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    Summary

    "No, I’ll come too,” Hanna says. “You never know with PIs.”

    “That's true. Do you remember the one in Trenton?” Spencer asks with a laugh. Hanna wrinkles her nose.

    “The greasy-looking one?” Hanna asks. “With the sauce in his beard?”

    “That one. It’s amazing he ever managed to investigate anything. Or find his own office,” Spencer says, shaking her head and scoffing.

    “But somehow, his hand managed to find your thigh,” Hanna says. She can picture that day in her mind so clearly. She can smell the stink of food, sweat, and cigars that had been overpowering in his office. She can see the lear in his eyes when he'd looked at Spencer. She can hear the satisfying yelp he’d made when she'd taken the framed picture of his wife off of his desk and jammed it into his lap.

    (Or: A noir-style AU featuring vigilante girlfriends Spencer and Hanna.)

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