* 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 / 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒓

thea doesn’t know what to think. she still feels like she’s on the come down from the adrenaline rush of the heist. her mind is buzzing, her knuckles are pulsing from how much she had to use them, and she can’t seem to settle down enough to full comprehend what just happened. the diamond looked real enough to her at first, but the more knowledgable members of the group quickly debunked that idea. she doesn’t know whether to laugh or to cry, really. “i mean, it has to be a trick, right? someone’s tricking us?” she suggests, her voice a little more strained and higher pitched than usual. she paces back and forth across the room as she speaks. “anybody could have put that note there, whether there’s a…michelangelo or not.” she has trouble getting the name out. she knows that it’s unlikely that someone would make the traitor up, considering what happened during the casino heist as well. the only way someone could be one step ahead of them is if someone else told them where to be. she just doesn’t want to believe it. “are we…are we one hundred percent sure it was a fake?”

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎 𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐓 𝐒𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐓, but he doesn’t need to be one to tell that monty is INCREDIBLY upset. it’s not like striker blames him, he’s angry, too. it’s not like he wanted to spend his whole day schmoozing with aubrey winfield to come out empty-handed. even worse, this failure didn’t come out of nowhere. it wasn’t some chance outcome, some well, there was nothing we could have done about it anyway type of deal. it was orchestrated. they were set up to fail, lured straight into the LION’S DEN  —  and by one of their own. his stomach twists at the idea of ivy, or indie, or violet feeding information of their every move to another group, and he has to shake the thought away before he can dwell on it too much. it isn’t the place OR the time for that.

striker’s anger is usually quiet and calculated and careful. he doesn’t like to make a scene, doesn’t like to show too much to the jury. monty is very much the OPPOSITE. striker can practically see the emotion bubbling up in monty, like he’s about to boil over with it. striker moves before he can think better of it, overcome by instinct and instinct alone, placing a strong hand carefully on monty’s shoulder to ease him down from whatever ledge he’s ended up on.  “ figuring out who the fuck is working against us would be a good place to start. ”

𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐒 𝐎𝐅𝐅-𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑. he feels like he’s being overdramatic and not dramatic enough, all at once — he doesn’t need the money, doesn’t actually have any stake in this game beyond not getting caught. but they’d put the work in, dammit, and that diamond was worth twenty-five million dollars. their victory suddenly seems hollow; monty feels like charlie brown, kicking the football over and over only for it to be pulled away at the last minute every single time. he’s this close to stomping off — until a gentle hand resting on his shoulder brings him right back down to earth, settling him instantly. 

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐑’𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐇 𝐃𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐒, though only for one terrible, slow moment, when monty pulls away from him so abruptly. his immediate thought is that he’s done something WRONG and he eases himself away from monty for a moment, loosens his grip on him, holds his breath. it only takes a couple beats for monty to assert that he’s OKAY, his hands finding their way to his shirt and struggling with his buttons. this time, striker DOES pulls his hands away from his hips, instead moving to ghost over top of monty’s own. the action isn’t meant to stop him, but instead to reassure him. carefully, he drags his fingers across the distance between his knuckles and his wrists, a silent promise that he’s okay to slow down, to take his time. striker doesn’t have any intention of tearing monty’s suit off of him, anyway. if this is it  —  if this is what monty’s been waiting for, if this is the point where the thrill of the chase wears off and he’s no longer exciting to monty, if this is the only chance he gets  —  then he’s going to take his time and cherish every second of it. he’s not so sure if monty shares that desire, but he still finds himself nodding his consent each time that monty looks up at him to find it. 

when monty’s motions stop, it’s with striker’s shirt half-undone and he has to physically resist the urge to curl in on himself at the sight of his scar on display. instead, he forces himself to lean back on one arm and offer MORE of himself to monty, his free hand encouragingly carding through his hair. he’d assumed that monty hadn’t FORGOTTEN about it, but he’s still caught off guard by monty’s quick desire to expose it again. the thing about the L burned into his chest is that it’s one of the few injuries inflicted on him that’s served its purpose properly. it’s a reminder of who he is  —  of who belongs to  —  and it’s a reminder of why he’s spent so many years keeping EVERYONE at a distance. he’s set his boundaries, built his walls, and so stubbornly adhered to his own rules. and now monty’s touching him so tenderly, pressing his lips against the very part of him that most signifies why he could never be the person monty deserves, and somehow he can’t help but wonder if he’s been WRONG this whole time. 

it’s a lot to process, and he takes a moment to recover from the sudden onslaught of tender vulnerability. he doesn’t speak, at first, even though he so adamantly believes that the only work of art to be seen is most certainly monty. instead, he carefully turns his head just far enough to be able to press his lips to monty’s open palm and hopes that it conveys even a fraction of what he’s feeling. in its entirety, he knows that it’s far too much to even come near explaining with words or actions, alike, but he’s not trying to drown monty in all of it, anyway. all he needs right now is to be SEEN. his lips curl into something like a smile, though a sad one, at the irony of monty’s next statement. the mere idea of having spent the last ten months looking at ANYONE but him is almost laughable. still, there’s something earnest about his words and his eyebrows furrow slightly as he watches his features, as though they’ll give way to any answers of just how long monty has wanted this. as expected, he comes up short, and all he can do is lean back into his space again, pressing a kiss to his lips, his cheek, his jaw. carefully, very carefully, he murmurs a soft  “ i think i do, ”  against his skin.

he’s startled by the sound of a breathy laugh tinged with bitterness, eyebrows knitting together as he tries to wrap his head around monty’s words. he pulls his head away slowly so that he can look at his features, already starting to shake his head before he can process the action. why monty would think that he’s EMBARRASSING himself is beyond him, honestly, but it doesn’t matter. he doesn’t need to understand his thinking in this moment  —  that can come LATER  —  all he needs right now is to assure him otherwise.  “ monty, ”  he murmurs, hand settling on his cheek to try and carefully catch his gaze.  “ monty, BABY. ”  any other soothing words he has die in his throat the moment that monty suggests that striker FORGET about him. his fingers carefully, carefully catch his chin and wait a moment to be sure that monty is looking at him before he speaks. he used to find it unnerving, the way that monty holds eye contact like he’s looking right into your soul. now he relishes in it. now he thinks that he would happily bare his whole soul to monty without question, if that’s what he wanted.  “ you are NOT embarrassing yourself, okay ?  and i’m not… ”  he swallows, gives his head a tiny shake. there’s a very fine line that separates the things that he wants to say and the things that monty wants to hear, and he very well knows that he’s likely about to cross it.  he knows just as well that once he starts saying them, they can’t GO BACK, and he has to brace himself for the worst  —  for the blow of a rejection he wasn’t ready to stomach today.  “ i’m not going to forget about you. i’ve been thinking about this for MONTHS, i don’t WANT to forget about it. i don’t want to forget about you. not in the morning. not ever. ”

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐑’𝐒 𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐌 and holds him, fixing him in place. wide-eyed, monty feels a shiver run down his spine at being called baby yet again — he doesn’t think he could ever possibly get used to that. it’s already become something of a soothing balm: every time striker says it, monty melts, forgetting where he is for a moment in a haze of who, me ? like he can’t quite believe it. when he comes back to himself, he’s softened, his gaze open and trusting. he’s spent so long dancing around striker, touching him so freely — finger walking up his arms, brushing up against him, playing with his fingers, tracing his tattoos — yet now that it’s being actively reciprocated, monty doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. it’s almost as if he’d accepted the fact that he was doomed to pine. it’d be easier, at least, if he was left with the certainty that striker didn’t want him back. now, he’s as unsure as ever. striker wants him in some capacity — he wouldn’t have let him stay here if he didn’t — but the thought that he might not want monty in the same way is a terrible one. 

with every word that striker says, though, he seems to be soothing all of monty’s worries. not in the morning. not ever. it makes his heart sing, but the problem is, monty only half-believes him; the idea of striker wanting to continue this beyond a single night exhilarates him, but he discards the possibility of forever without a second thought. no one has ever wanted him for that long, and he doubts the trend is about to change. he’ll enjoy his time with striker, cling until striker is ready to toss him aside, and he’ll nurse his broken heart all over again. it’s what he always does. he won’t resent him for it — monty knows there’s something in him that makes this happen, over and over. he’s always trying to fix it, but it never quite works. striker will see that wrongness in him, whatever it is that’s prevented everyone else from staying, and he’ll leave. monty tries to hold this reminder in the forefront of his mind, but with striker looking at him the way he is, he can’t help but waver.

in this moment, he decides, he’ll let himself fall into the idea that it’s true. how could he not, with striker’s hand, gentle and firm all at once, curled around his chin ? with his eyes, dark and warm and inviting, holding monty’s own with a steadiness that almost unsettles him with how certain it is ? with his voice, that same soothing rumble he’s become accustomed to over the time they’ve known each other, saying things he’s always dreamt of hearing from someone he’s grown to admire and cherish the way he does striker ? it feels far too good to be true, but monty’s always wanted the fairytale. he’s always been such a sucker.

ivy was enjoying her post-heist high. she had… so much money now. this was new to her. she didn’t grow up wealthy, not at all. she struggled for everything that she had and now she could just… enjoy. and she didn’t know what to do with herself, honestly. she decided she wanted to maybe go see the sights, even if it was on her own. sure, she could text, like, 90% of the crew and she was sure they’d text her back and go out with her. but she thought she would take a little bit of time to herself. she zipped up her dress and adjusted her makeup, fluffing her hair, before walking out of her hotel room. she smiled lightly to herself as she walked down the hallway before she saw none other than monty. oh, wonderful. she didn’t hate him, not in the slightest, but she always sort of… didn’t exactly get along with him. but he’s grinning at her and waving and she just can’t find it in her heart to be mean to him. “well, hi there.” she laughed out, looking at him, shaking her head a bit in disbelief. “i was just trying to sneak out and have some alone time, but. alas, i’ve been spotted.” she raises a brow at him. “where are you headed?” maybe it would be somewhere she really didn’t want to go and she could just… let him down easy.

she nods, practically running towards the cabinet to get two plates out of it, grabbing forks and knives from the drawer beneath the cabinet as she does and setting them all next to the stovetop. “i think you may have missed your true calling, sir,” she says playfully, waiting for him to give his final stamp of approval on the dish before she demands food to be put on her plate right that instant. “if this heist thing ever stops working out for us and we’re not in jail, you should consider culinary school. i’ll even code your restaurant’s website for you. at a discounted rate nonetheless. i’m so nice, aren’t i?”

“you’re damn right, monty. THANK YOU.” thea rarely talked herself up at all, let alone bragged. if anything, she tended to undersell her abilities; she never wanted to give anyone the wrong impression. “you’re also right about that. are you just like, right about everything?”  she stared at him with wide eyes, expecting him to say another thing that was absolutely true. or maybe he’d do something crazy and start flying or something. either way, he was blowing thea’s mind. her gaze turned to the street at the mention of the uber. the minute she saw a black car – it only took a couple seconds – she pointed excitedly. “IS THAT IT?”

𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄, striker wishes he could read monty’s mind. he doesn’t THINK he made a mistake, not at first. he swears that monty softens at being called baby, and he’s something so gentle that striker nearly can’t stop himself from drawing monty closer to him. only, before he can, monty is pulling his hand away and leaning forward like he’s going to rise to his feet again and striker is so certain that this is it  —  this is the inevitable, heart-wrenching end when it’s only JUST STARTED  —  that there’s already an apology forming on his lips.

before it can surface, though, monty is returning to his line of sight. this time, his hands find their way onto striker’s skin and it sends him REELING. he’s used to monty’s touches  —  sometimes fluttering, sometimes lingering  —  but this time monty leaves goosebumps in his wake, striker’s nerve-endings all electrified by the sweep of monty’s palms up his arms. and, jesus christ, is he isn’t a GONER. he’s careful, still, frozen as monty paves his path, not willing to do anything that will disturb the waters or scare monty off  —  not now, not when he feels so close to something he’s wanted for so long. his breath catches somewhere in his throat when monty’s hands finally come to a stop on his shoulders. his gaze slowly travels over monty’s features, trying his best to read what’s written on his face. his hands ACHE with how much he wants to reach out and draw monty closer but something in him hesitates, waiting until he’s CERTAIN that it’s what monty wants, too. he’s too important  —  monty is far, far too important to fumble with like that. 

he gets his confirmation in the form of monty’s weight shifting towards him, his hands pressing against his shoulders as he uses them as a point of leverage, and striker can no longer hold himself back. his free hand reaches for monty before he’s crossed half the distance between them. his hand settles on the small of monty’s back, guiding him closer. even when he settles squarely in striker’s lap, it isn’t close enough. he NEEDS him closer, but his glass of champagne still rests in his other hand and, for a moment, monty’s gentle expression has become tinged with something like doubt.  “ sweetheart, ”  he murmurs before he can stop himself, hand still pressed soundly against monty’s back so he can’t get too far.  “ let me just… ”  he’s leaning to the side before he can finish the statement, only long enough to settle his flute somewhere safe on the ground. once his hand is freed and he returns to his upright, seated position, he’s quick to occupy himself with something else. his hand that is already resting at the base of monty’s spine drags slowly around the side of his torso before it matches pace with the other, sliding beneath his suit jacket to find a home on his hips, using the new position as a vantage point to coax monty in closer to him. all the while, his gaze never once wavers from monty’s own.

his heart skips a beat in his chest when monty’s hands move once more and, this time, settle on his cheeks. his resolve feels spectacularly close to crumbling. he’s unable to remember why, exactly, he’s been so determined to keep monty at a distance now that he’s such a warm, solid presence in his lap. striker thinks he might like to keep him here FOREVER, if he could. before he can even begin to ensnare himself in the debate of whether or not kissing monty is a good idea, the decision is made for him  —  and, he has to admit, when it’s monty’s sweet, hushed promise that makes the decision, striker can’t deny that NOTHING has ever sounded quite so good in his whole life.  “ kiss me. besame, ”  he instructs, voice almost hoarse as he tilts his head back to make it that much easier for monty to listen. 

and he DOES. monty kisses the same way he does everything else  —  all consuming and tender and sure. he’s always had a certain skill for captivating near everyone he comes into contact with, striker included, but this is unlike anything he’s known before. striker is fairly confident that the room could be on fire around them and he would have NO IDEA. he couldn’t pay attention to anything but monty if he TRIED. he has half a mind to think that the way he’s meeting monty somewhere in the middle  —  fingers curling around the sleek material of his shirt and bunching it at his waist, easing his lips apart to draw him in deeper  —  is probably over-eager at best, but he can’t bring himself to care. now that he knows what it feels like to kiss monty, he’s not sure how he’s EVER supposed to stop.

𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐒𝐔𝐃𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐋𝐘, overcome with an urge; his fingers fumble with the buttons on striker’s shirt, unabashedly eager. he’s been thinking about this since he first saw him in this suit tonight — fucking blue glitter, is striker kidding, the audacity of it — but he digresses. once he manages to get his clumsy hands to cooperate, monty unbuttons the first few buttons of striker’s shirt, glancing up every so often as if to ask is this okay ? once he’s reached far enough, his purpose is made CLEAR. the L he’d seen for the first time only a couple of weeks ago is laid bare before him once more; monty is just as horrified as the first time, but he keeps that tucked away, hidden and safe where striker won’t see it played out on his face. instead, the corners of his mouth tilt upward slightly, a small, secret smile just for striker before he tips his head down. 

the first kiss he brushes across the scar is soft and barely-there: i know this is here. don’t hide it from me. an acknowledgement, he thinks, is the least he can do after ten months of blissful ignorance. he presses another kiss to his skin a moment later, more firmly this time: i’ll take care of you, if you’ll let me. he can’t speak it aloud, lest too many things tumble out of him and drive striker away, so he pours his heart into this quiet devotion instead. the last kiss is gentle, sweet: let me. please let me. 

he lifts his head again, and lifts his hands to match, cradling striker’s face like he’s something precious. “ a fitting frame for a work of art, ” he says, only half-teasing. the words are barely above a whisper, as if he’s afraid any sudden moves or loud sounds will startle striker out of whatever spell he’s under. monty doesn’t ever want this to end, not now that he’s waited so long. but now that he’s opened his mouth, he can’t seem to stop; this is what he was so afraid of, admissions tumbling out of him with reckless abandon. “ you have no idea... ” he drags a fingertip over the line of striker’s jaw, over his bottom lip, kissing him once more to follow the touch before he continues. “ how many times i’ve thought about this. ” 

    𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒕𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒉.

𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐐 is nothing out of the norm for him. seeking out percy without mischa at his side, ready and willing to annoy the shit out of him, is more unusual. nevertheless, he wanders through the common spaces until he finds percy, hedging and fidgeting with some abandoned book on a table nearby before he gathers the words to speak. “ i can’t stop thinking about it, ” he says finally, looking over at percy with a half-grimace on his face. it’s a rare show of seriousness for him; something out of the ordinary, but he thinks the situation merits this sort of response. what they do is hardly legal, obviously, but it’s a lot easier to evade traditional pursuers like the police or the feds. they’re much more visible, for one thing, and they have ivy on the inside in case of emergencies.