you pick the locks, i'll lift the keys -- a hermes/the cat mythfic.
(AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is another in my series of "mythfics", to borrow the term from my darling etzyofi. In order to fully appreciate these, be sure to at the casting picspams.)
CAST:
andrew-lee potts as HERMES & hannah spearritt as MORGAN/'THE CAT'
you pick the locks, i'll lift the keys, a hermes/the cat fic, pg-13
(Dedicated to last_archangel, who requested this quite a while ago.)
Hermes is known for his impressive stunts; can he convince his latest ladylove to help him lift a very important painting? And can The Cat finally let this impossible man in past her defenses? Is that even a wise choice?
This is something that requires patience and a gentle touch. The problem is that he’s never been patient, and his gentlest touches are reserved for lock tumblers. (5,425 words)
“You ever going to take me home?”
Her eyes flick up, the wavering light of the candles reflecting mirror-like from them, and for a fraction of a heartbeat she’s as feline as her moniker. Her finger pauses against the last freckle she’d counted, just above his collarbone. Her hair, as pure white as new snow, is still damp and tousled. Her eyeshadow is smudged. She’s as disheveled as he’s ever seen her, and yet there’s still that suggestion of steel, like a locked trap. Morgan Turin lives a structured life built on absolute control and self-containment. Not even a heated tussle between his sheets has ruffled that.
“Maybe. Someday,” she says finally, voice huskier than usual. She shifts against him, resettling in a more comfortable position, the softness of her stomach against the ridges of his hips.
He crosses his arms behind his head, flattens the pillows down, makes a soft sound of acknowledgement. She looks up again sharply.
“A girl needs her space,” she says. “Her privacy. You wouldn’t want me to lose all of my mysterious allure, would you?”
“Doubt that’d even be possible,” he replies lightly. “…If you want me to drop it, I will. But I’m bad sometimes with curiosity. Can’t promise I’ll stay quiet for long.”
“Just drop it for tonight, then,” she says.
When he finally drifts off, she studies him carefully. She’s learned a lot in the past few weeks: about him, about the infamous Lito, about the world itself. But the Cat is never satisfied with a surface understanding-a cursory knowledge of the bare facts. She has to know the smallest detail before she can choose another footing. Before she dares to take a leap. Caution is what’s kept her out of jail, left her with a spotless record and a reputation worth flaunting in public.
Her grandfather taught her a lot-everything he knew, in fact-but the most important lesson was his first: never trust blindly. He’d made that mistake, and had sacrificed a relationship with his daughter in exchange for a life behind bars. Thirteen years he’d lost, but that was only a measurement of time. Thirteen years was also a childhood unwitnessed, milestones unattended, a gaping chasm that had never been bridged. He’d done his best to make up for it with Morgan, a tiny thing of five when she came to live with him following the fire. And while her mother would have hated him for what he’d turned her into, even she would have recognized that it was all done with love and kindness. Grandfather had been a thief. It had been in his bones, and all he knew how to do. Could he be blamed for passing that down to his granddaughter, for giving her the only heirloom he had left to offer her?
Hermes mumbles in his sleep, dark pink tongue flicking out to wet his lips. She stretches out a hand, almost compelled to trace the curve of his cheek with her fingertips, and freezes inches away. No. She doesn’t want to wake him. Not tonight. Her thoughts are too hasty, and it unsettles her. Being around him… He has an effect on her. Makes her feel reckless and wild and free. And that makes her hesitate and pull back. She’s become what she is through diligence and careful planning, through calm execution and steady detachment. Looking down at his face, so boyish and relaxed in sleep, she wants to stay here forever, tucked into the crook of his arm, warmed by the heat of his body. A cat with her master. But is that wise? In the least? Could she stand it-all of it? She has always worked alone because it was the safest option and because it avoided any messy complications. But with him, with this trickster, everything would become a complication.
Eventually she rolls over, her back to him, and manages to sleep. She wakes long before him, in the pre-dawn haze, and slips out of bed, into her clothes, and out the door. It doesn’t even click behind her.
-----
He sits on his balcony, the breeze sharp against his bare chest, and bites into a green apple as the sun rises. She’s got claws, and the last thing he wants to do is corner her. He has no doubt that she’d lash out, and he has no interest in carrying wounds in the wake of it. This is something that requires patience and a gentle touch. The problem is that he’s never been patient, and his gentlest touches are reserved for lock tumblers.
Things had seemed simple that night on the boat. They’d fitted together like a Chinese puzzle box, and there had been an almost audible click of rightness. In the awe of that first meeting, she’d been so open. And now she was withdrawing, twisting deadbolts on every door, laying tripwires in his path.
His teeth hit the apple’s core with a squeak. With a wince, he tosses it into the tiny trash bin in the corner. The issue, as he sees it, is that she is a master. He has certain wiles in his repertoire, but none of them will work on her. She carries his mark in her veins, in every cell of her. It means that she has a sliver of his godhood, an ounce of his power, and as a result is his full equal.
For the first time in a very long time, Hermes will have to actually work at this.
-----
The phone rings at her elbow. The tone tells her it’s him. And she hesitates before reaching for it.
“Is your passport in good order?”
She doesn’t let the non sequitur faze her and replies smoothly, “Yes. And?”
“How does dinner in London sound?”
“Rather unfeasible.”
“Ah. You’ve plans tonight?”
“Not as such. It’s just… I don’t care to do things spontaneously.”
“What if I promised something special? If I had a good reason for such an impromptu trip?” She hears rustling on his end, then the sound of a zipper being drawn up.
“Something tells me you’ll be going with or without me,” she says lightly. “You’ve already got your bag packed, haven’t you?”
“Clever girl.”
“Just observant.”
“See, that’s exactly why I need you to come along. Nothing slips by you, which will no doubt come in handy. Please, Morgan? We’ll take one of Zeus’ jets-that way, no screaming babies. And we’ll get there in half the time.”
She glances down at the table before her. Pick had lent her a new electronic lockpick a few days ago, and she had wanted to get a firm grip on its workings so she could build her own over the weekend.
“You promise this’ll be worth my time?”
“I’m going to ignore the implication that spending time with me isn’t worthwhile in its own right and just say yes in my most sincerest of tones. You can’t see it, but I’m fluttering my eyelashes in a very winning fashion. Come on-say yes. We can get two hotel rooms if you’re that put off by spending a whole night in my company.”
She smiles at his dramatics. “Okay. I’ll be at the Lito in twenty.”
“I could just pick you up-”
The phone clicks, and he’s not surprised. Whistling an old sea shanty, he grabs the handle of his suitcase and wheels the thing out of the apartment and down the hall.
-----
They get adjoining rooms, a lockable door in between. She appreciates that he’s respecting her need for privacy. It’s nearly six, and she’s famished, but as soon as they step out onto the street he loops his arm around her waist and directs her away from the restaurant she’d been eyeing.
“Alright, just what are you up to?” she demands, stomach grumbling in a counterpoint.
“Thought we should see some of the sights before we sit down to eat, that’s all,” he says in a voice calculated to sound innocent. It rings hollow in her ears. “Say, isn’t that the National Gallery? It’s been ages since I’ve been there. Let’s just go take a peek, shall we?”
He waves off the attendant selling glossy guides to the collection, walks straight past the group gathering for the next scheduled tour, and pulls her inexorably up the staircase and to the second floor. He takes each corner with a purposeful turn, and she knows he’s got his mind on something in particular.
“There,” he says, finally slowing to a more measured pace. They’re crossing a spacious and nearly empty room. On the farthest wall hang three paintings. The style is unmistakable, the paintings themselves some of the most recognizable pieces in the world.
“Wouldn’t have taken you for a Van Gogh fan,” she says with a smile.
“No, but I figured you were,” he says lightly, glancing over at her with a flash of teeth. She can’t help but stare at him for a moment, her surprise carefully hidden. Then she shakes her head slightly and turns back to admire the paintings, particularly the middle-most. She can’t forget that he’s been at the game much, much longer than she has. She notices everything because of his gift; it stands to reason that he’s more observant than she is.
“The Sunflowers, eh?” he says softly, following her gaze.
“Oh, does that surprise you?”
“A bit. Sorta thought you’d be more for the Starry Night series. What with their dark mystery.”
She doesn’t give voice to what she feels, looking at the bright yellow swirls. She’s always had a connection with Van Gogh’s work. There is much to admire in a man who could turn personal pain into universal beauty. And looking at his sunflowers… It almost felt like looking into her childhood. There was darkness, loss, and sadness there. But there was also the naïve optimism of youth, the joy of discovering she was truly good at something, the love and wisdom of her grandfather. When she looks at a Van Gogh, a part of her heart yearns to reach out and touch it…
“Why did you bring me here, Hermes?” she asks in a hushed undertone.
“Let’s go to dinner,” he suggests, taking her hand. “And we can discuss it there.”
A voice in her head whispers, Too many security cameras here…
-----
It’s a very classy restaurant. Italian. Crystal glasses and fine china on the tables. The talk is muted, the other diners discreet and respectable.
She doesn’t belong here. If only these posh ladies and their gentlemen knew. And Hermes doesn’t belong here either, for that matter. But he’s much better at playing the part of the nob, and orders the waiters about with all of the self-assured disdain of the higher classes. She catches the telltale twinkle in his eye and knows he’s enjoying himself immensely. She hides her smile behind a napkin as he pours her a glass of red wine.
“Have you ever looked at something,” he begins without preamble as soon as she lifts up her glass. “And just knew it would be impossible?”
She looks at him for a moment, then takes a sip. “Perhaps.”
“Everyone says it can’t be done. That you’d be mad. That sometimes, only sometimes mind you, a thing just shouldn’t be done. Like… Oh, the Crown Jewels, for instance. The Statue of Liberty. The Rosetta Stone. Or…”
“Hermes,” she says in a nearly inaudible whisper. “You can’t be serious.”
“Not for any profit, mind you,” he clarifies quickly. “Not to be malicious at all. Just to prove, to ourselves and the world, that it can be done. Just for a bit of fun. The thrill of it all. We’d put it right back, of course we would.”
“Some would call such an idea blasphemy,” she says.
“Oh no,” he replies, shaking out his napkin with a sharp snap before laying it across his lap. “Hardly blasphemy. A tad sacrilegious at worst. Perhaps only slightly profane.”
He eyes her over the wine glasses as the waiter returns with their plates, and he knows that behind that perfectly composed face all of the wheels are turning. Like any professional, she’s weighing the pros and cons, predicting the odds of being nicked versus the odds of a flawless success. He’s set a high bar for her, and now she’s deciding if she could ever make such a jump. A decision like this will take time-he figures it’ll be an hour before they get back to their hotel and she finally voices her thoughts on the matter.
-----
Seventy-two minutes later and he’s locking the door behind them, tugging at his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. She’s still quiet, still just a little too expressionless, and while he really wants to push, he reminds himself that patience is required here.
“I’m going to hop into the shower,” he announces, undoing the last button and tossing the tie across a chair. “Wanna order up some champagne for a nightcap? Maybe watch a movie?”
She nods, sinking down onto the edge of the bed. With a shrug, he steps into the bathroom and begins inspecting the 300-count towels and assorted soaps that will be returning home with them in his luggage. It’s a petty thing that nearly everyone does, but how can he resist, thief-in-the-bones that he is?
The water is drumming across his shoulders, washing away the last vestiges of the flight-they may have traveled by way of a luxurious private jet, but something about flying on a manmade plane always leaves a sort of film, and there are still times when Hermes longs for his old wings-when he hears the door open with a gentle click. The already steamy glass of the shower clouds further as the cold air of the other room hits the wet heat.
He says nothing, because he knows it’s her. Beside the obvious, he can always sense her; hear the faint song in her heart echo in his. After a moment the door to the shower opens and she steps inside, so very pale in the rush of water and steam.
“Damn, I forgot the loofah,” he says lightly, shaking the water from his eyes.
“We’d only take it for the thrill of it,” she says quietly. “Not to sell it, not to keep it. Just to say we had.”
“Absolutely.”
“We’d return it immediately, without the slightest alteration.”
“Right-o.”
“And you’d never lie to me about something like this.”
“Morgan, I doubt I could ever lie to you,” he says with a frankness that startles her. “If I tried, you’d just know. You’ve got my mark, remember? So what’s the point in me even trying?”
“There are a lot of things you try just for the hell of it.”
“So true. But this wouldn’t be one of them. Now, what do you say to letting me scrub your back?” He holds up the bar of soap with a crooked grin of enticement, but the look in her eyes stops him.
Her hair is plastered to her forehead, water dripping into her eyes, and her mascara has begun to trickle down her cheeks. For just a moment, he sees all of her loneliness and worry clear across her face, the invisible scar tissues left by old wounds. She’s refused to tell him much of anything about her past, but he suddenly knows with a sharp jab that she has been alone for far too long-so long that she no longer knows how to let another in.
He reaches out to her, and she doesn’t move. She stands there rock still as he cups her face, rubs his thumb across her cheek to wipe away the mascara tears.
“I’m not playing you here,” he says. Steam billows around them. “You’ll walk out of this untarnished, like always. I just… I’d like you to walk out with me, is all.”
She stares for a moment longer, lips pressed together, before finally nodding shortly. Then she steps closer, her arms sliding over his shoulders, against his neck, and she’s kissing him as if nothing happened, as if he’s just a guy and she’s just a girl and they’re in a swanky hotel on a weekend getaway.
Something about the kiss is a lie, but there’s still enough truth in it for him to respond admirably. And when he’s pressed her against the glass, and her legs are wrapped around his waist as he thrusts once, twice, her moan is authentic enough to convince any number of doubters.
Later, when they’re reasonably dry and rolling across the sheets, he can tell something has changed, if only a little. Perhaps she’s beginning to unlock those doors at last…
-----
The next morning she gets to work. She calls Pipsqueak about the architectural plans for the National; he promises to get copies for her by lunch, they’ll meet at a café on Winchester Street. The Lady owes her a favor from that time in Berlin, and says she can lend out her rappelling gear for a night or two. And a short call to Wooster confirms the schedules and change-overs for the security guards. By ten she’s marked off most of her checklist.
Unfortunately, her work is doing little to distract her from the most niggling concern. Namely Hermes himself. She wants to trust him. But how can she really, knowing his reputation? He could cast her aside for the next pretty chippie that catches his eye; he could run off with the prize and leave her dangling in the wind.
But Lord, if he isn’t everything she’s always wanted. If being with him doesn’t feel like coming home. If a single touch from his hand doesn’t make her dizzy.
And damn if this wasn’t the worst time to be caught up in such confusing emotions, just when she needs her head clear for the job ahead.
-----
Three days, and they’re as ready as they’ll ever be. Schematics are memorized. Rappelling lines are weight-tested. Hermes has successfully hacked the outer perimeter alarm systems. Tonight is the big night.
She’s hunched over the air duct cover with an electronic screwdriver, pulling up the bolts at each corner. His white grin flashes brilliantly in the midnight darkness as they each find a handhold and pull it off together. Rocking back onto his heels, he peers down into the gloom.
“Tight squeeze,” he whispers.
“I can manage,” she replies archly with a roll of her shoulders. She runs the angles through her head, the number of turns she’ll need to make before she’s above the room in question.
“Remember to rewire the security plate on the far wall,” he reminds her. “The interior alarms on the individual displays are still active.”
“I have done this sort of a job before,” she says.
He simply winks at her, tests the carabineer, and gives her a thumbs up.
She takes a final deep breath, flexes her fingers, and pulls herself into the metal hatch. Straight past five openings, then a right, another right, and a left. Twenty feet further, and there’s a large grate before her. She uses the screwdriver again, carefully pockets the screws, lifts up the grate and sets it aside as quietly as she can. Only the faintest shower of dust could give her away, and there’s no guard in this wing for another fifteen minutes. Plenty of time to swing down, maneuver around the security grid, and lift the painting.
Another deep breath steadies her as she slides her legs through the opening, takes hold of her line with one hand, and begins her descent. Two feet… Four…
Her line jerks suddenly, she stops abruptly, and it jars her so much she almost loses the screwdriver-just as it slips out of her belt she manages to catch it with her free hand. An agonizingly long moment passes. She’s dangling like a catsuit-clad piñata twenty feet above the floor, and every warning bell is ringing in her head. She can almost hear the approaching security guard, see the shock on his face before he hits the panic button that alerts the Metropolitan Police to the break-in-
The nylon rope twangs above her, and she looks up to find Hermes peering down at her, his usually cocky grin gone, replaced by a grim twist of his lips. Jammed, he mouths to her, his hand on the rope. She meets his eyes and sees their options clearly: either he pulls her up now, they pack up and leave, and that’s that; or they both do something incredibly stupid.
She glances down at the Van Gogh, the yellow swirls and daubs brilliant even in the half-lit gloom. Then she looks back up at him, at that problematic man who could mean the end of her. Or perhaps something even worse…
Her lips tighten, and he sees her decision write itself across her face as plain as day. He lets out the breath he was holding, summons a cavalier smile, and pulls out his knife. He had it sharpened only yesterday, and what a coincidence that turns out to be. He sets the blade to the rope, catches her eye for one last confirmation, and presses with a strength beyond human.
The knife is sharp, the rope is taut, and with that single slice the fibers part with the slightest of snaps. The Cat twists in the air as she falls, as gracefully as an acrobat, and true to her namesake-she lands on her feet.
She doesn’t allow herself any time to savor her own audacity. She’s pressed against the wall and ducking into the shadows mere seconds later, unscrewing the plate over the security panel and making quick work of the cables and wires within, cutting and splicing the lines Hermes showed her the day before.
The Cat checks her watch; they have seven minutes. More than enough, but she’s never been one to press her luck. Still, that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t pause now, just for a handful of heartbeats, to marvel at the impossible. She’s taking a Van Gogh off the wall of a world renowned museum-she’s actually holding it in her hands. Here she is, a girl from Norfolk, and she’s touching a piece of art history.
…And how the hell is she going to get away with this? It hits her how stupid she’s been, the needless risk she’s just taken, and the fact that she has no escape route now-
But when she looks back up Hermes is rappelling down, as smoothly and easily as lying, and she realizes it was nothing more than a test: he wanted to see how far she would go to prove herself, and her cheeks start to burn. She wants to scream at him, right here with a priceless painting in her red hands, but the distant jangling of keys snap her back into her senses.
She dashes to him, holding tightly to the gilt frame, and he’s got his arm around her waist in a heartbeat. He presses a button on his harness, and up they zip with the softest of hisses. They’re ten feet away from their exit, then five, when he suddenly stops them with a smile. She turns her head to look into his face, her anger clear, but he only raises his eyebrows.
The security guard, a thin string bean of a man with messy hair, strolls through the room. He’s humming a bad pop song from the radio and is bouncing his key ring in one hand. He walks clear across the room, not even glancing at the art along the walls, content to beeline straight for the next wing. He passes directly beneath them without the slightest hint of awareness, and the Cat is holding her breath so fiercely her throat is burning. She just knows he’s going to glance back over his shoulder, up to the distant ceiling, when he pauses at the opposite doorway-they’ll be caught like flies in paper.
Instead, he calmly punches in his code at the check-in meter and continues on his way. The humming and clatter of keys fades away.
Five minutes later they’re standing on the roof, the painting carefully stowed in a thick leather case. Hermes is shoving their gear into a duffel bag while she pulls on an everyday set of clothes over her catsuit.
“I can’t believe you did that,” she says, the wind whipping at her damp hair, shaping it into strange peaks. She shoves the detached hood into the pocket of her jacket before sitting down and pulling on a pair of boots.
“It’s not fun unless it’s close,” he quips lightly.
“No. No, Hermes. That’s not how I do things. You may have the family connections and money to get you out of sticky situations, and you may have had more practice at getting away with your stunts-but I don’t have any of those luxuries.” She grabs the leather case and starts off across the roof.
He stifles a sigh, jams his hat over his wild hair, slings the duffel bag’s strap over one shoulder and hurries after her. She’s not called the Cat for nothing-she’s down the fire escape ladder and in the alley before he catches up to her.
“Cat, I just wanted it to be memorable,” he says, matching her defiant stride as they join a stream of drunken night owls hopping from pub to pub.
“Because holding an actual Van Gogh isn’t memorable enough?” she counters. Her hair is practically standing on end. “I don’t think this’ll work any more. I can’t trust you-you proved that tonight.”
“No, of course you can’t trust me,” he agrees, and his voice is so amiable she misses a step. She freezes on the sidewalk to stare openly at him, heedless of the drunks who bump into her with angry squawks. “I’m a thief, Morgan,” he says, as calmly as if he was discussing the weather. “I’m a liar and a trickster, too. I love nothing more than getting someone to play the fool. I can be nasty and spiteful and harbor grudges till Doomsday. I cavort and rabble-rouse and incite riots, gamble and cheat and brag. I’m a bundle of vices and bad behavior-and I’ve never pretended to be anything but. Did I ever lead you on like I was otherwise?”
“No. But that’s exactly why I can’t be with you. Because you flaunt what should be secret. I can’t live a life like that. And with you, I’d have to be open about what I am, I’d have to live daily with a focused scrutiny from a public obsessed with your family. I’m not ready to come out of the shadows, Hermes-I doubt I’ll ever be ready for that.” She turns to go, to disappear into the late night crowd, but his next words make her hesitate.
“Yin and yang.”
She looks over her shoulder. “The Chinese symbol?”
“Yep. Strange blokes, the Chinese, but then they always did do a nice takeaway. D’you know what yin and yang mean?”
“Opposites.”
“Exactly. Opposites. Open and locked. Flamboyant and subdued. Reckless and cautious. Male and female. Everything has its corresponding opposite.”
“And your point is?”
“You’re the yin to my yang. You complement and contradict me, which is why we fit together so nicely. We’ve got exactly one thing in common: we love what we do, and what we do best is thieve. I look at that as the little joint that holds us together. The wee circle that we swirl around.”
She’s gaping openly at him; she’s never heard him talk like this before. The moment has become surreal, as if she’s fallen into a parallel world where the cocky God of Thieves often speaks earnestly about metaphors. “…And you seriously believe all of that?”
“Probably not, no,” he shrugs with a grin, and the surreality shatters. She’s back in a sensible world with a man who’s frequently as mad as a box of frogs, a dangerous angel of temptation more than happy to lead her down the path of sinful delights. “The point I was trying to make was that I don’t have to be like you, and you don’t have to be like me, in order for this thing to work. We’ve got something in common-let that be the foundation, as it were. And at this point, Morgan, I’m not expecting a lifelong commitment. We have fun together, don’t we? Can’t we go on having fun together, at least for a little while?”
The last of the drunks pass, and they’re alone on the street. A clock somewhere bongs once, a deep hollow tone. The wind picks up and nearly makes off with his hat; he clamps down on it with one hand, the other shoved into the pocket of his leather jacket.
He somehow seems so much… smaller, standing here in the flickering yellow glow of the streetlamp overhead. He’s not larger than life; he looks like any normal bloke with a penchant for hipster fashion. With that wry, semi-hopeful slant to his mouth, dark eyebrows drawn close together, he’s positively boyish. There’s no hint of the real rogue beneath, no suggestion of that predatory glint she’s seen in the darkness between the sheets.
She tells herself it’s an act, and that’s the truth-but what is Hermes if not the world’s oldest actor? He’s as faceted as the gems he’s made off with in the past, and depending on his mood or the time of day or who his audience is, he can become any number of men. How is she to say that he isn’t all of them, in one compact package?
Besides, he’s more of an adventure than a man. And that’s when her grandfather’s parting words came back to her:
“Just live, Morgan. Live a life worth reminiscing about when you’re my age. Live a life full of regrets and mistakes and tragedies-because without those you won’t really appreciate the victories and the joys. A heart is a dangerous thing, m’girl, and it’ll bring you plenty of pain and sadness. But don’t you dare hoard it close like dragon’s gold. That’s no way to treat a heart. They’re meant to be shared and given and stolen and open to anything.”
“You’re an idiot sometimes,” she says firmly.
“Yep.”
“And a right asshole, too.”
“Absolutely.”
“And if you ever pull a stunt like that on a job again-”
“Goes without saying.”
When the wind kicks up again, it successfully steals his hat as it passes. It could be he just didn’t notice, with her hands in his hair and her body fitted so tightly against his. Both of his hands were busy, anyway, and her tongue sliding against his lip more than made up for a mere lost hat.
-----
They spend five days in London, locked away in their double rooms. They put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, make an elaborate fort out of the pillows and sheets, and eat popcorn and chocolates while marveling at their guest of honor, carefully set up on a claw-footed chair. They watch Ocean’s Eleven and laugh and laugh. They make love on the stripped bed until they’re both exhausted, before turning on the shower and making love in the steam.
The broadcasts about the missing Van Gogh send the city, the nation, the world into a frantic tizzy-the police call in their best forensic experts to crack the case, but it appears the thieves left no evidence behind. The press dubs the theft the work of The Phantom, which makes life incredibly difficult for the handful of ghostly nom-de-plume professionals who find themselves suddenly facing inconvenient investigators.
Meanwhile, the actual culprits are too busy kissing on the balcony as the sun sets to pay the hullabaloo much notice.
On the sixth day, they carefully pack all of their belongings-as well as the few items that don’t, technically, belong to them-set the rooms to rights, and head off to the Olympus Air private airfield. An hour later they’re over the ocean, clinking champagne glasses on a job well done.
Hectate is very, very surprised to find Van Gogh’s Sunflowers sitting on an easel in her apartment when she returns later that week from a lecture at the École des Beaux-Arts.
CAST:
andrew-lee potts as HERMES & hannah spearritt as MORGAN/'THE CAT'
you pick the locks, i'll lift the keys, a hermes/the cat fic, pg-13
(Dedicated to last_archangel, who requested this quite a while ago.)
Hermes is known for his impressive stunts; can he convince his latest ladylove to help him lift a very important painting? And can The Cat finally let this impossible man in past her defenses? Is that even a wise choice?
This is something that requires patience and a gentle touch. The problem is that he’s never been patient, and his gentlest touches are reserved for lock tumblers. (5,425 words)
“You ever going to take me home?”
Her eyes flick up, the wavering light of the candles reflecting mirror-like from them, and for a fraction of a heartbeat she’s as feline as her moniker. Her finger pauses against the last freckle she’d counted, just above his collarbone. Her hair, as pure white as new snow, is still damp and tousled. Her eyeshadow is smudged. She’s as disheveled as he’s ever seen her, and yet there’s still that suggestion of steel, like a locked trap. Morgan Turin lives a structured life built on absolute control and self-containment. Not even a heated tussle between his sheets has ruffled that.
“Maybe. Someday,” she says finally, voice huskier than usual. She shifts against him, resettling in a more comfortable position, the softness of her stomach against the ridges of his hips.
He crosses his arms behind his head, flattens the pillows down, makes a soft sound of acknowledgement. She looks up again sharply.
“A girl needs her space,” she says. “Her privacy. You wouldn’t want me to lose all of my mysterious allure, would you?”
“Doubt that’d even be possible,” he replies lightly. “…If you want me to drop it, I will. But I’m bad sometimes with curiosity. Can’t promise I’ll stay quiet for long.”
“Just drop it for tonight, then,” she says.
When he finally drifts off, she studies him carefully. She’s learned a lot in the past few weeks: about him, about the infamous Lito, about the world itself. But the Cat is never satisfied with a surface understanding-a cursory knowledge of the bare facts. She has to know the smallest detail before she can choose another footing. Before she dares to take a leap. Caution is what’s kept her out of jail, left her with a spotless record and a reputation worth flaunting in public.
Her grandfather taught her a lot-everything he knew, in fact-but the most important lesson was his first: never trust blindly. He’d made that mistake, and had sacrificed a relationship with his daughter in exchange for a life behind bars. Thirteen years he’d lost, but that was only a measurement of time. Thirteen years was also a childhood unwitnessed, milestones unattended, a gaping chasm that had never been bridged. He’d done his best to make up for it with Morgan, a tiny thing of five when she came to live with him following the fire. And while her mother would have hated him for what he’d turned her into, even she would have recognized that it was all done with love and kindness. Grandfather had been a thief. It had been in his bones, and all he knew how to do. Could he be blamed for passing that down to his granddaughter, for giving her the only heirloom he had left to offer her?
Hermes mumbles in his sleep, dark pink tongue flicking out to wet his lips. She stretches out a hand, almost compelled to trace the curve of his cheek with her fingertips, and freezes inches away. No. She doesn’t want to wake him. Not tonight. Her thoughts are too hasty, and it unsettles her. Being around him… He has an effect on her. Makes her feel reckless and wild and free. And that makes her hesitate and pull back. She’s become what she is through diligence and careful planning, through calm execution and steady detachment. Looking down at his face, so boyish and relaxed in sleep, she wants to stay here forever, tucked into the crook of his arm, warmed by the heat of his body. A cat with her master. But is that wise? In the least? Could she stand it-all of it? She has always worked alone because it was the safest option and because it avoided any messy complications. But with him, with this trickster, everything would become a complication.
Eventually she rolls over, her back to him, and manages to sleep. She wakes long before him, in the pre-dawn haze, and slips out of bed, into her clothes, and out the door. It doesn’t even click behind her.
-----
He sits on his balcony, the breeze sharp against his bare chest, and bites into a green apple as the sun rises. She’s got claws, and the last thing he wants to do is corner her. He has no doubt that she’d lash out, and he has no interest in carrying wounds in the wake of it. This is something that requires patience and a gentle touch. The problem is that he’s never been patient, and his gentlest touches are reserved for lock tumblers.
Things had seemed simple that night on the boat. They’d fitted together like a Chinese puzzle box, and there had been an almost audible click of rightness. In the awe of that first meeting, she’d been so open. And now she was withdrawing, twisting deadbolts on every door, laying tripwires in his path.
His teeth hit the apple’s core with a squeak. With a wince, he tosses it into the tiny trash bin in the corner. The issue, as he sees it, is that she is a master. He has certain wiles in his repertoire, but none of them will work on her. She carries his mark in her veins, in every cell of her. It means that she has a sliver of his godhood, an ounce of his power, and as a result is his full equal.
For the first time in a very long time, Hermes will have to actually work at this.
-----
The phone rings at her elbow. The tone tells her it’s him. And she hesitates before reaching for it.
“Is your passport in good order?”
She doesn’t let the non sequitur faze her and replies smoothly, “Yes. And?”
“How does dinner in London sound?”
“Rather unfeasible.”
“Ah. You’ve plans tonight?”
“Not as such. It’s just… I don’t care to do things spontaneously.”
“What if I promised something special? If I had a good reason for such an impromptu trip?” She hears rustling on his end, then the sound of a zipper being drawn up.
“Something tells me you’ll be going with or without me,” she says lightly. “You’ve already got your bag packed, haven’t you?”
“Clever girl.”
“Just observant.”
“See, that’s exactly why I need you to come along. Nothing slips by you, which will no doubt come in handy. Please, Morgan? We’ll take one of Zeus’ jets-that way, no screaming babies. And we’ll get there in half the time.”
She glances down at the table before her. Pick had lent her a new electronic lockpick a few days ago, and she had wanted to get a firm grip on its workings so she could build her own over the weekend.
“You promise this’ll be worth my time?”
“I’m going to ignore the implication that spending time with me isn’t worthwhile in its own right and just say yes in my most sincerest of tones. You can’t see it, but I’m fluttering my eyelashes in a very winning fashion. Come on-say yes. We can get two hotel rooms if you’re that put off by spending a whole night in my company.”
She smiles at his dramatics. “Okay. I’ll be at the Lito in twenty.”
“I could just pick you up-”
The phone clicks, and he’s not surprised. Whistling an old sea shanty, he grabs the handle of his suitcase and wheels the thing out of the apartment and down the hall.
-----
They get adjoining rooms, a lockable door in between. She appreciates that he’s respecting her need for privacy. It’s nearly six, and she’s famished, but as soon as they step out onto the street he loops his arm around her waist and directs her away from the restaurant she’d been eyeing.
“Alright, just what are you up to?” she demands, stomach grumbling in a counterpoint.
“Thought we should see some of the sights before we sit down to eat, that’s all,” he says in a voice calculated to sound innocent. It rings hollow in her ears. “Say, isn’t that the National Gallery? It’s been ages since I’ve been there. Let’s just go take a peek, shall we?”
He waves off the attendant selling glossy guides to the collection, walks straight past the group gathering for the next scheduled tour, and pulls her inexorably up the staircase and to the second floor. He takes each corner with a purposeful turn, and she knows he’s got his mind on something in particular.
“There,” he says, finally slowing to a more measured pace. They’re crossing a spacious and nearly empty room. On the farthest wall hang three paintings. The style is unmistakable, the paintings themselves some of the most recognizable pieces in the world.
“Wouldn’t have taken you for a Van Gogh fan,” she says with a smile.
“No, but I figured you were,” he says lightly, glancing over at her with a flash of teeth. She can’t help but stare at him for a moment, her surprise carefully hidden. Then she shakes her head slightly and turns back to admire the paintings, particularly the middle-most. She can’t forget that he’s been at the game much, much longer than she has. She notices everything because of his gift; it stands to reason that he’s more observant than she is.
“The Sunflowers, eh?” he says softly, following her gaze.
“Oh, does that surprise you?”
“A bit. Sorta thought you’d be more for the Starry Night series. What with their dark mystery.”
She doesn’t give voice to what she feels, looking at the bright yellow swirls. She’s always had a connection with Van Gogh’s work. There is much to admire in a man who could turn personal pain into universal beauty. And looking at his sunflowers… It almost felt like looking into her childhood. There was darkness, loss, and sadness there. But there was also the naïve optimism of youth, the joy of discovering she was truly good at something, the love and wisdom of her grandfather. When she looks at a Van Gogh, a part of her heart yearns to reach out and touch it…
“Why did you bring me here, Hermes?” she asks in a hushed undertone.
“Let’s go to dinner,” he suggests, taking her hand. “And we can discuss it there.”
A voice in her head whispers, Too many security cameras here…
-----
It’s a very classy restaurant. Italian. Crystal glasses and fine china on the tables. The talk is muted, the other diners discreet and respectable.
She doesn’t belong here. If only these posh ladies and their gentlemen knew. And Hermes doesn’t belong here either, for that matter. But he’s much better at playing the part of the nob, and orders the waiters about with all of the self-assured disdain of the higher classes. She catches the telltale twinkle in his eye and knows he’s enjoying himself immensely. She hides her smile behind a napkin as he pours her a glass of red wine.
“Have you ever looked at something,” he begins without preamble as soon as she lifts up her glass. “And just knew it would be impossible?”
She looks at him for a moment, then takes a sip. “Perhaps.”
“Everyone says it can’t be done. That you’d be mad. That sometimes, only sometimes mind you, a thing just shouldn’t be done. Like… Oh, the Crown Jewels, for instance. The Statue of Liberty. The Rosetta Stone. Or…”
“Hermes,” she says in a nearly inaudible whisper. “You can’t be serious.”
“Not for any profit, mind you,” he clarifies quickly. “Not to be malicious at all. Just to prove, to ourselves and the world, that it can be done. Just for a bit of fun. The thrill of it all. We’d put it right back, of course we would.”
“Some would call such an idea blasphemy,” she says.
“Oh no,” he replies, shaking out his napkin with a sharp snap before laying it across his lap. “Hardly blasphemy. A tad sacrilegious at worst. Perhaps only slightly profane.”
He eyes her over the wine glasses as the waiter returns with their plates, and he knows that behind that perfectly composed face all of the wheels are turning. Like any professional, she’s weighing the pros and cons, predicting the odds of being nicked versus the odds of a flawless success. He’s set a high bar for her, and now she’s deciding if she could ever make such a jump. A decision like this will take time-he figures it’ll be an hour before they get back to their hotel and she finally voices her thoughts on the matter.
-----
Seventy-two minutes later and he’s locking the door behind them, tugging at his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. She’s still quiet, still just a little too expressionless, and while he really wants to push, he reminds himself that patience is required here.
“I’m going to hop into the shower,” he announces, undoing the last button and tossing the tie across a chair. “Wanna order up some champagne for a nightcap? Maybe watch a movie?”
She nods, sinking down onto the edge of the bed. With a shrug, he steps into the bathroom and begins inspecting the 300-count towels and assorted soaps that will be returning home with them in his luggage. It’s a petty thing that nearly everyone does, but how can he resist, thief-in-the-bones that he is?
The water is drumming across his shoulders, washing away the last vestiges of the flight-they may have traveled by way of a luxurious private jet, but something about flying on a manmade plane always leaves a sort of film, and there are still times when Hermes longs for his old wings-when he hears the door open with a gentle click. The already steamy glass of the shower clouds further as the cold air of the other room hits the wet heat.
He says nothing, because he knows it’s her. Beside the obvious, he can always sense her; hear the faint song in her heart echo in his. After a moment the door to the shower opens and she steps inside, so very pale in the rush of water and steam.
“Damn, I forgot the loofah,” he says lightly, shaking the water from his eyes.
“We’d only take it for the thrill of it,” she says quietly. “Not to sell it, not to keep it. Just to say we had.”
“Absolutely.”
“We’d return it immediately, without the slightest alteration.”
“Right-o.”
“And you’d never lie to me about something like this.”
“Morgan, I doubt I could ever lie to you,” he says with a frankness that startles her. “If I tried, you’d just know. You’ve got my mark, remember? So what’s the point in me even trying?”
“There are a lot of things you try just for the hell of it.”
“So true. But this wouldn’t be one of them. Now, what do you say to letting me scrub your back?” He holds up the bar of soap with a crooked grin of enticement, but the look in her eyes stops him.
Her hair is plastered to her forehead, water dripping into her eyes, and her mascara has begun to trickle down her cheeks. For just a moment, he sees all of her loneliness and worry clear across her face, the invisible scar tissues left by old wounds. She’s refused to tell him much of anything about her past, but he suddenly knows with a sharp jab that she has been alone for far too long-so long that she no longer knows how to let another in.
He reaches out to her, and she doesn’t move. She stands there rock still as he cups her face, rubs his thumb across her cheek to wipe away the mascara tears.
“I’m not playing you here,” he says. Steam billows around them. “You’ll walk out of this untarnished, like always. I just… I’d like you to walk out with me, is all.”
She stares for a moment longer, lips pressed together, before finally nodding shortly. Then she steps closer, her arms sliding over his shoulders, against his neck, and she’s kissing him as if nothing happened, as if he’s just a guy and she’s just a girl and they’re in a swanky hotel on a weekend getaway.
Something about the kiss is a lie, but there’s still enough truth in it for him to respond admirably. And when he’s pressed her against the glass, and her legs are wrapped around his waist as he thrusts once, twice, her moan is authentic enough to convince any number of doubters.
Later, when they’re reasonably dry and rolling across the sheets, he can tell something has changed, if only a little. Perhaps she’s beginning to unlock those doors at last…
-----
The next morning she gets to work. She calls Pipsqueak about the architectural plans for the National; he promises to get copies for her by lunch, they’ll meet at a café on Winchester Street. The Lady owes her a favor from that time in Berlin, and says she can lend out her rappelling gear for a night or two. And a short call to Wooster confirms the schedules and change-overs for the security guards. By ten she’s marked off most of her checklist.
Unfortunately, her work is doing little to distract her from the most niggling concern. Namely Hermes himself. She wants to trust him. But how can she really, knowing his reputation? He could cast her aside for the next pretty chippie that catches his eye; he could run off with the prize and leave her dangling in the wind.
But Lord, if he isn’t everything she’s always wanted. If being with him doesn’t feel like coming home. If a single touch from his hand doesn’t make her dizzy.
And damn if this wasn’t the worst time to be caught up in such confusing emotions, just when she needs her head clear for the job ahead.
-----
Three days, and they’re as ready as they’ll ever be. Schematics are memorized. Rappelling lines are weight-tested. Hermes has successfully hacked the outer perimeter alarm systems. Tonight is the big night.
She’s hunched over the air duct cover with an electronic screwdriver, pulling up the bolts at each corner. His white grin flashes brilliantly in the midnight darkness as they each find a handhold and pull it off together. Rocking back onto his heels, he peers down into the gloom.
“Tight squeeze,” he whispers.
“I can manage,” she replies archly with a roll of her shoulders. She runs the angles through her head, the number of turns she’ll need to make before she’s above the room in question.
“Remember to rewire the security plate on the far wall,” he reminds her. “The interior alarms on the individual displays are still active.”
“I have done this sort of a job before,” she says.
He simply winks at her, tests the carabineer, and gives her a thumbs up.
She takes a final deep breath, flexes her fingers, and pulls herself into the metal hatch. Straight past five openings, then a right, another right, and a left. Twenty feet further, and there’s a large grate before her. She uses the screwdriver again, carefully pockets the screws, lifts up the grate and sets it aside as quietly as she can. Only the faintest shower of dust could give her away, and there’s no guard in this wing for another fifteen minutes. Plenty of time to swing down, maneuver around the security grid, and lift the painting.
Another deep breath steadies her as she slides her legs through the opening, takes hold of her line with one hand, and begins her descent. Two feet… Four…
Her line jerks suddenly, she stops abruptly, and it jars her so much she almost loses the screwdriver-just as it slips out of her belt she manages to catch it with her free hand. An agonizingly long moment passes. She’s dangling like a catsuit-clad piñata twenty feet above the floor, and every warning bell is ringing in her head. She can almost hear the approaching security guard, see the shock on his face before he hits the panic button that alerts the Metropolitan Police to the break-in-
The nylon rope twangs above her, and she looks up to find Hermes peering down at her, his usually cocky grin gone, replaced by a grim twist of his lips. Jammed, he mouths to her, his hand on the rope. She meets his eyes and sees their options clearly: either he pulls her up now, they pack up and leave, and that’s that; or they both do something incredibly stupid.
She glances down at the Van Gogh, the yellow swirls and daubs brilliant even in the half-lit gloom. Then she looks back up at him, at that problematic man who could mean the end of her. Or perhaps something even worse…
Her lips tighten, and he sees her decision write itself across her face as plain as day. He lets out the breath he was holding, summons a cavalier smile, and pulls out his knife. He had it sharpened only yesterday, and what a coincidence that turns out to be. He sets the blade to the rope, catches her eye for one last confirmation, and presses with a strength beyond human.
The knife is sharp, the rope is taut, and with that single slice the fibers part with the slightest of snaps. The Cat twists in the air as she falls, as gracefully as an acrobat, and true to her namesake-she lands on her feet.
She doesn’t allow herself any time to savor her own audacity. She’s pressed against the wall and ducking into the shadows mere seconds later, unscrewing the plate over the security panel and making quick work of the cables and wires within, cutting and splicing the lines Hermes showed her the day before.
The Cat checks her watch; they have seven minutes. More than enough, but she’s never been one to press her luck. Still, that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t pause now, just for a handful of heartbeats, to marvel at the impossible. She’s taking a Van Gogh off the wall of a world renowned museum-she’s actually holding it in her hands. Here she is, a girl from Norfolk, and she’s touching a piece of art history.
…And how the hell is she going to get away with this? It hits her how stupid she’s been, the needless risk she’s just taken, and the fact that she has no escape route now-
But when she looks back up Hermes is rappelling down, as smoothly and easily as lying, and she realizes it was nothing more than a test: he wanted to see how far she would go to prove herself, and her cheeks start to burn. She wants to scream at him, right here with a priceless painting in her red hands, but the distant jangling of keys snap her back into her senses.
She dashes to him, holding tightly to the gilt frame, and he’s got his arm around her waist in a heartbeat. He presses a button on his harness, and up they zip with the softest of hisses. They’re ten feet away from their exit, then five, when he suddenly stops them with a smile. She turns her head to look into his face, her anger clear, but he only raises his eyebrows.
The security guard, a thin string bean of a man with messy hair, strolls through the room. He’s humming a bad pop song from the radio and is bouncing his key ring in one hand. He walks clear across the room, not even glancing at the art along the walls, content to beeline straight for the next wing. He passes directly beneath them without the slightest hint of awareness, and the Cat is holding her breath so fiercely her throat is burning. She just knows he’s going to glance back over his shoulder, up to the distant ceiling, when he pauses at the opposite doorway-they’ll be caught like flies in paper.
Instead, he calmly punches in his code at the check-in meter and continues on his way. The humming and clatter of keys fades away.
Five minutes later they’re standing on the roof, the painting carefully stowed in a thick leather case. Hermes is shoving their gear into a duffel bag while she pulls on an everyday set of clothes over her catsuit.
“I can’t believe you did that,” she says, the wind whipping at her damp hair, shaping it into strange peaks. She shoves the detached hood into the pocket of her jacket before sitting down and pulling on a pair of boots.
“It’s not fun unless it’s close,” he quips lightly.
“No. No, Hermes. That’s not how I do things. You may have the family connections and money to get you out of sticky situations, and you may have had more practice at getting away with your stunts-but I don’t have any of those luxuries.” She grabs the leather case and starts off across the roof.
He stifles a sigh, jams his hat over his wild hair, slings the duffel bag’s strap over one shoulder and hurries after her. She’s not called the Cat for nothing-she’s down the fire escape ladder and in the alley before he catches up to her.
“Cat, I just wanted it to be memorable,” he says, matching her defiant stride as they join a stream of drunken night owls hopping from pub to pub.
“Because holding an actual Van Gogh isn’t memorable enough?” she counters. Her hair is practically standing on end. “I don’t think this’ll work any more. I can’t trust you-you proved that tonight.”
“No, of course you can’t trust me,” he agrees, and his voice is so amiable she misses a step. She freezes on the sidewalk to stare openly at him, heedless of the drunks who bump into her with angry squawks. “I’m a thief, Morgan,” he says, as calmly as if he was discussing the weather. “I’m a liar and a trickster, too. I love nothing more than getting someone to play the fool. I can be nasty and spiteful and harbor grudges till Doomsday. I cavort and rabble-rouse and incite riots, gamble and cheat and brag. I’m a bundle of vices and bad behavior-and I’ve never pretended to be anything but. Did I ever lead you on like I was otherwise?”
“No. But that’s exactly why I can’t be with you. Because you flaunt what should be secret. I can’t live a life like that. And with you, I’d have to be open about what I am, I’d have to live daily with a focused scrutiny from a public obsessed with your family. I’m not ready to come out of the shadows, Hermes-I doubt I’ll ever be ready for that.” She turns to go, to disappear into the late night crowd, but his next words make her hesitate.
“Yin and yang.”
She looks over her shoulder. “The Chinese symbol?”
“Yep. Strange blokes, the Chinese, but then they always did do a nice takeaway. D’you know what yin and yang mean?”
“Opposites.”
“Exactly. Opposites. Open and locked. Flamboyant and subdued. Reckless and cautious. Male and female. Everything has its corresponding opposite.”
“And your point is?”
“You’re the yin to my yang. You complement and contradict me, which is why we fit together so nicely. We’ve got exactly one thing in common: we love what we do, and what we do best is thieve. I look at that as the little joint that holds us together. The wee circle that we swirl around.”
She’s gaping openly at him; she’s never heard him talk like this before. The moment has become surreal, as if she’s fallen into a parallel world where the cocky God of Thieves often speaks earnestly about metaphors. “…And you seriously believe all of that?”
“Probably not, no,” he shrugs with a grin, and the surreality shatters. She’s back in a sensible world with a man who’s frequently as mad as a box of frogs, a dangerous angel of temptation more than happy to lead her down the path of sinful delights. “The point I was trying to make was that I don’t have to be like you, and you don’t have to be like me, in order for this thing to work. We’ve got something in common-let that be the foundation, as it were. And at this point, Morgan, I’m not expecting a lifelong commitment. We have fun together, don’t we? Can’t we go on having fun together, at least for a little while?”
The last of the drunks pass, and they’re alone on the street. A clock somewhere bongs once, a deep hollow tone. The wind picks up and nearly makes off with his hat; he clamps down on it with one hand, the other shoved into the pocket of his leather jacket.
He somehow seems so much… smaller, standing here in the flickering yellow glow of the streetlamp overhead. He’s not larger than life; he looks like any normal bloke with a penchant for hipster fashion. With that wry, semi-hopeful slant to his mouth, dark eyebrows drawn close together, he’s positively boyish. There’s no hint of the real rogue beneath, no suggestion of that predatory glint she’s seen in the darkness between the sheets.
She tells herself it’s an act, and that’s the truth-but what is Hermes if not the world’s oldest actor? He’s as faceted as the gems he’s made off with in the past, and depending on his mood or the time of day or who his audience is, he can become any number of men. How is she to say that he isn’t all of them, in one compact package?
Besides, he’s more of an adventure than a man. And that’s when her grandfather’s parting words came back to her:
“Just live, Morgan. Live a life worth reminiscing about when you’re my age. Live a life full of regrets and mistakes and tragedies-because without those you won’t really appreciate the victories and the joys. A heart is a dangerous thing, m’girl, and it’ll bring you plenty of pain and sadness. But don’t you dare hoard it close like dragon’s gold. That’s no way to treat a heart. They’re meant to be shared and given and stolen and open to anything.”
“You’re an idiot sometimes,” she says firmly.
“Yep.”
“And a right asshole, too.”
“Absolutely.”
“And if you ever pull a stunt like that on a job again-”
“Goes without saying.”
When the wind kicks up again, it successfully steals his hat as it passes. It could be he just didn’t notice, with her hands in his hair and her body fitted so tightly against his. Both of his hands were busy, anyway, and her tongue sliding against his lip more than made up for a mere lost hat.
-----
They spend five days in London, locked away in their double rooms. They put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, make an elaborate fort out of the pillows and sheets, and eat popcorn and chocolates while marveling at their guest of honor, carefully set up on a claw-footed chair. They watch Ocean’s Eleven and laugh and laugh. They make love on the stripped bed until they’re both exhausted, before turning on the shower and making love in the steam.
The broadcasts about the missing Van Gogh send the city, the nation, the world into a frantic tizzy-the police call in their best forensic experts to crack the case, but it appears the thieves left no evidence behind. The press dubs the theft the work of The Phantom, which makes life incredibly difficult for the handful of ghostly nom-de-plume professionals who find themselves suddenly facing inconvenient investigators.
Meanwhile, the actual culprits are too busy kissing on the balcony as the sun sets to pay the hullabaloo much notice.
On the sixth day, they carefully pack all of their belongings-as well as the few items that don’t, technically, belong to them-set the rooms to rights, and head off to the Olympus Air private airfield. An hour later they’re over the ocean, clinking champagne glasses on a job well done.
Hectate is very, very surprised to find Van Gogh’s Sunflowers sitting on an easel in her apartment when she returns later that week from a lecture at the École des Beaux-Arts.