Nate asked Sam once why he was here. It was an annoying question, designed solely to see parts of Sam's brain that Sam hadn't yet volunteered for study.

The answer, of course, is that they're all here (here being L.A., and more importantly, here not being a ridiculously cushy Washington, D.C. office) because they thrive under pressure. They're here, instead of the aforementioned D.C. office, because drinking hot Starbucks and relying on precise orders handed down by people who take away the agents' need to think at all isn't how they function best.

They're here because slipping into the right jacket or pair of jeans lets them take on a role where they have to continually improvise in order to bring the bad guy in (or down, depending on the case and the degree of struggle.)

But Sam hadn't answered that way, because he had been talking to Nate. Instead, he'd smiled, adjusted the tie on his tuxedo, and given a much more cautious answer. "We're here because costumes are good for the kind of people we are."

Which is true, and also why stakeouts are so much more difficult than a regular undercover job. Undercover work allows them to get out of the car and move, to seek out scum and accomplices and to fill the role provided by their costume.

But a stakeout just means they're stuck here, in what might as well be a metal can under the sweltering L.A. sun, with their clothes clinging to them (which does not feel as good on Sam as it looks on Kensi or G.) There's no action, no costumes — just sitting.

So Sam sits there, folding his little paper animals. G. makes fun of him for it, because that's what G. does — always pushing, always seeing if you're going to push back or walk away, because those are the only two choices he ever sees. It's a method that works well with Sam and G., and has worked well with them for some time, because Sam figured out early that sometimes G. needs you to push back, and sometimes he needs you to leave well enough alone.

Kensi…Kensi is different than Sam and G., and as soon as has the thought, Sam can see her confident grin slip into place on her features in his mind. "You're just figuring that out now?" she mentally teases him and Sam's own smile grows as he mentally responds.

No, no. I noticed a long time ago.

He twists slightly in the driver's seat, turning his head to catch a glimpse of Kensi. She's in the backseat and her ponytail is limp and lifeless due to the heat, with stray little strands sticking to the nape of her neck. She's focused on a gardener, who may or may not be guilty of crushing the neighbor's windpipe with a garden hoe, and although she's trained well enough that she has to know Sam is looking at her, she doesn't even spare Sam a glance.

Focused. Always focused, with sharp accuracy. Sam's hands start to twist the paper into a hawk, then he reconsiders, and twists it into an eagle instead. The change in specific types of birds of prey is due entirely to the first stakeout they'd had since their…arrangement began. G. had argued — push, push, always push — that Kensi should get the backseat because she was the newest part of their relationship. And while Sam's pretty sure that most people with Kensi's skill would have punched G. in the face for the comment (deservedly so, in Sam's view, because some things even G. should know better than to say), all the woman did was step around G., open the car door and answer, "That's not how this is going to work, Callen."

Since then, G.'s figured out he needs to call shotgun when he wants to sit upfront.

Sam places the eagle on the dashboard.

"A duck?" G. asks.

"Eagle," Sam corrects. "Wings are too large to be a duck."

G. picks up the eagle and twiddles it in his fingers for a while, looking for the right words to argue. Sam's fingers twitch, because the eagle's wings are not supposed to bend like that.

But G.'s hands and feet (his entire body, Sam mentally amends) can't hold still. The lack of movement in a stakeout irritates G. the most, and Sam is frankly always surprised when G. manages to stay in the car.

The constant squirming is partially why Kensi lets him get away with calling shotgun so often, Sam is convinced. There are days she claims it, just to remind him that she can, mostly after too much pushing. But the constant tap-twist-move-squirm against the back of your seat is pretty damn annoying, even for an eagle.

"It still has a tail," G. says, not looking at the paper bird in his hands. His eyes dart, from the gardener Kensi has been observing, to the house next door and back to the eagle in his hands. He squirms around to observe Kensi, and squirms back around to look at Sam.

Moving, always moving. Always needing to move, always distrustful of his surroundings — and always certain he has a right to be. He does so even in bed, even when exhausted, always twisting and turning to get a better feel for the fact that Sam and Kensi haven't disappeared.

Sam's hands twist more paper into a mouse.

"They're tail feathers," Sam corrects. "And wings. They're isn't any tail on the eagle."

But there is on the mouse, and Sam places it on the dashboard too.

G. returns the eagle and Sam's fingers itch again to correct the poor wings.

"Definitely a tail," G. says triumphantly, but Sam doesn't give him the satisfaction of an answer.

"Someday soon," Kensi murmurs, her eyes still focused on the gardener, "We are going to have a discussion about your obsession over tails."

G. looks startled, as though he can't quite figure out whether it was supposed to sound the way it did. He twists around again to look at Kensi and says, "I think we've already had that conversation, Kensi."

Kensi still doesn't stop watching the gardener, but she does smile, and it's kind of smirk that makes Sam loose all his SEAL control and can make G. absolutely shut up for five minutes straight. "We've had a lot of conversations. Hard to keep track."

They have had a lot of conversations. Sam's Mom had always said the conversations were important to keeping a woman happy and a relationship alive. Sam hasn't had any reason to think that isn't true when the relationship includes more than one man.

Of course, Mom also always said that a man and a woman were like the legs of a stool and the balance needed to be equal between them or the whole stool would topple over the minute any weight hit it.

It took Sam a while, longer than Kensi, at any rate, to figure out that adding a third leg just made the stool more capable of supporting that weight.

It's something they both work at assuring G. He's coming around, Sam thinks.

G. is making the paper eagle chase the poor mouse and Sam gives him a suitably irked glare. Sam also moves only slightly in his seat, because his back is beginning to stick to the leather.

"Should have gotten the fur seat cover," G. reminds him. "Would have kept you from sticking."

"Fur just makes me itch," Sam answers. "And would make me itch more by the time this stakeout is over."

"Which is why we should — "

"No, we shouldn't." G. is technically in charge when Hetty isn't there and if G. really wants them to do some foolish thing to ruin the stakeout, Sam and Kensi have to go along with it.

But G. is smarter than that, and only wants to argue, to push. Lately, Sam's been taking a lot of clues from Kensi on when to just stand still and not push back (which is fun, if for no other reason than the expressions it makes G. give them both) but Sam can't stand still all the time. It makes G. more skittish, if he does it too long, for one thing.

For another, Sam likes to argue back.

G. shifts his gaze again and Sam rolls the paper in his hands. He's already checked out the gardener, enough to know that the man, if not guilty of murder, is certainly guilty of being the palest man in the entire damn city. He's also noticed the three different escape routes the man could take if they give chase.

Sam would rather chase, but they're here for a reason, and it's not just because they're all afraid of Hetty.

He twirls the paper in his hands again, and wonders what animal that makes him. Dangerous when he needs to be, content even when things are difficult… a cat, maybe?

Sam's never had any cats of his own, but he remembers one living behind the apartments he and his family grew up in. It was a "sneaky, devilish creature," according to his mom, one who would go digging in the garbage for scraps, stringing tuna cans and left over food wrappers across the back alley. Sometimes, Sam would bring it scraps and it always took a while for the cat to trust him enough to take the offering. On days the cat felt like it, he'd nuzzle Sam's hand before bolting off with the food in his mouth.

Sam had understood — understands — that behavior, but that isn't him.

"That one has a tail, too," G. notes when Sam sets it on the dashboard.

"Not a duck," Sam informs him, before G. can ask.

G. pouts and considers. "A fish?"

"It's a dog," Sam answers.

"That's awfully plain, after an eagle and a mouse," G. complains.

"A dog," Sam explains, "is patient when you trip over his paws and tug on his ears. He's loyal and figures you'll eventually figure out where he likes scratched best, if he gives you enough clues." And if anyone hurts the ones the dog loves, the right dog, a well-trained one, can rip out the offender's throat.

It's an important point. Sam did used to be a SEAL.

"Dogs have fleas," G. points out.

"So do mice."

G. considers this. "Eagles don't have fleas."

"They have mites," Kensi offers. "They're different than fleas, but they still make you itch."

Sam's pretty sure that dogs and mice have mites, too. But he doesn't say that, because sometimes you can't ruin the moment.

"Maybe the eagle feels left out," G. offers. "She's the only one without a tail."

"Thought you said she looked like she had a tail," Sam reminds him.

"Yeah, well, she does. But you claimed she doesn't actually have a tail, so I'm trying to humor you here, big guy."

"Maybe she likes having a not having tail," Kensi answers. "Maybe it makes her feel special when she's hanging out with the mouse and the dog."

"Seems nutty," G. answers. "The whole thing seems nutty, really. What kind of mouse, eagle and dog hang out on a dashboard as friends?"

"They're not normal," Sam responds. Because normal people don't want to put on a costume and run after a gardener just to escape talking about their feelings.

"Because they're made of paper?" G. questions, in a tone that lets Sam know he's being a smart ass just for the sake of being a smart ass.

In the backseat, Kensi chuckles and squeezes Sam's shoulder lightly with one hand.

She's still watching the gardener, though. "Think they'll make it?" she asks. "Figure out all the problems and kinks that come with…being made of paper?"

"Yeah," Sam answers. "I think they'll improvise."