, "And a shower."
"Hey, it's not my fault no one ever showed me how to shave without cutting myself," he says defensively. I get a sudden image in my head from when he began shaving in eighth grade. He'd showed up at the door to my room with a razor in one hand, a handful of blood tissues in the other, and about twenty cuts on his face. I'd had to call Matt over to show him how to shave the right way. He never nicked himself again after that.
"Mike, you've been shaving just fine since we were fourteen," I say uneasily. He furrows his eyebrows, then looks slightly put out.
"Oh," he says simply. "You wouldn't happen to know where I picked that up would you?"
"Matt taught you, don't you remember?" He ignores my question.
"Thanks Princess."
"Would you stop calling me that?!" I snap. "You haven't called me Princess since we were thirteen." He nods slowly.
"Right, and that was how long ago?" I stop dead in my tracks.
"Twelve years." Suddenly, a horrible realization hits me. "Michael, please tell me you haven't lost your memory."
"Okay, I haven't lost my memory," he says.
"Now say it like you mean it," I say.
"I can't," he replies.
"Why not?"
"Because I'm lying." I groan and run a hand through my long black hair.
"God damn it! DJ and Austin are going to be so pissed!" I grumble. "What are we gonna do?"
"DJ and Austin? My roommates DJ and Austin?" he asks, perking up.
"They haven't been your roommates in more than seven years. They are now Agent Aldrick, husband to Casey and father to be, and Agent Woods, director of the CIA and single man-child," I reply matter-of-factly. Michael starts laughing.
"Austin's the director? Sheesh, things have really gone downhill over there!" I glare. Nobody makes fun of MY man-child but me and my friends. Michael lost that privilege when he skipped out. I advance toward him threateningly, fists clenched.
"Don't you say a damn word against Austin. He is fantastic at what he does, and much more mature than you'll ever be," I nearly growl at him. He raises his hands in surrender.
"All right, all right, easy! Is it me, or do you have a thing for him?" he jokes.
"Well, now that you mention it, that would explain why I've been screwing him for the last six years," I say thoughtfully. Michael stops dead and his eyes widen.
"What?" he exclaims. I smirk and roll my eyes.
"Grow up Michael, we're 26," I say. He looks down and is quiet. "It was a joke Roberts, heard of it?" He reddens and we continue walking.
"So, your parents let you be a spy then?" He asks.
"Don't talk," I say boredly. He listens and shuts up. Soon, we reach the car, where DJ is waiting with his back to us. "DJ!" I call. He turns and grins.
"Thank God, I was worried you-" he takes one look at Michael and stops talking. "Oh shit." Michael waves.
"Hello!"
"Shut up," I hiss.
"Please tell me that's not-" DJ begins.
"It is," I say. He folds his hands on top of his head.
"Oh shit!" he repeats. I laugh humorlessly.
"Oh, it gets better," I say. DJ shuts his eyes.
"Oh no," he groans.
"Oh yes," I reply. "He has memory loss, he can't remember anything that's happened since we were thirteen."
"Oh shit fuck!" DJ curses.
"My thoughts exactly," I agree.
"How do you guys do that?" Michael asks suddenly. We stare blankly at him. "You're practically finishing each other's sentences." DJ rolls his eyes.
"Shut up," he says. Michael throws his hands up.
"Why does everyone keep saying that to me?!" he exclaims in exhasperation.
"Because you need to," I reply.
"What a whole lot of thanks to the guy who saved your life," he says, trying to cross his arms before remembering that he's cuffed.
"Fine," I say. "Thank you very much."
"What, that's all I get?" he whines. "I can get that from my great aunt Lucinda! How about some lip action?" I roll my eyes.
"Lips," I say. I kiss my hand and slap him with it. "And action! How's that for you?" He grins.
"S&M. I could get into that," he says. This time DJ and I both roll our eyes.
"Let's just go," DJ says.
"Shot gun!" Michael yells.
"Just get in the car," DJ says, pushing him into the back seat.
To avoid unwanted attention, we take a back way into the hotel and brave the six flights of stairs to our floor. Then, when we get to our hotel room, DJ and I just stare at each other blankly as Michael begins wandering like a little kid in a museum.
"What do we do with him?" I ask, glancing over at Michael who's tugging unfruitfully at his handcuffs. DJ shrugs.
"We could cuff him to the couch and bring him in tomorrow morning," DJ suggests. Since it's the best- and only- idea we have, we do so.
"If you try to break out," I say threateningly, "you have the five best agents in the CIA to answer to. Got it?" I click his cuffs into the locked position and he nods solemnly.
"Wait, but what if I have to pee?" Michael asks. DJ goes into the bathroom, grabs a roll of Charmin, and then throws it at Michael.
"Go nuts. Just try not to stain the carpet, we want to keep the place clean." With that, DJ and I make our exits, leaving Michael on his own until morning.
The next moring, I roll out of bed, still exhausted after a restless, fitful night of sleep. My head is pounding, and even though I know it won't help, I grab the box of Advil off my bedside table and dry-swallow a pill. Then I shuffle into the main room of the hotel room to get some breakfast.
The first thing I notice is that the bathroom light is on.
The second is that the couch has relocated to the bathroom door.
Confused, I approach the spectacle, and it's when I'm about five feet away that I make my third observation: Michael is lying passed out on the bathrrom floor with his pants around his ankles. Huh. Well that's familiar. All the same, my eyes widen and I look away sharply.
"DJ!" I yell. My partner comes running in.
"What is it? What's the-" he catches sight of Michael and groans. "What the hell?!" He steps over the couch and nudges Michael awake with his foot. Michael looks up groggily.
"What's going on?" he yawns. He sits, looking around for a bit, then his eyes widen. "Oh shit!" He sits up completely and tries to cover himself. DJ rolls his eyes.
"Just pull your pants up dumbass," he says. Michael does so and then sits down on the couch, a bit uncomfortably due to the cuffs attaching his wrist to the leg of it.
"Would you like to explain?" I ask. He shrugs.
"I had to piss." I roll my eyes and DJ facepalms.
I can already tell that this reunion isn't going to be fun.
I must admit, I missed that kid. And I kinda like the Finding Answers version better. I mean, he'd be a pain to put up with, but he's fun to write. So, if you appreciate his reappearance, review. If you don't, review anyway. You know why? Because I want eleven reviews. Not ten. No, I need eleven so it adds up to a nice round number. That little, what is it now, 79? next to this story on my story stats page was bothering me. SO I need eleven so it is nice and even. No loose ends. So yes. Review please? First reviewer gets a day with all our dear Blackthorne buddies (Austin, Matt, Michael, DJ, Marcus, and yes, even Zach) and the rest of you get bubble wrap. C'mon. You know you wanna
