Grace Hanson did not, as a rule, nap.

As a child, it had always seemed more important to be running, climbing, doing - naps were just a way for parents to slow you down, and Grace didn't do slow.

A story her mother used to be fond of telling: a tea party, elegant and graceful and meticulously planned out on their perfectly-coiffed lawn, interrupted by the sudden appearance of her rebellious daughter, aged two-and-a-half, sprinting across the yard in nothing but her sleep shirt and a diaper, escaping from her crib yet again.

Grace knows she couldn't possibly remember the event as clearly as she does, and the memory is surely nothing but a combination of thousands of retellings colored by time, but she feels like she can hold the afternoon in her hand, the weight of her delighted defiance rolling around her palm, the smell of the grass and the wind in her hair.

Her mother, of course, had been mortified. She'd never tell you, but that was Grace's favorite part of the whole thing.

As she got older, she began to believe that the only people who napped were lazy, or drunk, or both. And, while she was occasionally drunk, Grace was never lazy. She prided herself on it. Therefore, she decided, naps were only for other people.

When Mallory was born, the doctor had given her what Grace deemed to be excessive amounts of advice, droning on as the bundle in Grace's arms squirmed.

She looked down at Mallory - at her daughter, she thought, with no small amount of disbelief - just as the doctor said, "And don't forget to sleep whenever she does." He cleared his throat when gave him an incredulous look, and hurried on. "Short naps are better than no sleep at all, and this one isn't likely to sleep through the night for six months at least."

"I don't nap," Grace said bluntly, swaying her arms awkwardly from side to side as she tried to soothe the restless baby.

The doctor laughed, then tapped his fingers nervously on his clipboard. "Well, uh," he said, "maybe you'll be one of the lucky ones. Some babies sleep through the night at three months."

"I am sure we will be," Robert said loudly, folding his arms and nodding at Grace. "Grace is as stubborn as anyone I've ever met. I have no doubt our daughter will be sleeping through the night in no time if she has anything to say about it."

Grace considered pointing out that he hadn't mentioned himself as part of the equation, but reconsidered. The compliment was nice as it was - no need to push for more.

"Is that all, doctor?" Robert asked, shifting impatiently. "Because I really must get back to the office - I have an important client meeting at one."

Grace stiffened, but the doctor nodded. "Of course, Mr. Hanson. If you'll just sign her discharge paperwork, I can have one of the nurses wheel her out to your car whenever you're ready. Hospital policy," he said to Grace before she could protest that she could walk just fine, thank you. Robert signed the paperwork, and the doctor retreated, leaving the two of them alone with their daughter for the first time.

Grace's left shoulder twinged and she repositioned Mallory as gently as she could to alleviate the pain, but her tiny face screwed up and she began whimpering fretfully anyway. "I thought Sol was covering your clients today," Grace said, bouncing Mallory in her arms as gently as she could manage.

Robert leaned down and picked her right out of Grace's arms with steady hands, holding her close to his chest, and she quieted almost immediately. "He said he'd try, but we have that meeting with the Rheingolds today, and you know nervous they make him." He tickled Mallory's nose with one finger as he cooed, "Don't they? Don't they make him nervous? Ohhh, yes they do!"

A nurse came in to wheel Grace out to the car before she could reply, and they were back home even faster. Grace, holding Mallory delicately in her arms, settled into the rocking chair in the nursery she had just finished decorating the week before as Robert hefted the last bag from the car onto the changing table beside her. Mallory thrust out an arm from her swaddling cloth and thumped Grace in the chest.

"Looks like you two are getting along just fine already," Robert said, shrugging on his suit coat. "Call the office if anything comes up, and I'll be back as soon as I can," he said, kissing her forehead absentmindedly as he turned to go.

The door downstairs slammed and Mallory screwed her face up again, cheeks reddening as she wailed. That was fine, Grace thought. She had plenty of things she needed to do around the house anyway.

Three months later, when she announced at dinner that Mallory was sleeping through the night now, Robert nodded. "I knew you could do it," he said, taking another sip of his Manhattan.

Grace nodded in satisfaction. She had been afraid the bags under her eyes might become permanent, but, after weeks of strict scheduling of feedings and bedtimes, she had done it. The house was clean, the meals were always cooked on time, and the baby was sleeping through the night. Nothing could make Grace Hanson slow down if she didn't want to.

She made sure of it.

Soon after Brianna was born, though, Grace hit a speed bump. A chaotic, colorful, infuriating speed bump known as Frankie Bergstein.

"Don't you ever relax?" Frankie asked from where she was slumped over her coffee mug at the kitchen table as Grace cleaned sticky handprints off the front of her cabinets.

"Not if I can help it," Grace muttered as she scrubbed at a particularly tenacious jam splotch. Curse Robert for convincing her that this playdate was a good idea. She could barely stand Frankie long enough to get through their bi-monthly dinner parties, but Robert had insisted that the kids should get to know each other and, besides, what was the worst that could happen?

This, Grace thought. This was the worst that could happen. At least they were in the beach house and not her own, so if she did end up murdering Frankie she wouldn't have to worry about the blood spatter getting all over her white upholstery.

"C'mon," Frankie said, leaning forward and stretching her arms out against the table, looking like nothing more than the stray cat Grace kept having to shoo away from sunbathing in her rosebushes. "The kids are having a ball with each other. If we're lucky, we can catch a quick nap before they even realize we're not in here."

"And leave them unattended?" Grace asked, aghast, nearly putting one bleach-soaked rubber-gloved hand against her chest before she caught herself, shaking her head. "Absolutely not."

Frankie leaned backwards over the kitchen chair and rolled her eyes at Grace from her upside-down perspective. "What could happen?" she said, flinging one arm out to point vaguely in the direction of the living room, gauzy sleeve fluttering as her bracelets clacked together. "Look at them! They're all having fun - and they're not even doing anything even a little bit dangerous, which I blame on you and your overprotective influence."

Grace glanced out into the living room. There was Mallory on the floor next to the coffee table, a serious as a five-year-old could be, thoroughly explaining the rules of Chutes & Ladders to Coyote, who was rolling around as he tried to get one of his feet behind his head. Bud was perched up on the couch, feet folded under himself as he flipped through one of the picture books she and Robert had given him for Christmas. Even Brianna was occupied, pulling individual tissues out of the box and methodically shredding each one before sprinkling them, confetti-like, over her own head.

Grace hated to admit it, but Frankie wasn't wrong - they were all calm, calmer than she ever had been as a child. They were especially calmer than Frankie was now, Grace thought as she watched Frankie try to twirl a spoon between her fingers and fail, flinging it halfway across the kitchen with a clatter.

Grace rolled her eyes. "I'm sorry that my efforts to keep them alive interfered with your laissez-faire approach to parenting," she said, stripping off the gloves and placing them on the rack to dry. "You can do what you like, but I'm not leaving them out here where they could climb the cabinets or pull the TV down on themselves while I go nap."

"Suit yourself," Frankie shrugged, before pushing herself up and leaning over the table to yell, "Who wants to come build a blanket fort with Frankie?"

"ME!" came three yells, and one excited babble. Frankie swooped into the living room and scooped Brianna up, tickling her stomach as Brianna kicked her legs in delight. "Well?" Frankie asked, "What are you waiting for? Grab all the pillows and blankets you can carry and meet me in the upstairs bedroom!"

Mallory turned toward Grace, but Frankie shuffled her along to the stairs. "Don't worry about your mom, kid," Frankie said. She turned to look at Grace as she continued, "She doesn't believe in relaxing anyway."

Grace watched as Mallory turned back and grabbed a blanket off the sofa before sprinting up the stairs as fast as her little legs could carry her, not turning to look back at Grace again.

The thumps and giggles of rampant destruction sounded overhead as Grace slowly tidied up the living room. She found all the pieces of the game and put them back in the box so the kids could play it again later, folded Bud's book closed and put it safely back on the shelf, and cleaned up half a box's worth of shredded tissues, putting the furniture back in order as she worked.

By the time she was done, the house had gone quiet, and when she snuck up the stairs, she saw a haphazard pile of blankets and pillows from every room in the house, and, at the center of it, the four kids and Frankie.

A book was propped open on Frankie's chest from where it had been dropped, and a flashlight cast odd shadows on the wall from where it had been abandoned on the floor next to Mallory's hand as she snored, her head on Frankie's stomach. Brianna, tucked safely in Frankie's left arm, snuffled quietly, and Bud and Coyote cuddled into each other under the shelter of a draped blanket.

Grace eased the door shut again and retreated, hands clutching at her own elbows as she folded her arms across her stomach. At least the house was quiet now, she thought. Maybe she could get a head start on dinner before Sol and Robert got back.

The party was supposed to be a celebration. After years of success with Say Grace, Grace was retiring at the top and passing the mantle to Brianna, and that, obviously, merited a party.

That in and of itself wouldn't be too bad - a party, after all, meant alcohol, and at least half the attention would rightfully be on Grace - but, of course, Robert had invited the Bergsteins over, too. "They're practically part of the family!" he had insisted just before opening the door. "Sol! Come in, come in - we stocked your favorite wine spritzers!"

Three hours later, she was deep into her fifth martini and hiding from the rest of the party on the back porch. The bench she had chosen was shrouded in darkness, but offered a clear view of the living room where she could see Sol and Bud laughing at a story Robert was telling, and into the kitchen where she could see Brianna trying to goad Coyote into eating something she had made in the blender.

She sighed and took another gulp of martini as a breeze wafted the scent of patchouli over towards her and Frankie sat down next to her with a bench-shaking thump. "Whatcha doing out here, sad sack?" Frankie asked, nudging Grace hard in the shoulder.

Grace sputtered and held her martini out in front of her to keep it from splattering on her dress. "I was having a quiet, relaxing moment to myself," she said, scooting to put some space between herself and Frankie.

"Bullshit," Frankie said. "I've never seen you relax for a single second in your whole life."

"Well," Grace sniffed, "I am retired now. Aren't retired people normally supposed to take it easy? Find a hobby and all that?" She gripped her glass tighter to mask the way her hands trembled.

"Tch, yeah, duh, of course they are," Frankie said. "But you're not normal. You've never been normal. In fact," she said, leaning in, the light from the kitchen catching the spark in her eye, "I bet you couldn't relax long enough to take an afternoon nap if your life depended on it. You're just too uptight for that."

"I could relax! I am a very relaxing person!" Grace insisted, turning on the bench to look at Frankie. "Just because I choose to get things done instead of lounging around like some layabout doesn't mean I'm uptight!"

"'Layabout?' What are you, a Depression-era factory manager?" Frankie wiggled her shoulders and waved her arms about in what Grace supposed was meant to be a mystical manner. "You have to let loose, Grace," she said, wiggling her fingers towards her. "Look at me. I'm so chill I could fall asleep in seconds, right here on this bench. I bet it would take you hours to do the same thing."

"It would not!" Grace insisted, shoulders stiffening against the brick wall behind her.

"Oh yeah?" And there was that grin again, the dangerous glint of teeth in the darkness. "Then prove it, sister."

And with that, Frankie leaned over and, to all appearances, immediately fell asleep on Grace's shoulder.

Grace shrugged her shoulder gently, then with more force as Frankie remained slumped over on her. "Frankie!" Grace said, martini held aloft in one hand and the other trapped between them. "Frankie, this isn't funny. Get off me immediately!"

Frankie let out an incredibly fake-sounding snore and cuddled closer, rubbing her nose on the shoulder of Grace's dress.

"For crying out loud," Grace said, and leaned back against the wall. "I can wait out this stupid charade of yours, you know," she said to the mass of grey hair draped across her shoulder, tickling her collarbone. "You're not fooling me."

Frankie's only response was to smack her lips together a few times and snore again, loud enough to rumble in Grace's chest, before settling back down.

Grace resigned herself to another long, weird evening with Frankie. At least this time she had alcohol, unlike the last vegan potluck she'd been unlucky enough to get roped into with Robert. She sipped her martini again as she felt Frankie lean heavier and heavier on her shoulder, until Grace was actually convinced she was asleep. Frankie's breaths evened out and deepened, and Grace felt herself relaxing against the brick wall against her will. Maybe she could just close her eyes and relax, show Frankie just how wrong she was and make her give up on this fool's errand -

The back door opened, spilling light out onto the porch, and Grace shielded her eyes with her martini. "Grace!" Sol said jubilantly. "There you are! Brianna's been looking for you."

"Yes, well, as you can see, I've been a bit encumbered by a certain sleeping hippie." Grace said, gesturing with her glass towards Frankie's sleeping form.

"Ahhh," Sol said, shuffling closer, hands jammed into his pockets as he flapped his arms like an agitated stork. "She must feel very safe around you! She didn't practice her narcolepsy routine on me until we'd been married almost a year."

"Yes," Grace said dryly. "I feel very lucky." She shoved fruitlessly at Frankie with her shoulder again. "Now, will you please remove her so I can regain some feeling in my left arm?"

"Oh, yes, of course," Sol said, and leaning over to pry Frankie away from Grace's side. "Come on now, Frankie, you gotta give Grace back her arm."

Frankie stumbled upright and yawned, stretching her arms above her head with an audible crack. "I almos' had 'er," she slurred, yawning theatrically as she pointed at Grace. "I almost made Grace Hanson take a nap."

"I'm sure you did, honey," Sol said, as he patted her shoulder.

"Whatever you need to believe," Grace said, and took another sip of her martini.

It's early afternoon on a Thursday, and Grace is wiped out. Vybrant's sales have gone through the roof, higher than she or Frankie could have ever predicted, and she's been on the phone with different distributors for hours. They need a new contract, one that reflects their size and growth potential, but she'd forgotten how much work it was to get men to take her seriously over the phone.

She drapes an arm over her eyes and groans as she hears the front door open. "If you're another burglar, feel free to come kill me now," she says. "The TVs aren't worth much in the current market, anyway."

She hears shuffling footsteps and then Frankie's hand smacks her shoulder. "Don't joke about getting burgled!" she shouts, seemingly right next to Grace's ear.

Grace winces and rubs her temples. "So jokes about getting murdered are fine, but jokes about getting robbed are off the table?"

"You got it in one, sister," Frankie says, dropping down on the couch next to her. "I like the TV we have now, but I wouldn't fight a burglar for it. I'm pretty sure I could fight off a murderer that was coming for you, though." She raises both fists in a boxing stance and makes a few jabs. "Adrenaline, and all that jazz, you know?"

"Very comforting," Grace says, and drapes her arm back across her eyes. "How about you go get me my painkillers instead of punching imaginary serial killers for me?"

"Serial killers?" Frankie says. "Oh, no no no, you never mentioned serial killers. I've watched the documentaries, you don't want to fuck with those guys. Sorry, sweetheart - you're on your own if Ted Bundy comes calling."

"So much for adrenaline," Grace groans, and shifts forward on the couch. "Fine. I'll go get my own painkillers, and you can start on the panic fort we'll need if the Zodiac Killer shows up."

"No need!" Frankie says cheerfully. "I had the coven chant invisibility spells around the kids' treehouse during the last potluck, so we'll be safe there. And sit down!" she says, grabbing the back of Grace's blouse and pulling her down onto the sofa again. "You don't need painkillers, you need Frankie's magic fingers!"

Grace feels her cheeks flush immediately. "Frankie!" she hisses. "I know I… kissed you last night after the sales figures came in," she whispers after glancing around the living room, "and we haven't talked about it properly yet, but I am not ready to-"

"Grace," Frankie says calmly, and rests a hand against Grace's cheek. For once Frankie is still, serene and peaceful, and Grace feels herself relax just looking at her, her shoulders loosening. She leans her cheek into Frankie's palm. "As much as I love it when you blush, I'm offering you a head massage."

Grace presses her lips together and breathes out through her nose. "Ah," she says, leaning back and wishing immediately for a drink to stave off the awkwardness.

Frankie, of course, blows right through the awkwardness as if it wasn't even there. "Anytime you want to tell me about all the thoughts you've had about my magic fingers, though, I'm all ears" she says, with a waggle of her eyebrows, and Grace can't help herself.

She laughs.

And, wonder of wonders, instead of getting insulted, Frankie laughs too, the two of them leaning helplessly against each other as the tension dissipates from the room.

Grace wipes her eyes as the laughter tapers off, and is startled as a yawn breaks free from her. Frankie shuffles sideways. "Come on, Grace," she says, patting her thighs. "You've been working all morning. Give yourself a break for once, eh?"

She tugs on Grace's sleeve, and Grace allows herself to be manipulated until she's laying across the couch, her head in Frankie's lap. She never used to be this pliant, she's sure of that. But she's not entirely sure she minds it.

She puts up a token protest anyway, even as another yawn forces its way out of her mouth. "We don't have enough time," she says, and she's not sure whether she's talking about Vybrant, or about Grace-and-Frankie.

It doesn't seem to make a difference to Frankie either way. "We have all the time we need," she says, and kisses her fingertips before brushing them across Grace's cheek. "I'd lean down to kiss you properly, but I haven't been keeping up with my yoga like I should, and I don't think we want a repeat of the back pain incident today, so this'll have to do for now."

Grace chuckles, but she can feel herself fading. The couch is warmed by the sunlight coming through the French doors, and Frankie's patchouli scent has, somehow, become comforting after all these years, instead of vaguely horrifying like it used to be.

Frankie's combs through her hair with her left hand as she fumbles for a blanket with her right, pulling it over Grace's legs and her perpetually-cold toes.

"I made Grace Hanson take a nap," Grace hears Frankie say from above her, sounding smug, and she's right.

It's the last thing Grace thinks before she drifts off - Frankie's right - but this time, it makes her smile.