Topsy Turvey

"Now I understand if your head's a little topsy-turvy right now, Mikey." Sam said, burly arms raised in the universal gesture of don't-do-anything-rash-like-blow-my-brains-out, but nothing could tone down the floral print shirt he favored, "It's understandable."

"It's understandable." Michael Westen deadpanned, impeccable as always in his crisp, button up shirt and dress pants. He turned to look at his ex-Navy seals buddy, gaze unreadable even if it hadn't been masked with his traditional shades. He repeated with emphasis, "It's *understandable*, Sam?"

"Hey," The older guy had been through many missions, faced countless odds and people you just could NOT take lightly, even if your life hadn't been on the line. But he had yet to face someone as unpredictable, and as damn good at what he did, than the burned spy before him. So to say he was a little bit nervous was a serious understatement. The way you'd compare a BB gun to a five ton nuclear warhead. In fact, Sam Axe would rather face that nuclear warhead than the stone-faced agent before him now. He decided now was a good time to point out, "Hey, I did you a favor, 'member?"

"A favor, Sam? *That* is what you call a FAVOR?" If it was possible, Michael would've beaten a face-off with every stone statue in the world with his own, because they would've crumbled. That was how intense his look was right then. His shoulders squared so rigid it made Sam's hurt.

"What, is there a parrot in the room?" Sam chuckled apprehensively, trying to ease the tangible thickness in the air. Really, it was suffocating. He remembered having an easier time breathing in the swamps in Malaysia. And someone had been trying to drown him at the time, "Yes, a favor. In case you didn't notice, your cover ID was about to be blown to little bitty pieces."

"If that was a favor, remind me to never ask you again, Sam. And I would have appreciated if you had just LET it be blown to smithereens. It would've at least allowed me to sleep at night." Westen grated, finally turning and releasing Sam from the glare of death.

"What? Don't tell me the big bad undercover spy has never been kissed by a man before." Sam gave one of his dazzling smiles. The kind that would leave the women in his wake swooning. It shouldn't have affected anyone, much less a straight arrow burned spy, in any way. Which is why he gave pause when it did dredge up a slight reaction from his angry friend.

Barely noticeable. A slight flush on the cheekbones.

Michael was a stone-cold killer when it called for it, an extraordinary poker player at the very least.

So this small tell was enough.

The fact that Michael wouldn't look him in the eye, much less answer, gave away the rest.

"No... Don't tell me-" Sam chuckled, inquisitive. He looked more sharply, his eye trained. Michael shot another glare his way, but it was too late, "Nooooo, heh heh, it's true, isn't it?"

Sam didn't know what surprised him more, the side of his closest friend that he never knew, or the warm thrill that rushed through him at the prospect of it. Sam had popped Michael's man-kiss cherry. And -could he dare hope- the burned spy might actually have liked it. Perhaps even more than he would ever let on.

Westen gave him the finger. The dreaded, serious pointer finger that meant business, "Not another word Sam."

"Aw, c'mon now Mikey, you can't expect me to just drop-" Sam started to dispute, grin growing on his face. How could he not have known? Playin' mercenary with the man and undercover spy, sleepin' around with all the lady friends, arguin' with Fi. All time wasted that coulda' been spent screwin' the brains out of one highly available, extremely handsome, untapped bisexual. If he had only known Michael was pitching for both teams... well, let's just say more than his pride would be sore and compromised right about now.