Mike swears up and down that he tries his best to keep from waking her when he slips out for his morning run, but either his best isn't good enough and never has been or he's just full of it and isn't trying very hard. And the arrogant grin on his face when he sees her glaring at him through one barely opened eye and his continued attempts to drag her along don't help his case.

"Shit, you're up," he says innocently, sitting on the edge of her bed and pulling his sneakers out from their almost permanent position under her nightstand.

"Depending on your definition," Paige allows. His absences creates the perfect opportunity to move into the warm indent left in the bed, and she takes full advantage of it, pulling her own pillow along and holding his loosely to her chest.

"Sorry." He isn't. "Want to come with me?"

She doesn't bother opening her eyes.

"Come on," he complains. "You like to run."

"I like to sleep, too."

He scoots back further on the bed to give himself room to tie the laces, and Paige curls around his hips. Mike laughs.

"I don't understand why anyone likes running at night. It's like you want someone to try to jump you."

"You got me," she murmurs sleepily into his thigh. "I'm a vigilante. I tell you I'm going jogging when I'm really fighting crime. In a costume."

"I knew it. If anyone ever belonged in spandex…"

One eye opens again and she uses it to line up a punch right between his shoulder blades. He doubles over with a rush of air, trying not to let her see him smirk and doing a terrible job of it.

"Why won't you come with me?" he tries one more time, either trying to pat her hip under the covers and overreaching or aiming for her ass and hitting the mark. "It's not like you're ever still in bed when I get back anyway."

Against her better judgement and efforts to prevent it, she can feel her eyes gradually widening from slits to their normal daytime position and her mind clearing the sleep until she's mostly alert. He's right, she won't be able to sleep now. She never does.

Sprawling out at the head of the bed, she rolls over onto her back and tries to take advantage of having her bed all to herself again but it's no use. She sighs.

"Maybe it doesn't feel right laying here all by myself."

The shuffling on the end of the bed silences, and Paige glances over to see Mike, still and quiet, staring at her. "What?"

He shrugs. "Nothing."

"Something," she corrects.

He's smiling at her, officially running behind schedule now that they've taken the time to expand on their routine morning grumbling at each other. But he doesn't seem to mind, and she likes to think that she's at least been a factor in getting him to mellow out.

"Are you going to kick me if I say that that's practically a sonnet coming from you?" he asks finally.

She does.

Groaning, she jams her shoulder into his back and pushes until he's scrambling off the bed, chuckling under his breath.

"Go," Paige orders. "Get out of here. Run to Vegas for all I care. I'll still be in this bed when you get back."

Just to spite him, she lounges in bed for another twenty minutes.

But, as predicted, she doesn't sleep.

It's still way too early when she's crouched in the sand, wax caked under her fingernails as she puts the finishing touches on the old surfboard of Johnny's that's been passed down to Mike. Her own board is waxed and ready to go behind her, and she's considering starting on her own when she spots him coming down his final stretch of sand.

"How did you know I was in the mood for a cool down in the water?" he asks, huffing and puffing but still pausing to reach down and help her stand.

Paige smiles and dodges Mike's sweaty arm as it tries to swing around her shoulders, knowing from experience that it'll make the sand stick to her and itch when she puts on her wetsuit. "Who says the board's for you?"

"My investigative instincts and superior powers of observation." It's half mumbled through the neck of the bottle of water he's pouring down his throat, but it still comes out smug. Paige kicks sand at him.

Board under her arm, she heads for the water. Over her shoulder, she can see Mike struggling into his rash guard while trying not to tip himself over onto his ass and tucks her chin to her shoulder to hide an affectionate grin.

The surf is pretty dead today which sucks because for once she has plenty of time to enjoy it. On the bright side, she gets the opportunity to lay flat on her board, which is rocking gently in the calm water, and feel the sun on her face; all while Mike tries to mimic the pose without really finding his center of balance and ends up rolling into the ocean.

This is enjoyable for a lot of reasons, not the least of which being that getting to appear languid and casual while Mike flounders is easily one of her top ten favorite activities.

She closes her eyes and pretends not to be watching, but as soon as she does she feels a shadow across her torso and a voice surprisingly close to her ear. "Show off."

"I have no idea what you mean," she says airily, rolling onto her side and propping her head up on her hand so she can look him right in the eye.

Mike rolls his eyes. "What's on the schedule for today?"

"Trouble," she winks. "Literally. There's a banger called Trouble that sets up shop on the beach every Tuesday. Going to see if he has anything fun for me to get into."

Mike scrunches his face into what Paige likes to call his "get me out of this screwed up place, I belong in DC" look. Unable to resist, she leans in and steals a quick peck and when she pull back she can taste the salt on her lips.

Grinning, he carefully wraps his arm around her waist and tows her closer so the board is floating both of them and he can stop treading water. "And if Trouble doesn't come through for you?"

She shrugs, nuzzling into the warm skin on his shoulder. "Then I find some trouble for myself." Then, as an afterthought, "Lowercase trouble."

"Oh good," he laughs. "Though, if uppercase Trouble is really what you want…"

Paige twists her shoulders sharply, thrusting herself into the water and dragging him in with her.


She takes first shower while Mike checks in with Charlie and Briggs about some FBI op that got started the night before. Technically, she guesses that Johnny is supposed to be there too, but instead he's there in the bathroom, knocking his hip into hers as they brush their teeth, even though there's plenty of room for both of them.

Her hair is still damp as heads down the stairs, but at least it isn't salty anymore. In the kitchen, the three FBI agents are perched on the stools at the breakfast bar, heads together. Briggs hops up when she enters, and she climbs onto his seat as he moves to the other side of the counter and uncovers a foil covered plate.

"Good morning, sunshine," he says, thrusting a plate stacked high with waffles and strawberries (and covered liberally with powdered sugar) in her direction.

Involuntarily, she can feel her eyes widening and her lips pulling back into a grin because waffles are her favorite and these appear to be excellent ones. Then she remembers that to make them someone had to climb on a chair and get the waffle maker out of the top cabinet, and that combined with the careful preparation that went into the toppings can only mean…

"You're going to ask me to do something that I'm going to hate," Paige accuses, grabbing a fork and digging in. Even if they are bribery waffles, they still look good.

"We were actually going to make Mike ask you to do something that you're going to hate," Paul admits. "Juice?"

She nods reluctantly.

Charlie pulls her own stool closer and hands her a file folder to peruse as she steals a bite of her waffles. "Six shootings in the past couple months, all done with unregistered weapons that seem to come out of nowhere. They're ghost guns. We haven't even been able to trace them back to the broker, let alone the source."

"And no one's talking," Mike adds from Charlie's other side. "Only connection we have is that we can put all six shooters in this little bar out towards Rolling Hills at least once before the day of the shootings."

"Handguns mostly," Paige mumbles, eyes on the file balanced on her forearm as she sips from her juice glass. "Some nasty calibers though. Anything special about them?"

Charlie shakes her head. "Plain Jane. Nothing especially high-powered. Wouldn't even be illegal if they weren't being dumped onto the street unregistered."

There's a nudge at her shoulder and Paige looks up to see Briggs brandishing a can of whipped cream. God, they're laying it on thick. The FBI must really be in a bind.

"So what do you want me to do?" she asks, nodding for Paul to add whipped cream to the side of the plate that she's already polished off.

He grins. "Our bar needs a tender. And Mike isn't near pretty enough."

Damn it.

"Charlie's pretty!" she moans desperately. "Charlie's gorgeous!"

"I'm not arguing with you there," Briggs says patiently, patting her shoulder sympathetically. "And that was our plan. But Chuckie here went in there last night and did terrible things to a man with the toothpick from his turkey club."

Charlie shrugs, unabashed. "He grabbed my ass, I stabbed his. Got fired."

Grudgingly impressed, Paige lifts her hand for a high five. Charlie obliges.

"I still don't understand how that happened," Mike complains. "I've seen you hold your temper through worse."

"I made a slight miscalculation!" Charlie defends, whirling around to jab an angry finger in his direction. "I thought they'd think it was charming. You know, appreciate a strong woman sticking up for herself."

Briggs chuckles. "Maybe not an hour into your first shift."

"And now we know," she says, gently tapping Paige's arm with the back of her hand. "I make these mistakes so you don't have to."

Paige nods. "Don't stab anyone on the first day, got it."

It's not actually as bad as she was expecting. She doesn't love bartending, but she doesn't have to kiss anyone or shoot up or anything. It could be worse.

"Fine," she sighs, thinking of the decent tips she's bound to make. "At least tell me it's a beach bar. Surf jerks love me."

Charlie shakes her head and wraps her arm around Paige's shoulders. "So do I, sweets, but me and the surf jerks only make up so much of the offending population. From what I've seen, it's pretty laid back. No college kids. Mostly thirty, forty-somethings looking for a beer after work."

"I can live with that. As long as I'm not mixing drinks some twenty-two year old found on Pinterest, I guess it's okay."

Her plate is empty now, except for streaks of whipped cream and powdered sugar that she scrapes up with her fork uses to coat the one remaining strawberry. Briggs smiles as he clears her dishes and tips his head toward Mike.

"Your lesser half's running point on this one," he says. "He'll take you to the bar and fill you in."

"Got it." She hops off her stool and snags Mike by the hand. "Come on, Agent Warren. Let's go find us some trouble."


They park the truck far enough off to the side that it doesn't look like they're casing the place and case the place. It doesn't take long. It's a small bar to begin with, and there's not much business in the middle of the day. Mike props the case file up on the steering will and hands her a stack of pictures so she can put faces to names.

"Who are we looking at for this?" she asks.

Mike shrugs. "Charlie didn't get too far before they sent her packing. So far the only speck of dirt on this place is a cook with some gang activity on his record. But it's kid stuff. Literal kid stuff, he was sixteen."

"Long time ago." She notices him scowling at her bare feet on the dashboard and grins, remembering him complaining last week about toe prints on the windshield. "What about the owner? He'd have the kind of pull he'd need to keep people from asking questions."

"Can't rule him out. We're also looking at a regular customer that's there all the time."

"Think the bar's not involved and he's just setting up shop?"

"Could be." He leans over to pluck his picture out of Paige's pile and laughs when she wrinkles her nose. "Yeah, he's a real looker. And you're going to get to look at him every night from what Johnny says."

Johnny's having the time on his life on this case. For the past two weeks, he's been ingraining himself as one of the regulars; a problem drinker who's there till last call every night and should probably get some help. But he's the life of the party and no one is too careful about they say around him because they know he won't remember it anyway. Johnny just likes finding creative ways to get rid of his alcohol without drinking it and dancing on the tables.

A thick pack of papers lands in her lap and Paige startles. "What is this?"

"Your resumé and some things about your cover."

"My…Mike."

She flips through the packet with trepidation, holding the paper by the tips of her fingers like it's going to sting her. Heaven help her, it's on stationary and bound with some kind of report cover.

"First of all," she says with what she thinks should pass for extreme patience. "This is not how you get a job in a place like this. And second, why the hell am I from Rhode Island?"

"That's how you get a job everywhere," he says slowly, looking confused. "And you're from Rhode Island because it has no discernable accent and no one's ever been there."

Paige rolls her eyes. "If I go in there claiming to be from Rhode Island, one of the seven people on the planet that are actually from Rhode Island is going to be there to quiz me. And there's no help wanted sign. Why did I go to the trouble of typing all…" She waves her hands over the paper covering her lap. "…this up if I don't even know if they're hiring?"

Looking like he has to call on all of his patience to deal with her, Mike smirks. "Paige," he says. "You know they're hiring."

"Okay, smart ass. How does the me that isn't an undercover DEA agent know they're hiring?"

Got him there.

While he's still trying to work it out, she gently slides the papers out of her lap and into his. Her shoes are wedged under the seat and she has to fish them out before she slips them back on and smoothes her hair.

"I'm Paige," she starts, already opening truck door. "I need a job. I'm from here because I am from here and I know my way around. I like clothes that look like they're from a thrift store but have never actually been in a thrift store, and I knit, but only until I get old enough that it's not ironic anymore, then I'll quit. Sound good?"

"This is a bad idea," he moans, head on the steering wheel.

Paige leans over a presses a quick kiss to the back of his head. "Wish me luck."

"Good luck with your bad idea."

She flips him off as she slides her sunglasses off her head onto her eyes and hops out of the truck. As she makes her way to the front entrance, she hears him yell through the open window, "You don't have the patience to knit!"

Probably true.

A wall of stale heat hits her as she walks in. She realizes that the place isn't air conditioned and almost scowls. Somebody better be making her strawberry waffles every day for a month…

She has her pick of seats at the bar and chooses one at the end so she can slump against the wall. A TV plays lowly at the other end of the bar, and Paige recognizes one of the low budget monster movies that she sometimes pays half attention to in the middle of the night if she can't sleep.

"What can I get for you, sweetheart?"

Genuinely startled, Paige jumps in her seat the appearance of the bartender who appeared out of nowhere. The woman, who looks to be in her late-forties, sweeps the dark, sweaty hair at the nape of her neck into a high ponytail and winks.

"I have no idea." She sighs and runs her hands over her face, hoping she looks properly dejected. "What's good at…1:26 in the afternoon?"

"Uh oh," the bartender chuckles. "I've been here a long time, and I don't usually see people start day drinking for the first time when everything's going their way."

Resting her arms on the cool bar, she looks the other way and frowns. "Trust me, you don't want to hear about it."

"Hey." When she looks over, the bartender is hunched over, head tilted to the side so she can see her better, and smiling gently. Paige decides she likes her.

"You know," she says softly, and Paige leans closer. "Bartenders are almost as good as hairdressers when it comes to listening to problems. Hell, we help drown them in alcohol so we might be even better."

Paige heaves a sigh, and starts the story she'd concocted on the ride over. She's surprised to find that after her back and forth with Mike, she has some real frustration in her to draw from.

"Ten years," she scoffs. "I've been working in that diner since I was a teenager, and I don't think I've missed more than three days. Then the owner lets his son take the wheel and suddenly we're all old blood. No notice, and he never bothered learning any of our names so he's not giving us any recommendations."

"That's rough," the other woman clucks sympathetically. "The old owner didn't step in?"

"It's his kid," Paige shrugs. "We were just the waitresses."

The monster in the movie playing on the TV roars suddenly, and they both jump. The bartender braces a hand over her heart and soon they're both laughing, doubled over and resting on the bar.

"I needed that, I think," Paige says, smiling slightly.

"I sure didn't," the bartender complains good-naturedly, then softens and reaches to rest a hand on Paige's shoulder. "I'm sorry about your job. I've heard a lot of stories from people in your shoes in my days."

"I shouldn't complain. It's only been a few days. And I'm not much of a spender, so I'll be okay for a little while at least. Other people have it worse."

The bartender shakes her head. "Don't you go thinking that means you don't get to feel sorry for yourself for a bit."

"I think I have feeling sorry for myself down pat," Paige says bitterly. "Day drinking, remember?"

"Right," the bartender laughs. "Let me get you something. I think I have just the thing."

Moments later, she plonks a bottle of soda down on the bar in front of her. Paige picks it up and rolls it in her hands, looking back at her in confusion.

"I know I said I didn't know what I wanted, but this isn't what I had in mind."

"Probably not," the bartenders admits. "But it won't do any good to train you drunk. Now, hop back here and I'll show you the ropes before the happy hour crowd rolls in. You start tonight."


The bartender's name is Deb and she spends the whole afternoon re-teaching Paige things that she actually knows from previous experience but shouldn't know if she spent the last ten years working in a diner. Deb gives her all sorts of new information like that she has two nieces that work on the weekends when they need an extra hand and to stay away from Greg in the corner because he's always asking for trouble and he usually gets it.

Halfway through the night, a man that she recognizes from Mike's pictures walks in and Deb snags her by the shoulders to introduce her.

"Here I am, in need of a bartender, and in waltzes Paige. Ten years of restaurant experience and she just sits down at my bar. What do you say to that?"

"I say it's time to start buying lottery tickets," he says kindly, reaching to wrap his warm hand around hers and shake. "It's good to meet you, Paige. I'm Alan. Been here long?"

"Since two or so," she says, trying to keep the smile on her face as she inconspicuously wipes the sweat he left on her hands on the back of her jeans.

"Going on eight hours," he whistles. "Head on back to the kitchen and ask Ray to fix you something to eat."

She protests but ends up being herded into the kitchen. Just as well. She has to get a read on the cook anyway.

Ray grins widely and sits her down at the counter while he throws a burger on the grill for her. She takes her dinner break in the kitchen with him, and by the time it's over, she's pretty certain that while he's nice, he doesn't have the organization he would need to broker unregistered guns. She can't rule him out for good but doesn't feel the need to put a whole lot of focus on him.

When she comes back out, Johnny's there, standing on the bar and trying to lead the bar in a drinking song that no one (including Johnny) knows. Deb yells for him to get off her bar before she throws him out on his ass. Again. He winks at Paige before he hops down and goes to pester the regular they're supposed to be keeping an eye on.

Paige shakes her head and looks up at the customer that just sat down across from her. "What can I get you?"

"Give me one of Deb's firecrackers," he mumbles, eyes fixed on his lap, probably looking at his phone.

"Help me out," she says, squinting and trying to remember if Deb taught her how to make one that afternoon. So far it's mostly just been beer and margaritas, with the occasional gin and tonic or mai tai in the mix. "Do you know what's in it?"

The man looks up and blinks at her just as Deb swoops in behind her and smiles.

"Are you giving the new girl a hard time?" she asks sternly. "Because I'm equally sure of three things; she's young, she's pretty, and she wants nothing to do with you."

Paige grins in thanks.

The night ends with her walking a seemingly inebriated Johnny to the door, and offering to help close up. Deb winks and tells her no one cleans up after their first day on her watch, but she'll really put her to work the next night.

Mike's waiting in the truck, parked in the exact same spot it was when she left it, though she knows he went home not long after she went in.

"Hi," she says, as she slides in, pausing for Mike to remove a shopping bag from the seat.

"Hey." He smiles and kisses her, any hard feelings about earlier apparently gone. "How was it?"

"Good. I don't think we're looking at the cook, but I don't have anything solid."

"You'll figure it out," he promises. "Got you something."

He drops the shopping bag in her lap and she laughs as she unearths a pair of knitting needles and some garish purple yarn. "Thank you."

She doesn't know how to knit and has no ambition to learn, but she thinks the message is more of a peace offering anyway. Taking one of the heavy, metal needles between her fingers, she twirls it slightly and whistles under breath.

"Look at these bad boys," she says, impressed. "Jab one of these in someone's eye and they're not getting back up."

Mike chokes a surprised laugh. As he turns them towards home, he throws an arm over her shoulders and pulls her in closer. "And to think I didn't picture you as a knitter."