A/N: This is in no way related to anything else I've done, except that the characters pretty much sound the same, because their voices are now burned into my brain that way. Just a little fun; somebody deserves to have some.

"So this is what you do," Norman Jayden heard behind him, "when you're not being a hero."

He closed his eyes in resignation, irritation, his sore body tensing in dread. He'd just wanted a few drinks, to come down to the hotel bar to drink in peace. At least he'd made it through a couple before the bastards found him. He made himself count to three, planning an escape route, before turning to respond.

"Look, lady –" he started, swiveling on his barstool, and stopped when he met her amused brown eyes. Madison Paige was behind him, smiling, her arms folded, hips cocked. He couldn't quite figure out what to do with his face in response.

Her mouth widened to a grin, and she gave what sounded like a genuine, ringing laugh. "Did I surprise you?" she asked. "I'm sorry, I tried calling up to your room, and there was no answer. I was going to just leave, but I thought I'd try in here."

"Yeah. Uh, yeah!" he gestured towards the empty seat to his right. "Sorry, I thought – I'm sure you're going through the same thing. Lots of people trying to ask lots of questions. I was just trying to get a drink in private, and I thought one of those reporters had found me."

"One did," she responded, sliding carefully onto the stool in her black pencil skirt. One corner of her mouth quirked up playfully. "Here I am, invading your privacy."

"I didn't mean . . . you know what? I did. Your profession is a blight upon the earth." Jayden raised his glass towards her. "Salut. Oh, shit, you don't have anything to toast with. Can I buy you a drink?"

"You may, Agent Jayden. Gin and tonic." He raised his fingers to flag down the bartender, and placed the order. The rush of their greeting over, they spent a few uncomfortable minutes together while the drink was being poured and served. Jayden smiled awkwardly, briefly, finished his own Jack and Coke, and began chewing on the ice. After the bartender moved away, Madison rubbed her thumbs over the moisture on the sides of her glass.

"So, um," she started. "God, I'm sorry. I'm not usually at a loss for words like this. I'm sorry if I'm intruding. I just feel like . . . we met, you know, in such weird circumstances. I mean, I already knew who you were, because of all the press conference stuff. I even did a little background research on you, before everything started to go crazy, because I was so interested in the story. And I bet I'm in all your reports, now. But we don't really know each other. And we only talked for like ten minutes when the police were starting to figure everything out. It's just been such an absolutely insane time, you know. You know, better than almost anyone. And I just sort of. It's dumb, I guess. Maybe this was a bad idea. But I wanted to –"

"Talk to someone else who was there," he finished for her, crunching ice.

"Oh my god, yes," Madison said, smiling in relief. "Is that okay?"

Norman nodded at her, almost imperceptibly. "I have to warn you," he said, "I'm not widely known for my amazing interpersonal skills."

"That's all right," she said. "I think I'd talk to a really friendly-looking wall, right now. Sorry, that was kind of rude."

"How's Ethan Mars doing?" Norman asked, mildly. "How's he?"

"I guess he's okay," she responded. "He's better, anyway. His whole world is Shaun right now, you know. I mean, I'd love to go talk to him, but I think they probably need some time together. And everyone else in the world is trying to get at him for an interview, poor guy. He's still crashing at his ex-wife's place. It's like a fortress right now."

"That's good. He was in pretty rough shape last time I saw him, so I wasn't sure."

"When was that?"

He shrugged. "The last time we were all together in more or less the same place. Just afterward. When they were starting to interview us, at the hospital. He was pretty much on his last legs. I was wondering if he'd get to go home soon."

She looked taken aback. "But . . . I mean . . . the . . . haven't you followed the news at all since then? I mean, there's been so much coverage about him, about Shaun. Me. You. Even though you're apparently some kind of crazy recluse. I haven't met another reporter yet who doesn't hate you."

Norman shook his empty glass, and looked at her thoughtfully. "Look," he said. "You really want to talk?"

She bit her lips, nodding. "Yeah," Madison said. "Yeah, I do."

"Because if you really want to talk, I'm going to need another drink. Several other drinks."

She gave him a strained smile. "Me, too, I think."

"And, Ms. Paige," he continued, flagging down the bartender again, "If I see any of this appear in print, I will make your life a living hell." He placed his order, then turned back to her. "Look, you're right, I don't know you at all. I don't want to already suspect you, I know I'm threatening you unfairly, I know I'm a little drunk already, but if you fuck me over, I could figure out a way to do that. To make your life very uncomfortable."

She was already shaking her head. "I know where to draw the line, Agent Jayden," she said, softly. "I really just need . . . nobody else will understand. Nobody else had to . . . to be there, in that warehouse. With that pit, and Ethan just about in pieces, and poor Shaun half-drowned."

Norman nodded thoughtfully, accepted his fresh drink. He studied the polished surface of the bar for a minute. "All right," he said abruptly, "You'd better call me Norman, then."

She smiled, shyly, gesturing at her high-necked, satiny blouse. "And I'd better be Madison. Madison is the one who wears the slinky tops, Ms. Paige is the one who writes the columns."

He relaxed slightly. "You do look a little less . . . burned than the Ms. Paige I met," he admitted. "A little less like you've been recently set on fire."

She pursed her lips. "Thanks. I try."

"All right," he said. "Listen, Madison. I don't . . . maybe you know all of this already. This whole thing has been one hell of an ordeal for me. I had to examine a murdered child's body, got the shit beaten out of me by one suspect, nearly shot another one in the head, found a dead cop and barely managed to arrest his murderer by . . . well, let's just say I'm not proud of what I did, found another dead guy, got the shit pounded out of me again by a serial killer twice my size, twice, and watched him get torn to pieces by a scrap press. Oh, and I think I got hit by about three cars, along the way. And that's only the stuff I'm willing to admit to."

There was a pause. The color had drained out of Madison's face. "I'm sorry," she said. "I mean, you're right, I sort of knew most of that, but. I don't know, hearing you say it –" she started, then stopped, awkwardly, and knocked back the rest of her drink.

"You have no idea the amount of paperwork that all involves."

She stared at him, uncomprehending, then gave an unbelieving gasp that lead up into a trail of laughter. His mouth was solemn, his eyes smiling, and he rested his right hand lightly on her knee in a gesture of tipsy goodwill.

"It's a good thing . . ." she trailed off into a stream of giggles, ". . . a good thing you didn't die, or you'd probably have to do everything in triplicate." She started howling at her own limp joke, resting her forehead on his shoulder for a second, and Norman let his mouth turn up at the corners.

"Want another drink?" he asked.

"Oh, god, yes," she replied. He tossed his hand up again, jerked his head towards her. The bartender nodded. She let his hand stay where it was, and leant in to talk low. "It's okay, right?" she asked, "It's okay to laugh when it just hurts too bad to cry?"

"What else would we do?" Norman asked seriously. "Anyway, you shouldn't be crying. Ethan Mars would be dead without you. You're a bona fide hero, yourself."

"I," Madison said, accepting her drink, "Have not exactly been having a ton of fun, either. Let's see. I was forced to do a striptease at gunpoint, almost got blown up, and accidentally uncovered and killed Doctor Death." She took a deep gulp from the glass.

Norman blinked at her. "Wait, what?" He didn't know where to start. "Who's Doctor Death?"

She choked, and hurriedly set her drink down, clutching at her face. It took him a minute to realize she was laughing and flinching. "Oh, shit," she said. "I just got gin in my nose. Do you seriously not know what I'm talking about? Have you really not read the papers at all?"

"I told you," he said defensively, returning both hands to his drink, "I've spent the last few days mostly doing paperwork and getting yelled at by everyone with any kind of rank above me. Honestly. Nothing in this case happened like it was supposed to, and nobody's happy about it. I'm going to be wading through forms and red tape until I die. Nobody can even figure out if I need to face disciplinary action or not. I'll catch up with what's been going on, I need to, but . . ."

"While I was helping Ethan," she started merrily, then stopped herself. She started again, more soberly: "When I was trying to figure out where Shaun was, I accidentally found this guy, Adrian Baker. He owned the house where Ethan cut his finger off, and I thought he might know something. He, um. He tried to kill me, in. In a really horrible way. God, that's a stupid thing to say. Like there's a really good way to be murdered." She stopped again.

Norman felt lost, wished he had his ARI with him for the information, but he'd left it lurking back in his room, safely out of temptation's reach. "You don't have to talk about it," he said, "if you don't want to."

"No," she said, "no. That's why I'm here. I'm here because I think you know how bad it can be."

He was having a little trouble concentrating, but that made it easier to agree. "You say what you want to say," he said.

"He tried to kill me with some power tools. I had to kill him, instead, just to make it out of his basement." Her smile was too tense, too bright. "Turned out he was a total psycho, had a ton of corpses in his back yard. They're still digging them up."

The information seemed unreal. "Are we . . . not Scott Shelby, totally different guy? Unrelated?"

"Yeah," she said. "I've only got notes so far on the whole Origami Killer case. I'm trying to . . . trying to do a longer project on that. But I'm in on the ground floor with Baker, doing all the breaking coverage of what they're digging up. I even came up with 'Doctor Death' for his nickname, and now everyone's using it." She drank again, deeply. "Go, me."

"That," Norman said, "Is deeply, deeply fucked up, pardon my French. Jesus. I . . . you know, I'm afraid to ask, but you almost got blown up, too?"

"Yeah," she said. "You knew about that. You heard that, right, that I got to the warehouse because I broke into Shelby's apartment?"

"I remember that," he admitted. "I got that in passing while everything was being sorted out. He caught you. Set the place on fire. I don't remember the blowing up part."

"There was a propane tank in there with me," she said. "The whole place was pretty much obliterated just after I got out."

"You should buy some lotto tickets," he said. "No, wait, maybe you shouldn't. Maybe you just used up all your luck. Fuck, am I drunk? I sound drunk to me."

"I think you're drunk," she agreed.

"You should catch up."

"That," she said thoughtfully, "Sounds like a plan."

As the evening went on, they began to say all the things they needed to, mixing them into the routine of strangers meeting: details of old stories, apartments, college, friends, past adventures. Madison became quick, focused, sometimes flirtatious. Norman slowed down, drawled his way into a self-consciously parodic version of his own officiousness, his accent thickening. He began using "ma'am" a lot, drawing on every line he could remember any government agent ever using in any movie, ever. They teased the information out of each other, working their way through a steady stream of alcohol.

"What was the deal with the cop killer?" Madison said, running her finger around the rim of her glass.

"I'm afraid that's confidential. No, not really. Maaaaaaaaaaaaad Jack, owned a junkyard. Guy was into some serious bad dealings. I ran into him while I was tracking down Shelby's car. Accidentally figured out he'd thrown some poor cop in an acid bath. I just hope it was after the guy was dead."

"Oh, god, I think I heard about that, but everything's been so crazy, between Doctor Death and Scott Shelby and everything. What happened? What did you do?"

"My job, ma'am. Defending the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic."

"Okay, but what did you do, Mr. Untouchable?"

"Threatened to blow us both to kingdom come if he didn't let me arrest him."

She spent half the time blurting through her own stories, either staring earnestly at him or looking down into her drink, lost. The other half, she was usually gasping or laughing like a lunatic at his, a receptive audience. Norman found himself smiling more and more along with her; Madison's reactions made the events seem more real to him than they had when they were happening. The bartender began to eye them both warily.

"Swear to god," Madison said, palm up, as though she were taking an oath. "Not even the first serial killer I found."

"Bullshit. Ma'am."

"Nuh-uh. You heard of Leland White?"

"Taxidermist. Crazy taxidermist. Ed Gein kinda guy. Oh, that's right, he was from around here, wasn't he?"

"I'm the one who found the bodies in his house, got those first photos. Only got out of there by the skin of my teeth."

Norman shook his head at her, wonderingly. "I advise you to not buy those lottery tickets. Or go skydiving. The government's official position is that you never leave your apartment again."

"Believe me," she replied, "Sometimes I'm tempted."

"Should leave all the psycho-hunting to the professionals."

"I," she said, archly, "am a professional."

"Well. The bureau thanks you."

The stories went on. She got sillier; he let her.

"Come on," she said. "Say it. Say it slow. Park the car in Harvard Yard."

"Pahk the cah in Hahvahd Yahd."

"Slower."

"Pahhhhhk the cahhhhh . . ."

They had to quiet themselves down for a little bit after that; the few people left in the bar were staring as she screamed with laughter, and the bartender was looking edgy. After she'd finished biting her fist and hiccoughing, had calmed herself, Madison stared only into her drink for a little while. She told him about how she couldn't sleep, hadn't been able to for a while. About how Leland White and Adrian Baker and Scott Shelby and a few other names that meant nothing to him were all jumbled up inside her head. Her face was flushed with alcohol, embarrassment. He listened, leaning on the bar, not following entirely, not sure if it mattered. Eventually, she trailed off, and they moved on, together.

"Do you get to choose your cases," Madison asked, "Or do you just get assigned?"

"Well, you know," he said grandiloquently, "It's not always up to me. But neither snow, nor rain, nor gloom of night, shall stay these couriers – "

"That's the post office's motto, asshole. I know that much."

She asked about him; she wanted him to share, and he tried. He told her that it had been hard, it had been terrible, to see Scott Shelby's death, but that his job was always hard. It was supposed to be. She tried to pry, but he shut her out with his barely-there smile, and she let him be. He tried telling her, instead, about how the ARI worked – always an evangelist for his personal messiah – but their mutual alcoholic haze made it difficult to explain.

"Last call," the bartender finally announced, with what sounded like relief. They looked guiltily at each other, but when Norman raised an eyebrow at Madison, she nodded, and he caught the bartender's tired eyes a final time, asked for one more round on the tab.

"I know you don't want to talk about it," she said, resting her feet on the ring around the bottom of Norman's barstool. "But you really did save a ton of people. Ethan, at least. And probably me, and Shaun, and if he'd killed all of us, I bet a bunch of kids. Their dads."

"All in the line of duty," he responded, solemnly.

"You," she said, running her thumb along one of his lapels, "Are a genuine American hero. And you need a hero's reward."

"Does that include dry cleaning? I really need some."

"That includes," she said, "Me taking you back to your hotel room and fucking your brains out."

He actually laughed at that, hard. Hard, and helplessly, for a while. "Oh, ma'am," he said, wiping his eyes. "Miss Paige. Madison. You're far too late to fuck up my brain any more than I already have. But I feel that I have a civic duty to let you try, anyway."