#( well besides the hand in a vase that's nomming )

[deadtected]

" look, you can yell at me later. right now, less lecturing, more getting my hand out of the cursed vase. i think it's LICKING me. " charles, in his defence, had seen a coin at the bottom. it had glittered and his brain had told him to grab it before edwin could tell him not to. now he had a new glove that is a lot more bitey than his usual attire. " if i smash it, am i gonna lose something? "

open starter - charles ( doom patrol )

[lostinfic]

Art for Hearts’ Sake

Pairing: Jean-François Mercier/Betty Vates

Rated E  |  4400 words

Summary: Betty works in a care home and every week she sneaks out one of her elderly patients to a nearby art gallery. There she meets a mysterious Frenchman. He's an art dealer of some kind, or so she thinks, until he takes her on whirlwind escapade.

Fluff and smut / Art thief AU (loosely based on The Thomas Crown Affair)

Ao3

Betty peeked outside the room, left and right. At the end of the corridor, Mrs. Mansfield opened the door to the stairwell.  As soon as it closed behind her, Betty whispered: “The coast is clear.”

“Let’s go.”

Eighty-three year-old, Maurice Delorme, donned his fedora, pushing it low on his forehead to shade his eyes.

Betty pushed his wheelchair out of the bedroom, down the corridor and into the hall. She winked at 92-year-old Annette who shrieked, clutching her chest, thus distracting the nurse away from the front desk. Betty and Maurice rushed past the reception area, out the front doors and around the building.

Betty stopped to catch her breath. Maurice laughed wheezily, slapping his thigh.

“We did it, ma chère.”

“Remind me to get that fudge Annette likes.”

“Did I ever tell you I once saw her perform at La Scalla de Milan in 1963?”

“Have you?” Betty replied though, of course, she had heard the story before. She didn’t mind, Maurice had had the most amazing life, and she enjoyed his reminiscence however embellished they might be.

The St. James, where she worked, was a small and exclusive care home for elderly millionaires. Certainly nothing like the conditions in which her mother had lived. For many years, Betty had taken care of her mother, who suffered from an early-onset form of dementia, in their small flat in Leeds. When her mother passed away, Betty not only had to grieve for her parent, but also for the many years during which she had put her own life on hold. The day after the funeral, she’d looked at herself in the mirror and realized she didn’t know who she was. On a whim, she had moved to London and promised herself to live life to the fullest.

Things had turned out significantly less glamorous than expected. She couldn’t afford a home in a desirable neighborhood. And, with no formal education or work experience to speak of, she had found employment doing the same chores she had done for her mother. At least, at the St. James, she was paid for it, had real days off, and suffered less verbal abuse. Most of all, moving away had not magically rid her of her shyness and anxieties. Wherever she went, they followed, but she was getting better at giving them the slip.

Part of living life to the fullest had involved letting Maurice convince her to sneak him out of the care home. His doctor advised against any taxing activities and public spaces where germs abounded. But he longed to visit a museum or a gallery.  

“What is a life without art, but a body without a heart?” he’d complained dramatically.

And thus had begun their weekly escapades.

Just a few streets away from the care home was Kinwood Palace, an illustrious property with a world-class art collection open to the public. Betty loved the gorgeous gardens, but Maurice was here for the Rembrandts and Vermeers.

Betty pushed her accomplice over the gravel leading to the neoclassical villa. Despite being hot from the physical effort and warm summer air, Betty kept her cute coat on to hide her unflattering scrubs. She liked the coat’s sixties vibe with its big black buttons and bright colour, something she would never have worn before.

Tourists already filled the great blue and white entrance hall of Kinwood. Maurice flashed their English Heritage membership cards to the box office clerk. Betty scanned the crowd.

“Shall we pay a visit to Boticelli today?” Maurice asked. She nodded inattentively. “Or shall we visit Ringo Starr?”

“Whichever you prefer.”

“Betty, are you looking for him? The Frenchman.”

“Dunno what you’re on about.”

But her blushing cheeks betrayed her.

“You should invite him for— what is it youths call it?— ah, yes, for Netflix and chill.”

She burst out laughing. Her laughter echoed in the gallery, and she promptly slapped a hand over her mouth.

“If I were your age, I would invite him,” Maurice said.

“You were married when you were my age. And you loved Felicia.”

“Yes, yes. I could never love another woman after her. But I was always curious about sodomites… Do you think you could find me a rent boy, dear?”

She giggled and rolled her eyes.

“Well?” he insisted.

“Oh... Maybe?”

“It was good enough for Leonardo, after all,” he said as they stopped in front of framed sketches drawn by da Vinci himself.

Every room of Kinwood palace was breathtaking, Rococo frescoes decorated the walls between Roman columns, and hanging from the coffered ceiling, massive chandeliers sparkled. And there were books, so many books, and vases of fresh flowers everywhere. As Maurice admired the masterpieces in gilded frames, Betty imagined herself living in a place like this, a century ago, or imagined being an actress in a period drama.

“He’s here,” Maurice whispered.

“Who?”

“Who?” he parroted; She wasn’t fooling him.

She glanced sideways and spotted the Frenchman, smoking just outside the garden doors, his jacket hooked on a finger over his shoulder. His hair was neatly pomaded, his trousers tailored, his shirt smooth and sharp: an old-fashioned sort of cool, straight out of her wet dreams.

Her heart skipped a beat, and she bit back a simper. She knew that from behind his sunglasses, he was studying her. One corner of his mouth rose in a languid, crooked smile.

Five times now they had visited Kinwood at the same time.  Five times he had watched her from afar, with that penetrating gaze of his, the hesitated— no, not hesitated, evaluated or calculated— and finally approached her. Though he never stayed long in their company, he’d made a lasting impression on both her and Maurice.

He’d said he was a subcontractor for Kinwood, as an art appraiser, she assumed because of the way he observed everything. Including Betty herself. Being seen, it unsettled her. Most days she felt indistinguishable from a potted plant. Perhaps a side effect of having lived with a mother who couldn’t recognize her anymore for years. Though Betty considered herself plain by contemporary standards, she liked to think that, on a good day, she had a hint of beauty from another era. Perhaps he could appreciate that.

He greeted Maurice warmly, in French, then turned to her, “I thought I’d recognized your laugh.” He pocketed his sunglasses, then took her hand and kissed her knuckles.

To anyone, she would have claimed he was laying it on a bit thick, but deep down she melted.

“Son nom est Betty et elle est célibataire,” Mr. Delorme said to the Frenchman.

Betty glared at him, though she didn’t know what he’d said beside her name.

“I’m Jean-François,” he said, mostly to her.

They walked together through the rooms, and soon forgot about the art. He had a way of mentioning things she had said in previous conversations: he’d read a book she liked, and he asked after the stray kittens she worried. Betty, too, remembered every word he had ever said to her, but was trying very hard to look like she didn’t. But here he was, being so openly infatuated, she’d convinced herself it was too good to be true. Yet every time they met, her misgivings vanished, and she let herself be thoroughly charmed.

They stopped in front of a small canvas, “The Enchanted Castle” by Claude Gellée, and this time Betty paid attention.  

“It’s one of your favourites, isn’t it?” Jean-François remarked.

“I like landscapes the best. They’re like a window to another place, another time. I can almost… jump in. Escape.”

She covered her mouth, regretting that last word. But Jean-François brushed her hand away.

“Yes,” he said simply.

Emboldened by his touch, Betty said, “Would you— I mean, I’m working now, but later, maybe we could— if you’d like…”

“Yes,” he said again.

“Okay.” She laughed and bit her bottom lip.

“But first, I have a painting to steal.”

“What?”

He slipped his jacket on and popped the collar. He said a few words in French to Mr. Delorme, then vanished out of the gallery.

Betty blinked, mouth agape. Well, that’s one way of getting dumped.

“Oh, no, I think I dropped my pills,” Mr. Delorme said, patting his breast pockets. “I swear I had them.”

“I’ll go look for them,” she said, thankful for an excuse to get away.

Fifteen minutes later, she found the bottle of medication in the antechamber thanks to a security guard. After that, Mr. Delorme asked to leave.

On the way back, Betty didn’t say a word. In her mind, she kept replaying the scene, trying to figure out what she’d done wrong. Her eyes teared up, but she blamed it on the dry wind. Humiliation, sadness and anger warred in her chest.

*

They weren’t careful going back inside the care home and were caught by the nurse at the front desk. Mrs. Manfield was a real stickler for rules and disliked Betty.

“We were only out in the garden,” Maurice retorted before Betty could gather her wits.

The nurse narrowed her eyes at them. “If I find out otherwise…” she warned.

Betty could lose her job over these little escapades, all for what? A rich old man and a weird Frenchman?

She took Mr. Delorme back to his room. With an unusually cold attitude, she helped him out of his outerwear and onto the armchair in front of the TV. Her behaviour shocked him, and he tried to soothe her with jokes and charm, but she ignored him.

“We won’t be going back to Kinwood palace,” she announced and left his apartments.

She went back to work, to menial tasks and being called by other carers’ names.

By the end of her shift at 5 pm, on top of the humiliation, sadness, anger and fear of losing her job, she was now feeling guilty about having been so cold with Mr. Delorme. She changed out of her dirty scrubs into her own clothes. Putting on the yellow sundress and cardigan cheered her up. She decided to pay Maurice a visit before leaving.

*

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Delorme. I panicked.”

“Don’t worry about it, ma chère.” He patted her hands. “You will feel better soon, I just know it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I just am.” He winked.

She chalked it up to his eccentric nature, but then there was a knock at the door.

“Told you,” he said.

Betty opened the door and gasped at finding Jean-François standing there.

“Good evening, Betty.”

“What— what are you doing here?”

“I have some unfinished business.”

He closed the door behind him and walked to Mr. Delorme’s wheelchair. He knelt beside it and fiddled with the underside, finally pulling out a slim leather case.

“Let’s see it,” Mr. Delorme said, rubbing his hands excitedly.

In a smooth move, Jean-François set the case on the table, flipped the locks and revealed its content: a painting. A painting from the Kinwood collection. One of her favorites: a moonlit forest by Joseph Wright of Derby.

“Tell me it’s a very good fake,” she whispered.

“There is a very good fake,” he said, “whether it’s in that case or at the gallery, well…” he smirked.

He closed back the case and checked his watch.

“Perfect.” Jean-François offered her his arm. “Are you ready for our date?”

Betty rubbed her brow and laughed incredulously. She cast a glance at Mr. Delorme who was nothing but encouraging.

“Where would we go?”

“First, I am going to hang this in my home, then we can grab a bite to eat. Is that all right with you?”

Mr. Delorme whispered, “Netflix and chill.”

Betty felt rooted on the spot. Her first instinct was to refuse. Going to a stranger’s house on the first date, a stranger who might be a thief? That was a bad idea. A fantastically terrible idea. A terribly alluring idea.

She looped her arm through his. Striding out of her place of work on his arm, she felt like a million bucks. Which is to say, less than what that masterpiece was worth.

Outside the doors, a gleaming vintage Jaguar awaited them, chauffeur standing straight beside it. They slipped in the backseat. When the door closed, butterflies erupted in Betty’s stomach.

The chauffeur smoothly navigated the traffic and drove them just outside London, to a private aerodrome. Jean-François opened the car door for her just as two men in coveralls rolled a ladder up to a small aircraft.

In a daze, Betty held Jean-François’s hand and followed him inside the cockpit. He buckled her seat harness and gave her some instructions she barely registered. He flicked switches and talked to Ground Control.

“Ready?” he asked her.

Betty should have been scared, but she couldn’t muster any fear, only excitement. Perhaps that’s what should have scared her.

She took a deep breath. “Ready.”

He taxied the plane into position and down the runway, faster and faster. Betty’s heart rate accelerated. Jean-François pulled back the controls, and as they rose in the air, a flush of adrenaline tingled through her body. Soon, they were flying over twilit London.

“Where are we going?”

“Like I said, to my home, first.”

She laughed as the blue-grey waters of the Channel appeared on the horizon. France straight ahead.

Her cheeks ached from smiling, and her heart never slowed.

They landed on a small strip in the middle of a wooded area. Betty’s legs wobbled when she stood up. Jean-François offered his hand to help her deplane. He was so frustratingly cool and composed for someone who’d just flown a stolen masterpiece across the border.

The country air was pure and warm. They weren’t in Paris, but in southern France. They walked along a trail then a grand villa came into view. Whitewashed stone, terracotta roof and blue shutters among ambitious vines and towering cypresses. Dogs ran in the tall grass, and wildflowers decorated the lawn. Solar panels hinted at an off-the-grid lifestyle.

“So?” he asked with a sweeping gesture.

She rolled her eyes with a grin. “Showoff.”

“When else can I show off if not on the first date?”

“All I’m saying is you’re setting the bar pretty high for the second date.”

She thought, even if this turns out to be all a ruse to get her in bed, even if he sends her back to London tomorrow without a goodbye, she didn’t care. It would be worth it. She deserved an incredible fling.

A middle-aged housekeeper came out to greet him and narrowed her eyes at his guest.

“You brought someone with you, monsieur?”

“Don’t worry, Marie.”

He stepped forward, still holding Betty’s hand, but she tugged him back.

“Hey, if I’m not back for my shift tomorrow morning, Mr. Delorme knows I’m with you and what you did.”

“Understood.” He bowed slightly. A curl fell to his forehead. “Smart girl.”

Although the house was old, the interior was modern. Selected antiques blended harmoniously with the warm, minimalist style. Crown molding and tapestries hid a high-end security system. She caught a glimpse of a library and of a workshop filled with art supplies. Portraits hung on the walls, going back generations. A photo of a younger Jean-François with a woman stood out: a wedding portrait. At the sight of it, Betty stopped dead in her tracks. Her nails bit into her palms. She didn’t trust her voice to ask a question evenly.

“Ah.” He scratched the back of his head.  “She… she passed away five years ago.”

“I’m sorry. I thought— well, I’m sorry.”

He hesitated by the photo. For the first time, he looked almost destabilized.

“You thought what?” he asked after such a long pause she didn’t understand his question right away. “That I was a playboy?”

“Maybe. Are you?”

“Is that why you came with me?”

“No.”

He studied her for a moment then brushed a knuckle along her jaw. Without another word, he resumed guiding her through the house.

He led her to the living room. There was another painting in here: a large canvas of hazy water lilies.

“Another very good fake?” she asked.

“Maybe.”

He carefully removed the Wright of Derby painting from the leather case.

“What do you think?” he asked.

She had many thoughts, mostly about all the people who wouldn’t get to see it now.

“Dunno,” she said. “Will you sell it?”

“No. I will deliver it to Maurice’s granddaughter in Vienna. But until then...”

He placed the canvas upon a wooden picture ledge above the fireplace. The moonlit landscape shone against the plain wall.

“Hold on. What? Mr. Delorme?”

“The painting belonged to his wife’s family, but it was stolen by Nazis in ‘38.”

“Are you telling me you’re some sort of Robin Hood?”

“Oh, no. My fees are exorbitant.”

She snorted a laugh.

“Couldn’t they get it back legally?”

“They tried. In the 1960s, I believe. But they’d lost proof of ownership during the war, and the family at Kinwood denied any transaction with former Nazi officers, as one does.”

Betty puzzled over this new information. In less than twelve hours, her idea of him had shifted so many times she could hardly keep track. But one thing hadn’t changed: her attraction.

“You know, you nearly derailed my plans,” he said.

“How so?”

“A year of meticulous planning and then, out of nowhere, comes this lovely woman I cannot stop thinking about. I shouldn’t have let myself be seen talking to Maurice so often.”

“You’re having me on.”

“I brought you here, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but I gave in too easily. Where’s the challenge in that for you?”

“Where’s the challenge in letting someone get close to me?” A rhetorical question veiling a confession.

She tilted her head to the side and considered him. He let her.

“Was anyone hurt by your plan?”

“Not a soul, I swear.”

Marie brought in a bottle of red wine with two glasses and a plate of cheese, bread and thin slices of roasted duck.

Jean-François pressed a button on the wall. Curtains swayed aside, revealing tall sliding glass doors that framed a landscape not unlike the one in the painting. One of the doors was open, warm air swirled in, balmy with dew and night blossoms.

He opened the wine bottle and sampled its bouquet. Satisfied, he filled their glasses which they rose in a silent toast to whatever delights the night might bring. Drinking, she stared at the landscape outside. Beyond a small terrace, the ground sloped to a valley where centennial trees grew around a lake, mist skated upon its silvery surface. Away from the city lights, myriad stars shone in the night sky.

An escape.

The glass pane hazily reflected Jean-François as he came to stand behind her. She felt his warmth radiate over her skin though he wasn’t touching her yet. Drawn in, she leaned back, just a little, an invitation, an ouverture.

He trailed a single finger from her earlobe, down her neck, to her shoulder. And she shivered with longing. He gently swiped her hair away, and his lips replaced his finger, careful, precise kisses, inching towards the strap of her dress and sliding it aside.

“What does it feel like, striding into a gallery and taking whatever you want from the walls?”

“Calming. At that moment, I am utterly focused and in control. Then when I slip away with my prize, my blood begins to sizzle.”

“Is it still sizzling now?”

“Yes.”

He met her reflected gaze on the glass pane.

“Mine too,” she said.

She turned around in his arms, and he watched patiently as she put their glasses on a side table. Placing her hands upon his chest, she felt his sharp intake of breath, his rapid heartbeat. She slid her palms up to his neck, and his eyelids fluttered when her fingers delved into the locks at the back of his head. With a gentle push, she guided his lips to hers. He let her take the lead, modest and timid at first, then slowly yielding to instinct and hunger. When she opened her mouth to his, he cupped her cheek and leaned into her until her back pressed to the window. He kissed her with dedication, with utter focus, tasting and caressing her lips, intent on making her tingle all over. Heat flared through her, and she arched into the curve of his body bent over her.

Oh boy.

Eyes still closed, she broke the kiss for air and licked his taste on her lips.

“That was some grade-A kissing,” she whispered.

Jean-François laughed and pecked her forehead. “I like you.”

“Yeah? ‘cause I stroke your ego?”

“Because you’re honest.”

“Well, if I’m being honest I'd very much like you to sweep me off my feet again.”

“As you wish.”

In one smooth move, he grabbed her thighs and hiked her up on his hips. Betty squeaked and held onto him. He kissed her against the glass door, exploring her neck and cleavage, all lips and teeth and tongue. She wound her legs tighter around him, seeking friction to soothe the throbbing he’d triggered. He sucked in a breath and bucked his hips.

He carried her outside, to a nearby wooden chaise lounge and laid her on the striped cushion.

She expected him to flip up her skirt and pound, but he knelt beside the chair. He rubbed her ankles, then slid his hand up her leg to her knee. Betty’s breath quickened. She parted her legs. The ascension continued, his hand slipped underneath the hem of her skirt and up inside her thigh. He stopped inches from her underwear, and kissed her again. It was agony to have his hand so close to where she needed it. His mouth traveled to her breasts, he pulled down the bodice of her dress, just enough to access a nipple. Betty squirmed and keened, and finally his fingers slipped inside her knickers.

She looked like a Renaissance muse, lounging, with her arms over her head, one breast bare, and layers of fabric bunched about her waist. And he studied her as he sought the spots that made her sigh and cry. Her lewd noises accompanied the cicadas’ song. And she should’ve been ashamed to make such a wanton display, but the heat in his eyes was worth it.

This man could take anything he wanted, and he had chosen her.

She came embarrassingly fast.

He licked his fingers and grinned.

“Showoff,” she said again.

She grabbed his tie and pulled him over her. He laughed against her lips, and it hurt with how good it felt to share this joke, this joy.

She blindly unknotted his tie as he fumbled with his buttons. Unable to wait any longer, she cupped the tantalizing bulge in his trousers. He groaned and that filled her with pride.

He stood up to take off his trousers, and she made him recline on the chaise. With half-lidded eyes, he observed her straddling his legs. She admired him, as he had her. His hair was completely disheveled now. His open shirt revealed a lean, firm chest and taut stomach down which she dragged her fingernails. His cock twitched as she neared it. She teased the surrounding skin until he growled her name. She stroked him to full hardness, enjoying the way he hardened in her hand. Because of her.

And now, for the pièce de résistance. She rose to her knees, and Jean-François’s jaw went slack.  She had barely had time to enjoy his fingers, but she planned on savouring this. Slowly and with a long, luxuriating moan, she slid down every inch of him, wetting him to the root.

He gripped her hips, urging her to move. His chest heaved with panting breaths. She gorged herself on his lust and desperation. With every bounce, her dress slid lower down her torso.

She held onto the top of the seat for leverage, but she must have been too vigorous for the adjustable back suddenly collapsed. Betty yelped and Jean-François caught her.

“Crikey!” she said, pressing a hand to her heart.

“Are you hurt?”

“Scared me half to death, but I’m okay. You?”

“I’m fine.”

They looked at each other, then broke into a loud guffaw. Mirth and embarrassment heated her cheeks. She truly couldn’t stop laughing. Jean-François even teared up.

“You’re so beautiful when you laugh,” he said. It came out so naturally, it was almost reckless by his standards.

Her heart swelled, and she kissed him. He rolled on top of her, spurred on by this small shot of adrenaline.

Betty shivered; it was getting cold outside.

“Shall we go back inside?” he asked.

“If you don’t mind.”

They picked up their clothes and closed the patio door. With a remote control, he turned on the fireplace.

He picked up his glass of wine from where she’d left them. He drank while watching her undress and lie down on the plush carpet, in the orange glow of the flames. With a beckoning smile, she extended a hand toward him. He removed the last of his clothes and crawled over her.

Skin to skin, bodies entwined, they moved together. And suddenly it was so tender and so very real. A leisurely give-and-take of pleasure. Delight and satisfaction mirrored in each other’s face. They gasped and moaned and laughed, then fell silent, foreheads together, fingers entwined, staring in each other’s eyes, toeing the edge of bliss.

Even after climaxing, they didn’t part. Jean-François buried his face in her neck and held her even closer.

Betty looked up at the stolen painting, and, for once, didn’t feel the pull to lose herself in its landscape. She closed her eyes and stroked his hair and thought nothing would ever be this perfect.

*

Eventually, hunger and thirst caught up with them. They put their underwear back on, and Betty borrowed Jean-François’s shirt.

They ate, sitting on the carpet, their legs still entwined. The wine, the cheeses, the meat, everything was unbelievably tasteful. She licked her fingers clean and refilled their glasses. Jean-François slouched down, head against the couch, unwound like she had never seen him before.

“Betty, do you still want to go back to London in time for your morning shift?”

“Goodness no.”

“Good. I know an excellent restaurant in Vienna. It’s inside a tropical greenhouse, you’ll love it.”

“Vienna?”

“How is that for a second date?”

[auncyen]

Salty

Ren's been working too hard. Ann's determined to find out why. Time management is never easy, but it's especially hard when you're trying to keep secrets from your friends, too.

Technically, both Ren and Morgana had been idiots. Morgana hadn't had any reservations about buying the so-called "Holy Stone" either, after all. But Morgana was currently stuck as a cat and had amnesia; he couldn't really be expected to have money sense. (He arguably had more than Yusuke, and that just made Ren worry about the artist.) That left Ren solely responsible for wasting 100,000 yen, which was probably just as well, since Morgana couldn't exactly help out with earning it back. Sure,the smallest Phantom Thief made a habit of picking up coins and bills that people dropped around Yongen-Jaya, but he reserved actual thievery for shadows only, so all he had gathered between April and July was about 3,000, an amount Ren could earn in a single shift at any of his jobs. No, it wasn't fair in any sense to try to put the responsibility for this on Morgana. Ren still kind of wished he could blame the other thief, though, if only to avoid some of Ann's disappointment. The blonde was currently eyeing him, tweaking the straw of her milkshake cup. There was a vase of flowers carefully settled on the booth seat besides her; she'd come back to the mall around 6:30 and asked him for "the best bouquet he could make", adding in "I want to give it to Shiho at the hospital tomorrow!" If she'd meant to put him under too much pressure to be thinking of excuses, she'd succeeded. This being Ann, though, he was pretty sure she'd just impulsively decided that she should get flowers for someone if she was going to a flower shop anyway. The purple vase held pink lilies, yellow carnations, roses of both colors, and lavender chrysanthemums. He hadn't been able to get to know Shiho in that first week of school, but he remembered the colorful hair ties and clips she'd worn the few times he'd seen her, and Ann had confirmed that her best friend loved bright colors. Hopefully she'd like the arrangement, and it would keep her spirits up. "So." Ann's voice drew Ren's attention away from the nagging worry of if the best friend of one of his closest friends would be unimpressed by his choice in flowers and back to the worry of said close friend being absolutely disappointed and/or infuriated by his lack of common sense. "Morgana had to stretch his legs, huh? I wouldn't have minded him tagging along." Yeah, she wouldn't have minded him coming along so she could try pumping him for answers. "He gets antsy in the bag after a few hours," Ren said, which was completely true, and Ann gave a little hum as she accepted that. It was also true that Ren had suggested Morgana take a walk around Shibuya before Ann came back. The not-cat had taken the hint, even if he'd grumbled at Ren that he really should come clean to "Lady Ann" if she was getting suspicious. ...He'd barely saved 40,000 so far, after what he had to spend on his and Morgana's personal care... If he'd already made up most of the money, maybe it'd be easier to confess, but he wasn't even halfway. "Okay, Ren. You have five jobs. What's going on?" Ren took a bite out of his burger and chewed slowly, biding his time. Om nom nom. "Like I said earlier, I'm saving up." "Yeah, sure, perfectly reasonable." Ann nodded. Her milkshake cup plunked down on the table. "Except you're juggling three paying jobs with two that don't pay. Plus whatever you do for our first aid. Plus our 'club activities'. ...Also, you've been helping out a politician?" She sounded genuinely confused on that last part. "He's teaching me how to negotiate." "Okay, guess that makes sense." Her tone implied that she considered it to make about as much sense as anything related to their phantom thievery ever did. "You haven't been able to hang out with me or Ryuji or Yusuke for nearly a month now." "It--" Ren stumbled, casting his mind over the past few weeks and several apologies he'd had to make. "It hasn't been a month." When had he last hung out with one of them? "Maybe--three weeks?" "Ren, what's three weeks?" "...Nearly a month." "Uh-huh." Ann eyed him with disbelief. "And you score higher than me on exams." He didn't have a good comeback for that, a little appalled with himself. He needed to make good on the yen he'd wasted, and it seemed risky to neglect his deals with Iwai, Takemi or Boss. Yoshida's coaching seemed like it would come in really handy in the future, and Ohya's articles and insight into the news and media would likely be important if they were going to keep increasing their reputation to both encourage more people and delve deeper into Mementos. He even had a deal with the fortune teller who had scammed him, Chihaya Mifune, and he had to keep that up for her useful fortune-telling abilities. (Plus, he wanted to convince her to stop scamming people.) "Somehow you didn't think any of us would realize you were suddenly never available?" He shook his head quickly. "It's not that I thought you wouldn't realize," he said. "I just didn't think it'd be a big deal." Not compared to the matter of 100,000 yen. He was only one of their friends. Ann hung out with every other Phantom Thief too, even Makoto, which Ren was grateful for. Ann also had Shiho to visit, now with a bouquet. But if she felt like he'd been ignoring her--and Ryuji and Yusuke probably felt the same, maybe even worse--he'd been so worried about not neglecting the deals he'd made with adults while he earned back the yen that he'd neglected friendships instead. Great. "Sorry. I didn't mean it's not important--sorry. I'll make more time for everyone." Even if that begged the question of what he'd need to neglect in turn. ...Yoshida didn't seem the impatient type. Maybe it'd be safe to turn down his invitations for a time? He was getting a lot of unimpressed looks from Ann today, and Ren remembered that even if she was a lousy liar herself, Ann could also pick up on other's lies quickly, had probably caught the uncertainty in his voice. "No. We're not mad, we're--okay,let me tell you about a conversation Ryuji and I had the other day." She tweaked the straw in her hand, bending its head under her finger, and picked up the paper wrapper the straw had come in with her other hand, positioning it similarly. Straw and wrapper faced each other. "'Aw, man,'" Ann said in a bad mimicry of Ryuji as she crinkled the wrapper. Ren took another bite of his burger, bemused by the sudden show. "'Ren's too busy to hang out again--that beef bowl manager's an effin' slave driver.'" Now she put on something close to her normal voice, bending the straw as she answered wrapper-Ryuji. "'What? He doesn't work at a restaurant, Ryuji, he works at 777. He rang my stuff up when they were having that make-up sale.'" The wrapper started moving again, energetically this time. "'Forreal? But I know he's working at the beef bowl place on the same street, I've seen him running around in there when the place was packed!'" Ann-straw. "'That can't be right. He's got a job at the flower shop in the mall too, and three part-time jobs is just too much..." Wrapper-Ryuji. "'Wait, it ain't just three, 'cause he works at the airsoft shop too, he told me. And I saw him at beef bowl just last week, so it ain't like he got fired...'" "'Four jobs? No, five, if you count him helping Boss...'" Straw and wrapper went quiet for a moment, and Ren opened his mouth to ask if the little performance was done--he guessed that did answer how Ann knew about all his jobs--but Ann silenced him with a hard look as wrapper-Ryuji's head slowly turned to Ren. He shut his mouth around the straw for his soda instead, taking a long sip as wrapper-Ryuji spoke. "'Hey, Ann. Like, the Phantom Thieves just took care of that Kaneshiro guy, but he's not the only crappy adult out there. You don't think Ren's in trouble, do you...?'" The soda he'd been sipping on went down wrong, and Ren hastily turned his head away as he coughed. "That," he said between coughs, "is not how Ryuji said it," because he needed to stall a few seconds to reevaulate this conversation. And to get the soda out of his throat. Ann gave him a light kick under the table. "Duh. I'm not going to repeat how Ryuji actually said it in public." Okay. Okay. He'd stopped coughing. "You two thought I was being extorted?" "Let's see," Ann said. "Shujin students getting blackmailed has been a pretty big deal lately. You suddenly act like you're hard-up for cash, and you still won't tell me what that's about. Can you blame us for thinking something's fishy?" His burger sat heavy in his stomach. They'd been seriously worried about him. Were worried about him. Morgana was right. Time to face the music. "You're going to be mad." "Try me." He sighed, casting his eyes up to the ceiling of Big Bang Burger, as though it might open to a burger-shaped UFO that would carry him away from this world. "I'm not being extorted. I did fall for a stupid scam. Wasted a hundred thousand yen. I was trying to earn it back." "Oh my god." He winced and braced himself. "We had a hundred thousand yen? How much do we have now?" ...Ann sounded more astounded than angry, and he wondered if she and Ryuji had ever kept track of how much yen passed through the Phantom Thieves' hands. Then again, they didn't really need to, since he was the one who handled all the supplies. "Not quite sixty-thousand? It was most of our money, and I've only earned about forty-thousand back so far." "'Only'. 'Only' forty-thousand." Ann shook her head and took a long sip of her milkshake, eventually sucking up all the liquid along the bottom. "Okay, so...did you ever learn the name of the person who scammed you? Because if not, we should have started investigating yesterday. This sounds like a Mementos target waiting to happen." Ren shook his head and flipped his phone on the table, tapping the red and black icon in a familiar movement. "Chihaya Mifune, Mementos." "Candidate not found." Just as he'd known it would say. Finding Chihaya's shadow in Mementos had occurred to both him and Morgana the same night they'd realized the Holy Stone was phony, but it wasn't that easy. Ann frowned at the negative result. "A fake name...?" "I don't think so. People only turn up in the app if they have distorted desires, but she seems to honestly believe she's helping people somehow." He explained the scam in more detail from there. Chihaya's uncannily accurate and specific predictions of the future, with the unexpected allowance from Boss as the example that had initially convinced Morgana and him, and the Holy Stones she hawked to people with potential misfortune on the horizon. "So, what did she say to you, that you thought you needed one of those?" "...It's been a few weeks, so I don't remember all the details--" "Ren. No. Do not bullshit me on this." Ann leaned forward on the table, resting her weight on her elbows. "She convinced you and Morgana that spending a hundred thousand yen on a rock was a good idea. Don't tell me you forgot what she said. I'm not angry that you fell for a scam. I will be angry if you keep lying to me. And then I'll get the truth from Mona anyway." ...Yeah, fair enough. He'd been treading on thin ice this whole time. He just really wasn't sure how she would react to the prediction Chihaya had made. "She predicted that I'm going to die." "WHAAAAAT?" Ren immediately became aware of every single set of eyes in the restaurant, currently resting on their table. On the blonde who'd shot to her feet and was staring down at him. "Ann," he said, trying best for a level voice. "It's okay. Some of the fates she's read have already changed. Mine will too." It had to. Ann stared at him for a few seconds longer before scoffing. "Oh, yeah. It's okay. She just told you you'd die. No big deal, right?" She pushed away from the table, stepping away from the booth. Paused for a second and turned back around to pick up the vase and set it in front of Ren. "Hold my bouquet for me. I'll get it from you tomorrow." He settled his hands on it uncertainly. "Tomorrow? Where are you going now?" "Shinjuku. She's a real fortune teller? Then I hope the cards warned her about me, because I am going to wreck her--" If they were in the Metaverse, she would be radiating heat waves right now. Her hands were gripped tight as if itching for her whip. "Wait, Ann--" He'd thought she'd maybe be shocked or afraid at the morbid fortune, or maybe just be skeptical and disbelieving. Instant rage had not been one of the expected reactions. "--threatening people so she can scam them--" "--that's not how it is, I told you--" He could see why she was thinking of it that way, but Chihaya honestly believed in the Holy Stones, that was part of the problem. And Ann was no longer listening to him, already stalking out of the restaurant while being given a wide berth by other patrons. He took Shiho's intended bouquet into his arms, cradling it as carefully as possible while also hurrying after his friend to catch her before the Phantom Thieves ended up having two members with assault records. "Ann!"