Archive of Our Own ^beta

Hart's choking on her second Bear Claw by the time McDonald's stopped talking.

“Really, Sir, I don’t think this is going to work.” Sam says and rolls her eyes in Hart’s direction. McDonald should’ve waited until after donut hour because now Sam’s going to have to spend the rest of her day in the pen listening to Hart whine about how much her back hurts after the freaking heimlich it’s going to take to save her life.

The captain looks more frustrated than shamefaced, but Sam holds her ground. The man’s worked with Hart long enough to know better. In the background,she can still hear Hart choking - and in a minute she’s going to turn around and take care of that - but right now, the man has to know he did wrong. She refuses to break eye contact first.

“Help me,” comes the tragic, choked whisper from behind them, and McDonald throws his hands in the air.

“Will someone please help Agent Hart?” he demands, but the bullpen mostly continues to hover, caught between their own glee and confusion. There’s one or two of the junior agents trying to get closer to Hart, but her flailing arms seem to be holding them at bay.

Sam rolls her eyes and hauls Hart upright, then shoves her into position and jerks until Hart spits the damn donut out.

“Sir,” Hart whispers, voice still choked, “I don’t know what gave you the idea but - we’re - that is - Agent Fuller and I -”

Sam takes pity on her. “We’re not dating. Sir.”

McDonald looks exasperated. “No one said you were. It’s an undercover field operation. Much as it pains me to admit this, the two of you are probably the best the bureau has, given the requirements of the situation.”

“Which are?” Hart’s voice still sounds panicky, but she’s regained her parade stance. There’s a bit of a jelly stain situation on her chest, but that can’t be helped.

“We need the two of you to go undercover at The Blackbird.”

“Well, why can’t Menon and Prachett do it?” Hart whines.

“Because they’re not lesbians!”

“And we are?”

“No, but you’re women, and considering that Menon and Pratchett aren’t, I can’t exactly expect them to go undercover in a lesbian club now, can I?”

“Sir, I get that, I do. But it’s a swinger’s club! It’s not like we can go in and just” – Hart chokes and makes a complicated hand gesture – “make idle chit-chat.”

McDonald makes a face that says he’d rather be doing anything other than this. “Yes, well… the hope is that you wouldn’t have to do much. That’s why we’re sending Fuller in with you. You two can pretend to be a couple and that way you’ll have a fall back so you’re not compelled to…”

There’s a long uncomfortable silence at this point where neither Hart nor McDonald can meet each other’s eyes. Sam rolls her own because, honestly, the two of them are making way too much out of what seems like a fairly straightforward plan.

“Sir,” Hart’s tone is placating, “while Agent Fuller and I appreciate the, um, yeah. But nobody’s going to try and rob me. Everyone knows the Bureau doesn’t pay much and everyone knows I’m with the Bureau.” Hart shrugs. “I haven’t got enough money for the con to be worthwhile.”

“You’ve got those proceeds from your book deal.” Sam points out. “And you used to dress all frou-frou.” Hart gives her a betrayed look and Sam has to shrug. “I’m just saying, wear that stuff you used to, stick some crap in your hair, and people will think you’ve got more than you do.”

“Excuse me? There’s a lot more to that stuff than just the hair and clothes. It was a whole regimen. I had to eat right, and have my teeth whitened, and think of colors that went with my complexion. It was a thing, a whole thing.”

“Well, I’m sorry your “whole thing” is such a big problem but in case you haven’t noticed, we’ve got a job to do. So quit your whining and let’s get on with it.” Sam doesn’t understand why Hart’s making such a big deal out of this – it’s a couple of kisses and some ladies. There won’t even be any guns. It’s practically a vacation.

“I’ll just leave you two to iron out the details then,” McDonald says, and makes his escape. Hart sputters a bit before she throws her hands in the air and stalks off towards the gym.

Sam just sighs and follows.

After she’s spent an hour beating some sense into Hart’s thick head, they go get some lunch so they can discuss the case like the civilized adults they are.

“So,” Hart mumbles around her steak sandwich, “we dress nice, go in, and what? Hope this lady thinks we’re a good enough target to try to steal from?” She’s got some ketchup mixing in with the jelly on her shirt now.

Sam shrugs. “Sure. You put on some bling, make some eyes, and she’ll do it.” She puts down her own turkey club, no mayo to flip through the reports they’ve brought with them. “Look at all her targets. They’re all minor celebrities, and all the stuff taken is a bit of cash and a trophy of some sort. Every one of the targets used to frequent this club and that’s about all they’ve really got in common. Other than the lack of physical description, this case is practically wrapped up already.”

Hart nods. “Okay. So I go in, talk a little bit about the pageant, and let it slip that I keep… Wait, what do I keep?”

“How would I know? It’s not like I’m the one keeping track of all your crap.”

Hart waves her hands abstractly. “Fine, I guess I can talk about a tiara or something. I’ve still got that, I don’t know, somewhere, I guess? So I talk about the tiara, we do some stuff together, and you know. I guess, stakeout my place for a while.” Hart looks supremely uncomfortable. Yeah, she should probably get over that. Fast.

Sam goes back to her turkey club and watches Hart play with her steak sandwich. “You okay, partner?”

Hart seems to snap out of it. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s give McDonald the plan after we get back. Then… then we gotta hit the salon.”

“Wait, we?”

“I’m not going to this alone. If I have to get stuff done to my hair and face, you’re doing this with me.”

Sam puts down the rest of her sandwich, suddenly nauseous. “Well. Shit.”

“I don’t know why I had to wear this stupid dress,” Sam bitches. The damn thing is so short and tight that she might be showing some underwear. There’s a whole draft situation and there aren’t even any pockets to stick her hands; it’s giving her hives.

“Because you’ve got great legs. And because if I have to suffer through wearing this stuff again, so do you.” Hart’s got a short pink number on with a little black jacket, somehow walking the line between trashy and debutante, unlike Sam’s shimmery green strip of cloth that’s pretty much pretending to be a dress. Hart doesn’t seem to be concerned by the lack of covering material though, looking around and probably trying to get an idea about the patrons queuing up on the sidewalk outside the place. She’s got her public smile on, the one that looks like she doesn’t have a care in the world while the tic in the corner of her jaw flares up enough to warn Sam that she’s wound tight as a drum.

“How come you get a jacket?” She mutters, trying to tug the stretchy material down so it’s slightly less indecent.

Hart’s got her mouth open to snipe back when Patel grumbles in her ear, “If both you ladies could stop talking about fashion and get on with this bust, that’d be great.” Wouldn’t you know that they’d send a whole van of guys out with them to poke fun? At least they nixed the damn mini-camera, though Sam still can’t figure out where they’d have tried to put it. Hart had whispered “don’t ask” and Sam had taken that to mean she’d have had to break a few fingers if anyone had tried to put one on her. So it’s probably for the best that McDonald had nixed the idea.

Right. Okay, so Sam can suck this up and play nice. It’s her job. She can do this. She’s motherfucking FBI.

“Hey baby, let’s go in there and see if they’ve got a table,” she says, and wraps her arm around Hart’s waist. When Hart immediately freezes up before trying to jerk away and slap at her hand, she whispers through her smiling teeth, “Stop messing around and play the goddamn part, Hart. You and me are a couple. A loving, going-into-this-bar-to-catch-a-damn-thief couple. You’re going to play nice and cuddle me back and then we’re going to kill everyone in that van when this job is done, all right?”

Hart leans into her shoulder and smiles the biggest, fakest smile Sam’s ever seen. “Honey, you say the sweetest things.”

It’s a thirty minute wait before they can get a table. The club’s pretty swank, all blocky mahogany furniture and discreet maroon carpeting, well groomed wait-staff and discreetly embossed glassware. It’s about what she’d been led to expect. Though, to be fair, their intelligence had made note of how the Blackbird was built at the end of World War II and talked about exit options and the fastest way to evacuate in case of an emergency, but it hadn’t really made clear just how busy the place would be. Or how busy its clientele were interested in getting.

“No, thanks,” Hart says for the third time, smiling politely at the woman offering to buy her a drink, “I’m just here to… you know, watch all this stuff that’s happening, with my lady friend here. Fuller. Sam. This is Sam Fuller. Fuller, this is –”

“Misha.” The woman smiles invitingly, revealing white teeth against the deep purple of her lipstick.

“Misha,” Hart dutifully repeats, and Sam puts her hand out to shake Misha’s hand.

“Nice to meet you,” she says, and watches Misha ignore her for Hart. The woman’s brow is furrowed so Sam’s pretty sure she knows what’s coming next.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking,” Misha says, “but you look a lot like that FBI agent who was in the news…”

“Yes. I am.” Hart gives the lady her press smile. “But right now I’m just plain ol’ me. Off duty Grace Hart.”

“Well, isn’t that something!” Misha smiles, and puts her hand on Hart’s. “Are you sure I can’t buy you a drink? Or maybe we could go somewhere more private?”

“Sitting right here,” Sam feels compelled to point out. “You do know she’s with me, right?”

“Oh, I am sorry,” Misha says, and smiles at Sam. “You’re welcome too, of course.”

“Fuller’s a bit possessive,” Hart laughs. “We’ve only been together a short while. And you know how the bureau is with relationships.” She smiles confidingly.

Misha looks confused. “But why come here then?”

Sam can see the exact moment that Hart realizes her misstep, smile going rigid. She jumps in. “Well, we heard this was a good place to make some friends and maybe watch so we could figure some moves out. Hart’s new to this and she likes to know stuff, you know what I’m saying?”

“Of course,” Misha murmurs, but she still looks dubious. Sam tries to make up for how ridiculous that sounded by pulling Hart closer to her on the sofa and staring the other woman down. When in doubt, staring people down has always worked as a tactic for her.

“Well,” Misha says after a couple of minutes have passed, “I guess I’ll just go rejoin my friends then.”

The two of them watch her walk across the room and join a large group of women. From the way she gestures animatedly and determinedly keeps her back to them, it’s pretty easy to figure that she’s passing on everything she’s just learned.

Sam sighs. “That was terrible.”

Hart groans and buries her face in her hands. “This is never going to work. I don’t even know what McDonald was thinking.”

“He was thinking that we’re two agents that are damn good at what we do,” Sam points out. “Play your damn part, Hart.”

She leans back into the sofa and crosses her legs, lets her skirt ride up just a hint, and watches two women across the bar lean into each other for a kiss. A waitress crosses the room and Sam takes the time to notice the way her long legs eat up the room and the things her high heels do for her ass.

“Well, excuse me for not feeling super comfortable having my sex stuff all out in the open like this. And hey! Eyes here, Fuller, I’m not about to be cheated on by my fake girlfriend.”

Sam rolls her eyes. “Hart, we’re supposed to be looking. If we don’t, there isn’t much point in being here.”

“I know,” Hart mumbles, voice low so the microphones don’t pick it up. “I get that. But, like, pay more attention to me. I don’t want it to seem like, you know, I’m not enough here. ‘Cause I’ve had that already and I don’t need to go through that again.”

Hart’s voice might be petulant, but there’s enough hurt there that her shoulders are hunched in. Sam casts about for a solution or a diversion, and awkwardly pats her on the shoulder while fantasizing about punching Special Agent Matthews in the balls for leaving her this mess to deal with.

“Hey,” she starts, but Hart interrupts, “I mean, the relationship was” – she gestures abstractly – “and the sex stuff wasn’t, I guess” – and Hart turns to look at her fully – “but I’d have maybe bought a couple of books or something, you know? I can’t believe he didn’t want to even try.”

Sam fights her instinctive urge to shut the conversation down and tries to be supportive. “The man was a dick.”

Hart smiles sadly, all Don’t-Cry-For-Me-Argentina. “Yeah, I guess.” And Sam finds herself getting sort of angry now, “No, really. Who does that? Who breaks up with someone on the phone, tells someone they’re bad in bed, and then transfers out without saying a word.”

“He didn’t say I was bad –”

“Hart, I didn’t say this before because you were an idiot back then, but we’re partners so I’m telling you now: if the sex is that bad, maybe it’s not something a book can fix. Maybe you’re just not that into each other.”

“I never said the sex –”

“And besides, Agent Matthews isn’t the only fish in the sea. I mean, just look at everything out here.” Sam gestures at the tables surrounding them. “We’ve been here, what? Fifteen minutes? And we’ve already had three women try to pick us up. And Misha seemed really into you. So… you know, there are options out there. Options other than Matthews.”

“Do you think the sex was –”

Sam holds her hand up for silence. “So, you know. Stop moaning about Matthews and get on with your life. Dress nice and go on dates. Put shit in your hair once in a while. Live a little. I don’t know, figure it out.”

There’s a pause where Sam drinks her drink and the two of them resolutely don’t look at each other.

“Gee thanks, Fuller.” Hart’s voice is sarcastic, but Sam’s pretty sure she gets it. She bumps her shoulder into Hart’s and Hart bumps back.

Yeah, they’re good. And now, hopefully, they can stop having feelings all over each other and get back to work.

They’re back again the next night. Sam’s put her foot down on the whole dress issue so she’s in some ridiculously tight black trousers. She’d love to complain about whoever the hell is getting them all this stuff, but there’s actually enough space to stick her hands in her pockets so she’s doing a lot better than Hart who’s stuck in yet another skirt.

They mingle much faster this time. They’re both good with names and faces, and take the time to wander about the bar a little, nodding at the people they’d met the last time and angling for a seat that lets them see as much of the room as possible. They avoid the enclaves with the larger tables since those seem to signal moresomes and stick to the smaller tables on the main floor in front of the bar.

When Misha comes over again and brings some of her friends, Hart actually remembers to introduce Sam as her girlfriend.

“It’s nice to meet you again,” Sam says, and smiles warningly with all her teeth. She figures she might as well play up the whole possessive aspect if she’s going to have to stick with Hart on this one. Some of the ladies shrink back but one of them, Shania, bares her own teeth and tightens her grip on Sam’s hand, and Sam is vaguely intrigued, though not enough to jeopardize the operation they’ve got going.

Story of my life, she think wryly, and settles back into the sofa with Hart, stretches her arm out behind her so Hart has a full range of motion if needed.

It turns out that a few of them are less interested in Hart and more interested in whether Hart’s kept in touch with the Miss New York from her time on the pageant circuit and whether or not Hart knows if she’s on the market again.

“I’m pretty sure Karen lives with Tina now,” Hart laughs, “and I really don’t think you want to take Tina on.”

“Pretty sure? You haven’t really kept in touch?” One of the other girls – Chloe, maybe? – wants to know.

“Well, we do the email thing sometimes. I mean, work was pretty busy and then I was doing the whole talk show and book thing. I was a bit bad about keeping in touch.” Hart shrugs. “I’m trying to be better about it now.”

“Well,” Chloe insists, “if they’re up for it, you should bring her down here with you.”

Hart snort-laughs. “Uh. Yeah. I’ll do that. Invite her here. With me. To do stuff together.”

There’s a silent pause. Sam tenses and mentally curses Hart for not thinking shit through. Hart’s clearly groping for a way to redeem herself but she’s stuck looking panicked, her mouth gaping as if the words just won’t come.

“Uh, yeah?” Chloe says, the sarcasm in her voice obvious.

Sam jumps in to cover the awkwardness. “What she means is that we’re trying to keep this whole thing on the down low for right now. Bringing her in here, it’s sort of a declaration, all meet-the-friends kind of thing and we’re not quite there yet.”

“But didn’t you guys say you were living together?” Misha points out. Sam narrows her eyes. Because Misha’s paying a lot of attention for someone who was given the brush off. “We’re just taking our own time with stuff and doing what feels right.”

“Yeah, Fuller’s good with listening to her feelings,” Hart snarks. There’s a snort of laughter through the microphones in their ears, and the two of them grin wryly at each other.

“Anyway,” Hart says, and squeezes Sam’s hand, “let’s not talk any more about the whole pageant thing. I mean, it’s all in the past and I can’t believe they let me keep the tiara, you know, but that’s not who I am anymore. I’m just… you know, Grace Hart. All regular lesbian person that loves the ladies.”

Sam squeezes her eyes shut in horror.

“All right,” Misha says dubiously. Hart just smiles really wide and downs her vodka tonic.

“Regular lesbian person that loves the ladies,” Sam says sarcastically later that night while the two of them vacuum the floor and make up the spare futon in Hart’s bedroom.

“Well, I could be,” Hart says defensively, pushing her glasses up her nose and shoving her braid off her shoulder. Sam throws her hands up in the air. “Not if that’s the way you describe yourself. Nobody’s into someone who “loves the ladies” out loud.”

“I was playing the part!” Hart tosses Sam’s hypoallergenic pillow onto the pile of sheets, and Sam scowls and snatches it back up so she can put it in one of the small flower-patterned cotton pillowcases she’d brought over.

“Yeah, well, play the part with a little game. Don’t make me look like I’d be dating someone who spent all day ‘loving the ladies.’ I’m in this too.”

“Okay, you can stop with the air quotes now. I get it!” Hart huffs and crawls into her bed.

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

Sam dumps the spare comforter on her futon and looks around at Hart’s small apartment. There’s a couple of pictures on the wall of people who look like Hart’s parents, a framed certificate from the academy, and closets, rumpled clothes overflowing drawers and hangers to fall all over the floor. Sam can all but smell the dust even though they’d spent the better part of an hour cleaning. She’s glad all over again she thought to make that run to the pharmacy to refill her inhaler prescription. “Man, I don’t even know why we’re staying here. Couldn’t we just stay at my place?”

“No,” Hart points out, “because the thief, if there is one, is going to come here to try and rob me. So we have to be here.” She punches her pillow and settles down.

“Well, couldn’t you have cleaned up a little? And maybe have gotten a microwave that doesn’t try to kill me every time I heat up my dinner?” Sam gets under her sheets as well.

“No,” Hart says sweetly, “that’s for when I really date people.”

“Figures,” Sam grumbles, and shuts her eyes. “You’re on first shift.”

Sam can hear the whisper of paper when Hart opens her book. She turns over and focuses on the in and out of her breathing, like the anger management therapist said, and takes the time to run through the likely scenarios in her head. She isn’t sure if any of the ladies they’ve met had the potential to be the thief but the rest of the regulars seemed way more concerned with their own business than with the newcomers that floated in and out. Probability says they’ve met the thief already and Sam wants to see if she can figure out which one it is.

“Fuller?” Hart whispers, and Sam turns back and opens her eyes. “Yeah?”

“Do you think we’re convincing as a couple? I mean, Eric and I, we didn’t really do stuff like that because well, work. And we never went to the Poconos. So I haven’t really had the sort of experience where that’s something I’d know.”

“And you think I have?” Sam feels vaguely incredulous. “Hart, I spend most of my day avoiding things that’ll kill me and the rest of it trying to get the bad guys. I sleep with people, I don’t date much.”

When she sits up to look over, Hart’s staring thoughtfully up at the ceiling. “Maybe we should ask someone?”

“Like who?”

“Well, Cheryl’s with Foreman now and they do couple stuff all the time. We could ask them?”

“Hart, are you thinking straight? We’re not calling up the ex-Miss United States in the middle of the night to ask her how to fake a relationship!” Sam sometimes doesn’t believe the shit she has to explain to Hart. It’s ridiculous.

“I’m not saying we have to tell her why we’re asking,” Hart argues. “We can just find out if we’re doing it right.” She sits up. “Look, Fuller, do you want to do this assignment right or not?”

Sam tries to think through all the myriad ways in which this is a really, incredibly terrible idea. There are a lot of ways. On the other hand, it is for work.

“Fine,” she huffs. “Call her.”

Hart claps a little, excited, and puts her book down to pick up her phone and scroll through its contact list. Sam huffs and climbs out of her nest of duvet and pillows and onto Hart’s bed.

Hart’s put the phone on speaker so Sam can hear it ring, and then Foreman’s bleary voice when he picks up. “This is Agent Jeff Foreman.”

“Foreman,” Hart barks, “give the phone to Cheryl.”

“Who is this?” Foreman's tinny-voice asks, deeply suspicious.

“It’s Gracie Hart. Now put Cheryl on the phone.”

“Hi, Foreman. How are you?” Sam calls out, instructionally. Hart scowls at her and Sam grins back.

“Oh, it’s you guys. Hang on, I’ll get her.” They can hear the sleepy mumbles and rustles as Foreman tries to wake Cheryl up. “Kiss ass,” Hart mutters out the side of her mouth, and Sam just smirks back.

“Hello?” The ex-Miss United States’ drawl is even more pronounced when she’s sleepy. Sam’s always thought she sounded child-like but now she really sounds about five.

“Cheryl. Hey. Hi. Sorry for waking you.” Hart’s smiling and even looks a little shamefaced.

“Gracie? Gracie, hi! How are you?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine. How are you?”

“I’m good. Jeff and I have been having the most wonderful time. He took me to a park today. There were so many flowers and leaves. And hobos. Some of them were drunk and that’s sad, but the park was really pretty.”

What… what?

“Good. That’s… good, Cheryl. Listen, I’m calling to ask a favor and I was hoping we could just keep this between the two of us.”

“Sure. Sure. How can I help?” Sam can hear the covers rustling and can all but picture Cheryl sitting up straight on the other end of the line, ready and willing to help.

“Fuller and I. Well. Okay. So, I need something. It’s a little awkward.” Hart’s stuttering.

“Nothing’s awkward between friends, Gracie. You know that.” Sam has trouble believing that this lady is for real sometimes.

“Cheryl, how do you act when you’re in a relationship? You know, a relationship” - Hart stresses the last word by stretching it out -“with happy times? Sexual. That is, sex. A relationship with sex.”

There’s a long pause where both of them lean in closer to the phone.

Suddenly there’s a happy gasp and Cheryl asks, “Gracie, are you seeing someone? That’s so amazing! Who is it?”

“No. Cheryl, no, I’m not. I just need to know.”

“Is this a ‘no, I’m not seeing anyone’ like when you and Eric were seeing each other, or is this a ‘no, I’m not seeing anyone’ like…” Cheryl trails off.

“This is a ‘no, I’m not seeing anyone’ like I just need to know, Cheryl. It’s a work thing.”

“Oh! Who at work?”

“No one at work.”

“Well, it must be someone at work or else you wouldn’t be asking.” Sam’s reluctantly impressed; Miss United States has some skills as an interrogator.

“It’s just Fuller –” Hart starts out, and Sam’s already making frantic ‘no’ and cutting motions, but it’s way too late because there’s a long happy squeal from the other end of the line.

“Gracie, that’s wonderful! I’m so happy for the both of you!”

“Cheryl, no. It’s not – we’re not –” Hart looks over at Sam, panicked, and Sam just shrugs at her, exasperated. She knows it’s far too late to stop this particular ride.

“Oh, don’t worry, I wouldn’t tell anyone. I won’t even tell Jeff. He went to the kitchen for some water so he wasn’t here but oh Gracie, I’m so happy for you. And you, Agent Fuller. Love is a wonderful thing. It’s so special, right?”

Hart tries again. “Listen, I think maybe you misunderstood, Cheryl -”

“Oh, you don’t need to worry. I’d never tell. And I mean, it wasn’t like there wasn’t always a spark.”

Hart bobbles the phone. “A spark? What spark? There was no spark.”

Cheryl laughs. “Sure there was. It was a lot like when you and Eric got together. Though, Agent Fuller, I hope you and Gracie do better. She’s a great person and a wonderful friend, and she deserves someone who sees all of that and makes her happy.” Hart’s thunking her head back against the headboard now.

Sam’s vaguely uncomfortable with how passionate Cheryl’s voice has turned, and decides to play it safe. “Yes, ma’am.”

“What?” Hart mouths at her, and Sam gives her a ‘what can you do?’ shrug.

“That’s good,” Cheryl allows. “Now, don’t worry about this stuff. Just let it come in its own time. I mean, when you guys fall in love and you want to be holding hands all the time and kissing and stuff, you’ll just know. It’s when you just can’t bear to be apart. But that comes after a while, Gracie. You don’t have to worry about not being ready for everything else yet.”

“Holding hands, kissing,” Hart says and scribbles it down on a small notepad, “got it. I’m not worried.”

“I’m glad. And I’m really glad you called to tell me. It reminds me that we’re still best friends even though we might be really far away.”

Hart stops scribbling and smiles, soft. “Yeah. I miss you, Cheryl. I hope you’re happy.”

“I am. I have to go now though. Jeff’s back and he’s taking me to meet his parents in the morning.”

“Parents, huh? Sounds serious,” Hart tries to joke.

“It is. But we’ll always be friends, Gracie. You know that, right? Even when we’re old and married and grumpy all the time in our nursing home together, we’ll still be friends.”

“Yeah,” Hart mutters, and Sam watches as she surreptitiously wipes at her nose with the edge of her sleeve.

“Good night, Gracie. I love you. And good night to you too, Agent Fuller.”

“Good night,” they chorus, and the line beeps.

Hart puts the phone away and settles back against her pillows again. Sam climbs off the bed and back onto her futon. She settles in, pauses, and then just says it, “Hart, that’s one strange lady.”

Hart has a smile in her voice when she says, “Yeah. She’s the best.”

“Right. So there’s going to be kissing this time.”

“Hart, that’s the fourth time you’ve said that.” Sam can’t handle this without her morning coffee. It’s more than this job is worth to deal with Hart freaking out without even a drop of the good stuff.

Hart bustles about in her mess of a kitchen, filling up cups with water and shoving them in the microwave, shoving a spatula in place to keep the door of the thing shut long enough for it to start working. She’s still muttering to herself, but Sam feels like she’s allowed to ignore it in favor of slumping down at the wobbly table in the corner and cradling her head in her hands.

When a cup finally appears on the table in front of her, Sam lets out what she hopes Hart recognizes as a grateful grunt, and snatches it up.

It’s the worst thing she’s ever scalded her tongue on. It tastes like grit and burning and pretty much everything except coffee. “Ugh, Hart. What even is this?”

Hart, from where she’s slumped on the other side of the table and slurping at her own mug, mumbles, “Wha-?” and just tosses the whole mug back like a shot of bourbon.

It’s ridiculous.

“I’m making an executive decision here,” Sam announces and bustles them out of the house. “It’s freaking time you learned what a good relationship really runs on.”

An hour later finds them in the aisle of a local mall arguing over a coffeemaker.

“Fuller, I’m not spending nearly a hundred and fifty dollars on something that just sits in my kitchen and occasionally puts foam in a cup, okay? I’m not doing it.” Hart’s hair is still braided and she’s still got her glasses on while she crosses her arms, so the whole experience is oddly like Sam’s being lectured by a scruffy librarian.

“Hart,” she says with what she thinks is admirable patience, “that stuff you drink in the morning? Is not coffee. If I’m expected to coo and cuddle and whatever else we’re going to have to do to get this job done, then I’m gonna need actual coffee in the mornings.”

“But why can’t we just pick some up on the way to work?” Hart whines.

“We’ll be doing that too. I’m just saying, life is a lot easier when at least one appliance in your kitchen actually works like it’s supposed to, all right?”

“Stuff in my kitchen works,” Hart says, sounding wounded.

“That’s because you never cook,” Sam feels obliged to point out.

“So what do I need appliances for?!”

It takes about an hour of Hart hemming and hawing and pretending that she doesn’t have her wallet to finally convince her to buy the damn coffee machine. As a celebratory gift for herself, Sam buys Hart a proper microwave as well. Because really, that thing Hart has is a death trap just waiting to set that tinderbox of an apartment on fire. And Sam isn’t going to be stuck in the merry-go-round of training up yet another partner, no way, no how.

The two of them are still squabbling when they finally get to the checkout line, trying to count out their change and offer an adequate tip while the bag-boy loads their boxes back onto their cart.

“You’ve barely lived there a week and you’re already changing everything,” Hart yowls, disconsolate, as Sam signs her credit-card receipt.

“Remember the cuddling, Hart,” Sam sings. “I could keep my hands to myself, and where would you be then?” Hart scowls and crosses her arms.

“That’s always how it starts,” commiserates the guy waiting next in line. He leans over to whisper loudly at Hart, “first it’s replacing your stuff, and then it’s your friends, then it’s your life. I tell you, man, it’s enough to make you swear off love altogether.”

Hart gives him a look of confusion, followed quickly by realization and gratitude. “Yes,” she informs him heartily, “because we are in a relationship and she is taking over. Because of the lady-loving.”

The guy nods, understanding.

Hart tries to sneakily gesture at Sam with her thumbs up and mouths, “lady-loving.”

Sam just rolls her eyes. Small victories, she consoles herself. Small victories.

“Okay,” Hart whispers once they’re seated at a table at The Blackbird that night, “so I think we should do what we did at the store today again.” They’re un-miked this time, Patel sitting on the apartment instead in case the thief shows up while they’re out.

Sam raises an eyebrow and just waits her out for an explanation.

Hart makes frantic ‘catch-up-here’ gestures and blurts out, “you know, pretend that we had a fight and then cuddle a bit? So everyone gets that we’re together.”

“Hart,” Sam points out, “everyone here already thinks we’re in a relationship.”

Hart pretends to be scratching her neck while surreptitiously casing the various patrons of the bar. “I don’t actually think so. I mean, most of the robberies happened within a week of the patrons first arriving at the bar. But we’ve been here, what? Three times in a week and a half and nothing. So what makes us different?”

Sam shrugs. “Maybe we’re not the robber’s type?” She glances over and makes eye-contact with a really pretty brunette, and smiles when the brunette nudges the Asian woman by her side and points her out. Sam raises her glass in a toast, and then looks away to other patrons of the bar so they don’t feel encouraged enough to actually come over.

Hart sits back and looks frustrated. “No. I think it’s more. I think they’re being more careful because they’ve got to know that we’re FBI. So they know there’s at least a chance that this could be a sting. So they’re waiting us out.”

Actually, that makes sense. “Okay, I believe you. So what’s the plan?”

Hart leans in. “We’ve got to make this relationship look real. Like, really real. Fighting, cuddling, and… and…” She swallows, like it’s killing her to say this, “maybe kissing.”

Sam shrugs. “Cool.”

“Cool?” Hart mutters, disbelieving, but Sam’s no longer really paying attention to her, focus shifting to Chloe and Misha who’re on their way over. “Chloe, Misha,” she greets, “good to see you both again.”

“This is not over,” Hart says, loud enough that the others can hear them, “we’re going to discuss this later, you hear me?”

“I heard you.” Sam says. She thought that’d be good enough to indicate the end of a fight, except Hart squeezes her hand a second later, and then glares at her, and Sam remembers that they might have to draw this whole thing out, right. Okay. “And anyway,” she throws in, “I am sorry, baby. It was my fault. I’ll try not to forget next time.”

Hart nods at her, quick and business-like, and then turns to look at their visibly enthralled audience. “Hi, guys!”

“We didn’t mean to interrupt,” Chloe offers, hesitant.

“Are you alright, darling?” Misha asks Hart. Sam resists the urge to roll her eyes.

“Oh, no, we’re fine,” Hart artfully brushes the whole thing off, “just a small tiff, nothing major. We’ve just been trying to figure out stuff now that I’m going to be spending more time over at Fuller’s place.”

Sam pulls Hart into the curve of her body. “Yeah.” She smiles at Misha, big and shit-eating, and Misha narrows her eyes back.

“How wonderful,” she offers. Sam responds before Hart can, “Yeah, we’re pretty happy.”

Sam tightens her arm suggestively, and Hart seems to get the message because she finally leans her head into the curve of Sam’s shoulder. It takes a while and a little minor jostling, but eventually Sam gets them settled into each other comfortably enough that Hart’s hair isn’t getting all over Sam’s face and her arm isn’t falling asleep.

“Sure, that sounds great,” she hears, and Hart turns to her, “honey, isn’t that great?” Hart’s face is right up against the curve of Sam’s breast, looking up, expectant. And for a second Sam feels a frisson of awareness, suddenly conscious of the low neck of her top and the way Hart’s hair is brushing against the skin of her arm and chest.

“What’s great?” she asks, trying to go for an indulgent tone.

“Misha just invited us to lunch with her partner.”

And it’s really the perfect time for it, with Hart looking up at her and smiling, and Misha right there to justify a reasonable explanation, so Sam just does it. Leans in and kisses Hart once quickly, before turning to Misha and saying smoothly, “sure, we’d be delighted.”

“Fuller,” Hart stutters, apparently caught unaware. Her hand’s come up to cover her lips.

Sam pretends to nuzzle her ear so she can mutter, “this is your plan, remember? Kissing?”

Hart seems to get it because she arches up into the nuzzling, her skin flushing along the curves of her cheek and down towards her shoulders. Sam figures it’s worth rubbing her thumb slow along the line of Hart’s jaw and lightly down her neck, tracing that flush only to leave her thumb pressed, possessive, into the curve of Hart’s shoulder, before she eventually turns back to face the others. “So where should we meet you?”

“Fuller,” Hart says later that night, contemplative, “do you think it worked?”

They’ve snuck back into the apartment using giant sweatpants and dark glasses as disguises, and now they’re camped out in Hart’s kitchen again, relying on hastily put up sheets to block off the low camp light they’re using. Patel’s out front, probably switching out shifts with one of the other guys, and keeping an eye on the front.

Sam looks up from where she’s attempting to shove Hart’s old microwave into the replacement microwave’s box. “Hmmn?” She’s about two minutes away from just taking the thing out back and shooting it for being so damn stubborn and useless all the time.

Hart looks back down at her chicken pot-pie. “Do you think it worked?”

Sam shrugs. “We won’t know for a bit, I’m guessing. If it didn’t work, I figure we’ll just try something else.”

Hart nods absentmindedly. Sam gives up struggling with the microwave from hell and sits across the table from her. “What? Something bothering you?”

Hart looks trapped. “No. Pshaw. Why would anything bother me? I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“Something’s bothering you,” Sam concludes. Hart’s doing that weird thing where she peels off the label on her beer-bottle. It’s a definite tell.

Hart looks everywhere but at her. “It’s just… been a while, okay?”

This seems confusing. “Since the club?”

“Since someone kissed me. It’s been a while.” Hart’s posture is defensive, arms crossed and head down.

“Ooookay,” Sam says. “Well, I’m glad I helped. Though I wouldn’t exactly count what happened at the club as a kiss.”

Hart looks up at her, face conflicted before her lips twist wryly. “Well, Fuller, what would you call it then?”

Sam tries to frame it as carefully as she can. “It was more of a peck. Like the sort of thing grandmas do when you’re not paying attention.”

Hart shrugs and pulls her hoodie down so it covers her palms, leaves her fingers bare and trapping the sleeves. “I thought it was a kiss.”

“Hart,” Sam offers, “if you think that was a kiss, you really need to get out more.”

“And I suppose you’ve had so many kisses, right, Fuller?” Hart shoves her chair back and takes the remnants of her dinner over to the trashcan and scrapes them out.

“I guess I have.” Sam’s not ashamed of that.

“And I haven’t.” Hart’s voice is flat.

Sam sits back in her chair, vaguely annoyed herself. “All evidence is pointing to the contrary.”

Hart lobs the cutlery over into the sink and turns back, aggressive. “Fine. You know what? Fine. Well then, show me what I’m missing. That’s not a kiss, right? You want to show me what counts for you?”

Sam shrugs. “I don’t need to prove anything.”

Hart pushes forward and stabs her finger onto Sam’s chest repeatedly. “No. No, you do. You do, because I am your partner.” Her face is flushed.

And here’s the thing: Sam doesn’t quite know what being partners has to do with kissing. But then Hart’s always had some weird ideas about how partnerships work. First the whole Matthews thing and now this; it’s like Hart needs her all partners to be kissing partners.

“Hart,” she feels it’s only reasonable to point this out, “kissing isn’t a partner thing. It’s a dating thing. The FBI is not a dating service. Also, if you don’t move your hand in a minute, I’m going to punch you in the face, partner.”

“Oh yeah? Well, right now dating is a partner thing, okay? Because of the work thing. So unless you’re chicken, come on.” Hart gestures to herself. “Come on and show me what you got. You’re gonna teach me how to kiss, right?”

“For heaven’s sake,” Sam mutters, because this shit only ever became an issue after they stuck her with a partner. All the time she worked solo no one ever insisted that she provide kissing lessons. If this is the sort of shit that happens when you work with the FBI… No, let’s be real, this stuff is pure Gracie Hart. Who else would ever come up with something like this? “This isn’t what I signed on for when we became partners.”

“Well,” Hart seems to be searching for a retort, “well, neither did I. So… You know.”

Sam sighs and wanders over so she can back Hart up against the sink. “I want you to know,” Sam feels compelled to point out, “that this is probably the weirdest thing I’ve ever had to do since we became partners. But” – she holds up a hand to stall Hart from chiming in with some likely ridiculous story about all the weird shit she’s ever gotten up to with all of her previous FBI partners – “if you think this is something that we really need to do, then I’m on board.” Sam feels really stupid, but hey, Hart’s her partner. They’ve got to trust each other and stick together, or so Hart keeps telling her.

“This is so not weirder than dressing up like Big Bird,” Hart mumbles.

Sam just gives her a look. “Oh yes it is.”

Then Sam leans in and kisses her, nudges her mouth open gently and lips at her lower lip. Hart responds by leaning back and clanking the dirty dishes in the sink, following that up by bringing a wet-slimy hand up to cup Sam’s face.

“Hart,” Sam yelps, backpedalling rapidly, “That’s nasty!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Hart calls out, face red. “I wasn’t ready!” She makes a face at her hand and turns to rinse it in the sink.

Sam uses her t-shirt to wipe at her face. Gross. Honestly, the stuff she has to put up with, and all because she went and made friends with a weirdo. “Well, are you ready now?”

Hart looks like she’s bracing herself. Sam sighs and pulls her in gently by the arm, repositions her so she’s leaning against the wobbly kitchen table instead. “I’m going to kiss you now,” Sam informs her, “so, you know, make peace with that.”

“Okay,” Hart mutters, eyes on Sam’s mouth, and then leans in and kisses Sam herself.

It’s… better. Sam’s being pretty careful to go slow, you know, ease Hart into the whole thing. And at first, Hart seems to be letting that happen; she leaves her mouth open and pliable, lets Sam nudge her nose out of the way with her own and tease her with small, light kisses before letting her tongue sweep in to touch Hart’s. But then Hart brings her arms up around Sam’s neck, starts trying to take control of the kiss, pulling away and teasing at Sam’s full lower lip with her teeth. And that's better. It's good, really good.

Sam brings her hands up to span Hart’s waist so she can dip her back and run her hand up along Hart’s side to curve around a small breast. Hart huffs quick breaths into their kisses -

And then the table bobbles, nearly overturning and taking Hart to the floor.

Hart stumbles and backpedals, preemptively whisper-yelling, “no, no, no, no, no,” and catching the table before it can really overturn and make a noise.

Sam watches her, breathing heavily with the blood pounding in her veins. Hart’s breathing heavily too, her braid messy from Sam’s hands. She can all but see Hart struggling with herself before she shoves her work persona back in place for the moment.

“Right, Fuller,” she says brightly, “I think that’s a success. So, kissing’s fine. And we’re good for tomorrow. Right. Good.” She points to the bathroom awkwardly. “I’m just gonna – yeah.”

Sam sighs and scratches her head, ignoring the way her own body feels wound tight and warm. She debates for a minute about maybe going after Hart, trying to get her to talk about this stuff, but shit, the idea of being forced to talk about kissing and feelings… Sam would rather be shot. Again. So instead, she wanders over to the bedroom to make up her futon for the night.

“Fuller,” Hart whispers, “Fuller!”

Sam opens her eyes to the pitch-blackness of the room. “What?” Sam doesn’t think it’s too much to ask that after having to kiss her partner a whole bunch for ‘work reasons’ that she be allowed a few hours of sleep before it’s her turn on the stakeout. For some reason, Hart doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo.

“I need to apologize.”

Sam is really not awake enough for this. “For what?”

“For making you kiss me.”

Sam opens her eyes all the way at that. “Are you seriously going to talk about this now? Come on, we’ve got work in the morning!” She shoves her pillow on top of her head and tries to go back to sleep.

Then suddenly Hart’s grabbing at her pillow.

“I will shoot you,” Sam growls warningly.

“Just listen, okay?” Hart insists, and Sam huffs but turns onto her back so she can stare up into Hart’s face as she leans over the edge of her bed. “One of the problems I had with Eric was that I didn’t always know where the lines were. And I took all my cues from the movies, you know? The whole him coming back to save me and kissing me and us getting together” – the last is said with a certain amount of sarcasm, her arm waving to encompass it all – “so us kissing… it’s reminding me a little of that. And, you know. It’s weird.” Hart’s looking down at her fingers as she picks at the edges of her blanket.

Sam feels it’s only reasonable to point out, “I saved you over a year ago.”

“I know! It’s just, we’re working together and we’re doing the late night stake-out thing, and now we’re kissing –”

Sam tries to process everything through her sleep foggy brain. She shuts one eye in the hope that it’ll make the process easier. “So what you’re saying is that you don’t want me to get the wrong idea?”

“No,” Hart says, sounding annoyed. “I’m saying that we kissed and you did the saving stuff too, and maybe I’m a little concerned here about history repeating itself.”

“That it?” Sam isn’t sure she’s seeing why she needed to be woken up for this.

“Well,” Hart draws out, reluctant, “I’m just… we’re both women.”

Sam clenches her jaw because this, okay, this might be a real reason to get herself a new partner at the FBI. “So?”

“I guess I’m just having one of those moments where I’m realizing that… you know, the kiss wasn’t half bad, and so maybe, you know, that’s something I could be into.” Sam’s vision is finally adjusting enough to see that Hart’s staring down over the edge of her bed like this is some sort of grand revelation. Eventually, her gaze narrows onto Sam’s lips.

“Hart, are you coming out to me or coming on to me?” It’s actually a genuine question. Knowing Hart, the answer could really be either. Or both.

There’s a long pause before Hart says, hesitant, “I don’t know. Could I maybe let you know? Like, once I’ve thought it over?”

Sam does what anyone in this situation would probably do. She turns over into her pillow and tries to go back to sleep. “Yes. But only if you let me sleep now. Damn.”

She can hear Hart settling back into her own pillows. The sheets rustle for a second and then Hart’s voice sounds out again, “Fuller?”

She’s really going to have to shoot this woman. “Yeah?”

“We’re cool, right?”

“You gonna let me sleep any time soon if we’re not?” Sam grumbles.

“Probably not.” Hart’s voice has a smile in it.

“Then we’re fine. Shut up and have your crisis in the morning.”

“Thanks, Fuller. Good night.”

“’Night.”

“So, how’s the case coming?” McDonald asks the next morning, gesturing them into his office for a quick briefing. A year and a half ago Sam would’ve dreaded being called into this office with its bland beige walls and perpetually drooping potted plant, but McDonald’s thankfully eased up on the whole “you need anger management training, Fuller” thing he’d been flogging for a while back there.

“Sir,” Hart relaxes into parade rest, hands behind her back, “we’ve been on the case for nearly two weeks but we’ve yet to see any sign of the thief.”

“Any idea why that is, Agent?” McDonald settles himself behind his desk and waves them towards the chairs. Given that Sam remembers just how uncomfortable those chairs are from all the various times she was pulled in here for dressing downs with McDonald, she opts to stay standing. Hart takes her cue from Sam and stays standing as well.

“Well, sir,” Hart offers, “Agent Fuller and I believe that my notoriety might be actually working against us this time. I mean, none of the previous targets were armed or affiliated with law enforcement. It would be a far bigger risk for the thief.”

McDonald nods and looks troubled. “I see your point. Any suggestions on how we deal with this? Should we maybe look into requesting a new team from one of the other field offices to come in and go undercover instead?”

“Sir,” Sam says, “that might allow for more robberies within our timeframe. Besides, Agent Hart and I have already discussed a new method of approach where we intend to indicate to the thief that we’ve shifted locations to my apartment. We’re hoping that they might use this information to try and break into Hart’s apartment.”

“But you’re still residing there, correct?”

“Yes, sir, but we’re taking every precaution to go unseen. We will catch this person,” Hart says.

“If it helps, we’ve also managed to make contacts within the club that we’ll be meeting for lunch today. Perhaps they might have information about the burglaries that we lack,” Sam offers.

“Right, that all sounds good.” McDonalds nods. “And the rest of it? Are you two holding up all right with the undercover part of this job?”

Hart blushes and looks away.

“We’re fine,” Sam says, firm.

“Good,” McDonald says, uncomfortable.

“Yes. Good. We’re all A-OK here, sir.” Hart is the worst liar in the world. Sam wonders how she ever got any undercover assignments at all. Even McDonald looks like he’s rethinking putting her on this case.

“Okay then,” she says, preemptively, just in case he’s starting to get any ideas about actually taking Hart off the case and sticking Sam with some newbie rookie deadweight, “we’ll just get out of your hair.”

Lunch turns out to be a nice medium range Italian restaurant. It’s like the movies almost with its red and white checkered tablecloths and slim wrought iron furniture. The menu boasts freshly made pasta and what sounds like a killer lasagna.

Sam actually approves, and feels just a little bad for having presumed that Misha and partner were likely to drag the two of them to some upmarket frou-frou place where all the entrées were dots on a plate and the servers were called “personal attendants.” This place feels nice, sunny and filled with a variety of people – families and teenagers – but not overcrowded.

“This place is nice,” she tells Misha grudgingly after they’ve ordered, and Misha’s partner, Kate, laughs. “Yeah, I had to insist that we went somewhere with actual food. I don’t know about you guys but I can’t handle the thought of heading back to the office for another six hours with nothing but a salad in me.”

“Kate’s a corporate lawyer,” Misha informs them. “She works over at Steiner and Becks.”

“We’ve worked with them before,” Hart says, smiling but impassive, and Kate laughs, delighted. “Oh, you’re being diplomatic. No, I get it; I represent all the white collar guys you’d love to throw in prison. No one said you had to like my job, just me. Especially since Misha’s taken such a shine to you guys.”

“Really?” Sam turns her head so she can lock eyes with Misha, who smiles wide and angelic.

“It’s not often I get to meet a celebrity at The Blackbird,” she says, and nods at Hart. “And even less often that I meet someone who isn’t there to actually swing.”

Kate leans in across the table to murmur, “Misha hates puzzles. She can’t handle things she can’t figure out.”

Hart’s laugh is light and airy. “Who said we were a puzzle?”

Misha leans in. “Honey, you’ve been to the club, what, maybe five times now? You’re not just there on the weekends, I’ve heard. So you’re clearly interested in something. But you haven’t really looked to hook up even once. So what else there is holding your interest so much that you keep going back? It couldn’t be the drinks. So, what is it?”

Kate snickers and takes a sip of her beer. “Like I said, hates puzzles.”

It sounds like the lady’s got a whole bunch of good points. She hasn’t really left a whole lot of wiggle room in there, and Sam isn’t 100% on how to play this: to laugh it off as a joke and keep going, or to try and maybe bring Misha and Kate into their confidence. There’s a chance that one of them might be the thief, or even that they both might be in on it, but there’s not a lot of other options.

She squeezes Hart’s hand to try and see if Hart’s maybe got a read on which way to play this when Hart blurts out, “I’m just –” She pauses for a minute, takes a deep breath, and when she continues she sounds like she means it sincerely, “I’ve never really had much luck in the whole, you know, romance department.” Her tone is self-deprecating and she nods at them like she’s letting them in on the joke. “I was always a bit of a tomboy. So I didn’t really expect this thing with Fuller.” She looks thoughtful. “You think it would make a weird sort of sense, you know? Me being good at my job and loving guns and not really ever being a girly girl, you know, always one of the guys. So I’m sure there’s loads of people who’d be like “of course she’s gay or bi or whatever” and they’d just get that because that’s apparently a thing and I fit their little box of whatever that means to them. But I didn’t really feel that way before. I mean, I don’t know if I did or I didn’t because I didn’t really feel that way about anyone. So I guess I didn’t know this was something I maybe wanted. You know?” She finally looks up across the table and startles at the way Misha and Kate have leaned in across the table, rapt.

“Well,” she says awkwardly, “yeah. So. That’s why I guess I’m at The Blackbird. To watch and figure out if this is something Fuller and I can do. I guess, I’m maybe looking for friends who get that?”

When Misha and Kate look over to focus on Sam expectantly, she just smiles weakly and pats Hart absently on the shoulder. “Yeah, Hart.” Trust Hart to hit everyone with that just before lunch. It’s almost weird how often her brand of awkward honesty seems to work in their favor.

When they turn to look at Sam, she says, “I’m fine with the whole dating thing. I’ve always known who and what I like.” Sam nods at Hart, and Hart looks away and smiles.

“Stop it, you’ll give me cavities.” Misha leans back into the arm Kate has slung along her chair, and rests her hand on the table in order for Kate to intertwine their fingers. “I suppose I understand. I mean, Kate’s in corporate law and she’s always getting those jokes about how obvious it is that she’s just one of the boys. But, I mean, I work in fashion and I get those jokes just because I’m surrounded by models all day.” Misha squeezes Kate’s hand. “As if what we do or the way we act has anything at all to do with whether we like pussy.”

Kate nods. “People can be assholes.”

“Amen,” Sam mutters.

“But anyway,” Misha says, coming back to the point, “if it’s just about making friends or checking the lesbian scene out, surely you guys could’ve gone to a regular bar instead of The Blackbird, right?”

“Not a lot of regular bar-folk are up for people wanting to watch them get a bit of the nasty on,” Hart points out.

“Oh, honey,” Kate says, half-wondering and half-mocking, “you really don’t get out much, do you?”

“Why does everyone say that?” Hart demands. “I get out! I do things!”

“I’m not sure arrests and paperwork count here,” Sam says and pats her on the shoulder.

“It depends,” Misha murmurs, and she and Kate crack up.

“Anyway,” Kate says eventually, “you might not want to keep going to the club for much longer. I’ve been talking to Misha about it and we’re thinking of trying The Fancy Jane down the block instead. There’s a bunch of stories going around about people at The Blackbird having their places broken into and it’s just not worth it to keep going if we’re going to have to deal with being targeted as well.”

“Does the FBI look into this stuff?” Misha demands. “Because you should. I know some of the women and they haven’t really gotten much support from the local cops. Do you think you guys could maybe do something about it?”

“Wait,” Hart cuts in, “back up. Tell us about this other club. The Dancey –”

Kate and Misha share a look, clearly not expecting this response. “The Fancy Jane? It’s a new place, opened up just last month. It hasn’t really been on anyone’s radar though, since The Blackbird is practically an institution.”

“It’s not a bad place?” Misha offers. “It’s just not our usual watering hole.”

“That’s it!” Hart crows. She turns to Sam, “It’s so obvious now. It’s not someone at The Blackbird checking out marks and scamming them out of their stuff. It’s someone from a rival club looking to move a bit of the clientele.”

“That’s why there weren’t ever any large sums taken and why most of the stuff stolen was memorabilia of some sort,” Sam says, with dawning understanding. “So it would be important but not enough for the cops to make a big deal out of the thing.”

“Right. With low manpower and bigger fish to fry, they’d just leave the thing to rot or kick it higher up the food chain when the pattern emerged,” Hart’s hunting in her purse, triumphantly pulling her phone out and dialing.

“And they counted on us figuring out the connection to The Blackbird. Either the club gets a bum rap or we shut the place down at some point to interrogate anyone that works there; either way they come out golden.” All the pieces are finally falling in place. “It’s why none of the people that approached us seemed like viable suspects. And why smaller celebrities were targeted; easy enough for them to figure out what they could take that was relevant, low-cost while providing resale value if ever it came to that.”

"I have no idea what’s going on,” Kate whispers to Misha, “do you?” Misha looks fascinated but just as confused.

“Right,” Hart says, “sir, we’ve got an idea about who the thief might be. Could you ask Patel and his team to run the sheets of everyone working at The Fancy Jane? Yes sir, The Fancy Jane. Agent Fuller and I will be in for a full briefing within the hour.”

“We’re sorry to eat and run,” Sam says, distracted, tossing money on the table, “but you’ve been extremely helpful. We’ll be in touch.”

“What’s going on?” Kate asks again. “Are you –”

“Sorry,” Hart says, grabbing her jacket, “no time. We’ll call you.”

Hart’s out the door and whistling for a taxi before the words are all the way out, and she and Sam bundle themselves into the back and head back to headquarters.

The rest of it is fairly simple. The owner of The Fancy Jane has a cousin with a minor jacket for break-ins and petty larceny, and it’s pitifully easy to tail him to his next mark. He doesn’t even wait until they get the cuffs on him to start singing, and so within the span of the same evening they can book the owner and his PR manager.

They recover the stolen items from the cousin’s apartment and bag and tag everything.

And then, all that’s left is the paperwork.

“Kill me,” Hart moans, face-down in a pile of invoice forms and arrest reports. “It would be a far kinder fate.”

“Suck it up,” Sam says heartlessly from where she’s plowing through the evidence write-up. She checks the voucher list again and writes down gold watch circa 1895 right under leopard print thong bikini.

“All the magic is gone,” Hart quips, still face-down. “This is what happens when you’ve been together a while. No sympathy. No jelly donuts.”

Sam thinks about it for a second before she says, slow and deliberate, her eyes still on her invoice. “I could get you jelly donuts tomorrow morning. If you’ve thought about it. If you think you really want them.”

Hart’s head comes up like a hunting dog, and there’s a long pause in which Sam regrets saying anything a hundred times over while scrawling daytime talk-show award, 1992 on the next line.

Sam isn’t looking up but she can hear Hart fidgeting. “What if I want to just try these jelly donuts out first? Maybe they won’t be from the right shop, you know?”

Sam sighs. “I think that’s fair. No one’s forcing their donuts on you, Hart. Try them out, okay?”

Hart grins across the length of their desks. “What if I decide one day that I’d like to eat my jelly donuts in the Poconos?”

“Then I guess you’ll have to drive all the way out there,” Sam says, shrugging. She smiles down at her list and writes rainbow-colored guitar.

Hart snort-laughs. “I guess I’ll take you up on that offer then.”

Patel groans from the next desk over. “Stop talking. Not only did I crack your secret goddamn jelly donut code, but now I’m craving the damn things too!”

“Well,” Hart says, heartless and beaming a pageant-winning smile across their desk, “go find someone who’ll get them for you then. Fuller’s taken.”