#and its like DAMN OK. SAY THAT TO THE FIFTY TEENAGERS TRYING TO PLAY THEIR INSTRUMENTS WHY DONTCHA

[ventingventily]

ohhshit guys I think I might actually be a little upset at my orchestra conductorrr oopsies

[otp-holic]

Will this be the night? (ALSO IN A03)

A random piece of online advertising unleashes some movie memories of a Summer afternoon in 1932

1.5 Ks Fanfic + Pictures Inside. Part of the Never let us lose what we have gained series (AO3) Silly drabble born from my love of classic movies... that ended up not having anything to do with classic movies.

BROOKLYN'S KING'S THEATRE

Poster for Cary Grant's Retrospective. Printed paper 2025.

A poster for the upcoming month long celebration of the movies of Cary Grant to be held in Brooklyn.

Bucky is not expecting a vivid memory of the past to jump at him from a piece of online location-targeted promotion popping on his phone as he and Steve are wandering around the neighborhood on a random Friday.

But the 21st century works in mysterious ways and Google is kindly inviting him to check “Cary Grant: A Celebration”, a month-long chronological retrospective of all his movies taking place at a nearby hipster cinema starting… in half an hour.

He beams as a long string of memories of the both of them in different afternoons and movies plays in his head; how they counted the cents for the admission price, and how Bucky learned to sneak into the movie every time that did not add up to two full tickets.

“Buck, you’ve been smiling at your phone in silence for a whole minute,” Steve interrupts his daydreaming. “Should I be jealous? Worried?”

“Sorry,” he answers, still smiling about the memories. “I think I’m leaving you for Google, they see inside my one hundred years old soul; But I might give you another chance if you don’t mind a change of plans for the afternoon.”

“Lead the way, but can you give me some heads up?” Steve chuckles, more than used to Bucky’s ways.

He takes Steve’s hand to direct them towards the movie theatre and thinks about how much information he wants to share.

Although he is the one who still relies on the comfort of 30s and 40s movies whereas Steve keeps getting bolder with his options, Steve has always loved Cary Grant and Bucky thinks he’s going to appreciate his choice since this particular movie has a history (sad history, maybe) for them, so he debates on whether to tell him or not.

“We are going to the movies. But the real ones, not that shit on Netflix you keep choosing,” he settles for half-disclosure.

“Damn, mister life in black and white strikes again. Embrace the 21st century, Barnes, I think you’ll like it!”, Steve laughs.

“Hey, I embrace it more than you do! At least I look the part of a mid-thirties man from it instead of a fifty-year-old hiding in fucking khakis. Albeit a very hot one, I’ll give you that.”

They both laugh. It’s not the first time these remarks fly between them and having a routine, running jokes, and running pet peeves is very soothing after everything they have gone through.

They’re getting closer to the cinema now, and Bucky can already see the Billboard announcing the retrospective and a small queue forming upfront. He takes a side look at Steve to see if he has noticed and he can certainly tell that his curiosity has peaked.

“Surprise! Call it a win-win, it might be up my alley, but you used to love Cary Grant movies,” Bucky smiles as they reach their place in the queue and glance at the program for the afternoon.

‘This is the Night (1932)’, the poster says, ‘Cary Grant's feature film debut on the big screen’

Bucky is deep in nostalgia, remembering a summer day of 32 when they were waiting in line for the same film and how the evening turned out, but when he looks in search of his partner’s reaction, it’s not what he expected at all.

“Steve, you ok?” he asks, worried at seeing Steve frozen in place.

Steve nods. His whole face is deep red, but at least he is responsive. He looks ashamed and Bucky is shifting from worried to curious.

“Jesus, this movie,…” he chuckles now.

“You seem to remember, then. I thought you might.”

It was not a happy memory: Steve had felt really ill halfway through, looking white as a sheet of paper and about to die on Bucky. They had to leave the unfinished movie and run home, as per Steve’s request. But as far as Bucky remembers, nothing to be ashamed of.

“Why are you acting weird? Oh my god, Steven, are you allergic to this movie?”

The silence before Steve answers is a little too long and the queue moves forward.

“Shit, this is not easy to say and I’m sorry in advance.”

“Duly noted, but could you try to explain? I’m lost and I didn’t expect a full-on confession of something to be sorry about when I decided to follow Google’s intelligent advice to an unfinished movie. I just thought it was a good excuse for a change of plans. And kind of closure.”

Steve takes a breath and starts talking.

“I wasn’t honest with you, Buck. Back then…” he stops, searching for words, nervously musing on his beard. “Ah, I cannot believe this hasn’t come up at some point, but there it goes. I absolutely lied to you that day: I wasn’t sick or half dying and I am very very guilty of using my poor health to run away from that place and that movie, but I did the only thingI could think of.”

Bucky is at a loss for words, he’s still deciding if he is angry, curious, or somewhere in between.

“But… but you were feverish and white as a ghost and you said you had palpitations!”

Steve seems to think for a moment again and the bastard laughs so loud they get a curious look from the people behind. And taking advantage of the queue moving up again, he gets really really close to Bucky who honestly thinks he’s going to try to kiss himself out of the situation since it’s a bulletproof strategy.

But he doesn’t: He goes for Bucky’s ear instead, and whispers.

“I had a boner like you wouldn’t believe.”

Bucky gasps loudly totally taken aback while Steve takes a step back and looks at him in the eye more amused and hungry than ashamed, but still blushing.

“But hey, not all lies! I was somehow sick. And pale since my blood was… otherwise occupied. And I was barely 14!”

Bucky laughs at the dork. His dork. But the information is still making its way into his brain.

“Oh my God,” he exclaims as it starts to settle, “You piece of shit, you pulled the poor sick child card when you were just plain horny. I was worried to my bones as we run to your home. Shame on you Rogers!”

“Me? It was your fucking fault! Yours and Cary Grant’s and your stupid grins and stupid chins, those clefts!” he’s screaming in whispers so Steve Rogers’ teenage boner doesn’t make it to the news, but he’s talking as if he was pronouncing an important speech to the UN, “What was a 14-year-old in the fucking 30s popping one upon seeing an actor who kind of looked like a very tall version of his very male best friend to do?”

He is about to say something, but Steve literally covers his mouth with one hand giving Bucky no other option but to stick his tongue and lick the palm.

“Gross, Buck. I’m not done!”, he dries his hand on Buckys’ shirt before he goes on. “I’m not done because as I was still processing all that, you kept brushing your goddamned hand with mine when you went for popcorn! Over and over and over. It was torture. I have palpitations now just thinking about it.”

Bucky full-on laughs. One of those real ones that come more and more lately and that he honestly thought he would never get to experience again.

They have reached the box office, so he doesn’t push it further. For now.

“Two tickets for `This is the Night´, please.” Bucky smiles at the box-office guy. “He is paying, tho. I paid last time we tried to see this one and he didn’t have the decency to stay until the end.”

He actually feels like a teen as Steve takes his hand into the theatre, as he very intentionally buys popcorn to share, and as they start full-on making out on their seats during the commercials once the lights are out.

“Wanna know another secret, Buck?” Steve whispers a few minutes later, eyes on the starting movie as he brushes Bucky’s hand with intention over the popcorn bucket. His flustered face and recently kissed lips bathed by dancing lights and shadows coming from the screen. “It’s a good thing we were already together in ‘38 when “Bringing up baby” came out because I was able to plan ahead and lure you into that memorable window fuck at our old apartment before the show, or we would have totally missed one of our favorite movies, too.”

Bucky hates Steve with the force of the universe. Or maybe not, but he’s not playing clean.

“Raincheck on the movie?” he manages to whisper back as he drives Steve’s hand to his already noticeable hard-on. Two can play this game.

“Oh, poor Buck. Do you have palpitations” Steve chuckles, lips wet on Bucky’s ear and gripping harder on his bulge instead of letting go. “Was that the memory of the window fuck? Or all the making out? Tell me so I don’t do it again.”

“You are a punk, Steve Rogers,” Bucky answers before standing up to leave, closely followed by a smiling Steve.

Argh, sorry for deleting and uploading again, but i had technical issues with this.... so here it goes again. I need to free myself from this one!

[solastia]

My Woman

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader

Genre: Smutty smutty smut smut (But still sweet and fluffyish?)

Note: This is my first time writing smut. I’m sure it shows. I’ve read plenty of romance novels in my day, so I’m hoping that payed off a little bit lol. Fun fact: This is actually a dream I had. I know, aren’t I lucky? One of the few times I remembered every detail of my dream and I’m forever grateful. 

You and Yoongi had been secretly seeing each other for a couple weeks, without much progress.You had recently been hired as an assistant stylist, your main jobs being repairs and cleaning rather than much styling. He’d asked you to fix a zipper on his jeans but insisted he was too lazy to take them off. You ended up repairing the zipper on your knees, a blushing, mumbling mess. He didn’t say a thing, but you saw him grin when he left. Then that grin turned into a smirk whenever he saw you, and he’d come up with fifty of the dumbest tasks for you to do. Seriously, why would a grown man need help to put on socks? Why does it have to be your hand that goes up his shirt to see if it’s see through? You ran from the room when he’d asked you if his boxers were supposed to have a hole in the front, not even wanting to know how he expected you to respond to THAT, and you heard him chuckle. 

He’d somehow talked your boss into letting you join him on his coffee runs, saying he felt safer with a staff member with him. How having little you joining him to feel safe sounded plausible to your boss, you’ll never know, but it worked, because you’d been going with him daily. No one seemed to question that it took you guys two hours to get coffee a block away. Sometimes Yoongi would actually talk and ask questions, seeming to want to know more about you. Other times the two of you would sit in a booth in the back of the shop and just relax. You’d let him play with your hair or fingers while he chilled out with his head back and closed his eyes. Those were your favorite times. You were happy knowing he was getting some much-needed rest, and it gave you a chance to stare at him without feeling creepy. 

And now here you are, two weeks later, and all you’ve managed to sneak in was a single peck on his cheek before the rest of the staff came in. It didn’t seem to bother him. He hadn’t said a thing. You wondered if he even liked you as much as you thought, or if you’re just seeing what you want to see. You, however, were a mess. At least every other night you were waking up, sweaty, clothes torn off during the night, hands between your legs. Little things he’d do would remind you of the dreams throughout the day, and that didn’t help. He’d slide his tongue across his lips slowly (A LOT), your eyes following its movements. The constant smirks. The elegant fingers that were always moving. You hadn’t felt this damn crazy over a guy since you were a teenager. 

Like a coward, you’d been avoiding him all day. It was just getting harder for you to hide how you felt in front of everyone because you were so damn frustrated. You knew if he asked you to do something stupid, like ask you to help put his pants on (again), you were going to jump him and then WOOPS, secrets out. That’s how you found yourself here, in a backroom filled with props. No one came in here except when the boys were filming a music video, so you knew you’d be left alone. Your boss knew you’d come back here sometimes and didn’t mind because you’d always finish ten times more stuff when left alone. You had a huge pile of mending to catch up on anyways, 90% of it belonging to Namjoon. 

A couple of hours later you glance at your phone to check the time, pleased to note that your usual coffee time with Yoongi passed. You hate to miss out on it, but you just need a break to get your emotions in check. You hear a tone from your phone and freeze. You know exactly who it’s from. Steeling yourself, you pick it up with a sigh. It’s from Yoongi. 

Yoongi: Where are you?

To the point, as usual. You wonder if you can get away with not answering, and go back to work. Five minutes later, another message tone.

Yoongi: ㅡㅡ

Did he really just try to give you a dirty look through the phone? Spoiled brat. Now you were determined to ignore him just for the fun of it. 

Another hour goes by, and you haven’t gotten another message from Yoongi. Most of the other staff have already left, but you wanted to finish the mending up before you went since you’d been ignoring it for two weeks and it piled up so much. You decide to use the couch that’s sitting in here and relax a bit since no one is around to yell if they catch you. You move the boxes to the floor, pick up the shirt you are working on, and recline on the couch. It doesn’t take five minutes before you’re fast asleep.

You’re having another one of those dreams. It starts out fairly tame. Yoongi coming up from behind and pulling you towards him. Burying his face in your neck and nipping. Suddenly, he swings you around and bites your lip before kneeling, looking up at you with that smirk you both love and hate. Just as he’s getting his mouth close to where you want it to be most, you feel yourself being pulled out of sleep. 

“Yoongiiii…” You moan, breathlessly, desperate to return to the dream.

“Fuck, don’t say my name like that.”

You shoot up, glancing first to make sure your hands weren’t up your skirt, before glaring at him. Or more specifically, at his hand on your knee. 

“What are you doing in here?” You ask sharply, trying to hide the fact that just his fingers on your damn knee were turning you into putty. 

He shrugs and plops down into the space next to you on the couch. For a moment, he looks at you like he knows perfectly well what you were just dreaming about before his face goes blank.

“I couldn’t find you and I needed my coffee, so I asked around. The stylist told me you come back here. I’ll have to remember this place. Perfect to hide and take a nap.” He looks around, completely poker-faced, meanwhile his hand is still on your knee. 

You stare at the hand, hoping and praying that he’ll just hold still like that. If he moves his fingers just a little more to the right…

You squeak and his eyes shoot to you. 

“What was that?” He drawls, his eyebrow raised. 

You jerk your knee and clear your throat. 

“I’m ticklish there, OK?” you mumble, not looking at him because you know, YOU JUST KNOW, he’s going to use this against you. 

“Who the hell has a ticklish knee?” He laughs. 

“I’m ticklish in a lot of weird places. It’s the way I was made. Don’t judge me.” you joke. 

On second thought, you probably shouldn’t have said that. That fucking smirk is back, and he’s looking at you like he never has before. 

“Did you tell me that for a reason? Because that sounds like a challenge to me,” he growls, leaning closer until he has both hands on your knees and you’ve backed up so much you’re almost lying down again. 

“I’m going to have to figure out these weird places. For science,” he whispers softly, before leaning back again and pulling your legs into his lap. 

“So, we’ve established the weird knee thing,” he says as he gives the offending knee a little brush of his finger, making you squirm and try to hold in the giggle. 

He trails his finger down your legs, glancing up on occasion to see your reaction. You were fine until he reached your feet, and he tickled the toes. You let out a little snort. 

“Well, that one isn’t weird. A lot of people have ticklish feet. Not me though.” He warns you with a quick look, before laying the foot back down into his lap. Yoongi grabs both of your shins and pulls you closer, your butt now against his hip and your legs draped over the armrest. 

You’ve been waiting for him to make a move for so long it seems, that you’re already getting excited and short of breath. You thank the clothing Gods that you thought to wear a skirt today. 

His fingers are back at it, trying to find your ticklish spots. He trails them up from your feet to your thighs, right where the skirt stops. Fully expecting him to put them under, you let out a little huff of disappointment when he instead goes over the skirt and up to the hip. He shoots you a grin, knowing full well what you expected. He digs into the skin of your hips a little bit, earning a squeak since that was one of your spots, before moving to the stomach. He lifts up your shirt a little bit (not enough), and flutters his fingers, turning your giggles into outright laughter since he wouldn’t stop. 

“So cute.” he smiles, stopping the torture and kissing your stomach. You gasp and moan, not even caring anymore that he can hear. 

He’s back to trailing his fingers up, moving them up your sides, down your arms, around your neck, finding all the silly little ticklish spots you had. You were starting to get frustrated. Right as you’ve gathered the courage to say something, he suddenly leans in, staring at your mouth. 

“Well, damn. It looks like I missed a few spots.” 

And finally, FINALLY, his lips were on yours. It was light at first. Testing and teasing. You wrap your legs around him, trying to draw him in and deepen the kiss. With a little growl, he complies, tracing the seal of your lips with his tongue and demanding entrance. The kiss goes on for what seems forever, wet and hot, teeth nipping at each other's lips. Meanwhile, his hand starts sliding up your shirt, and he finally tears his lips away. You both sit up and tear off your shirts, throwing them on the ground. He stares at you while you work your bra clasp, and you are thrilled that you actually wore a pretty black lace bra today, instead of the comfy wireless one you almost went with. As you throw that onto the growing clothes pile, you hear a hiss, and look up to see Yoongi staring. He lays you back down and caresses your breasts. He flicks the nipples, grinning while you squirm, then brushes them with his tongue. He stays there for a while, licking, sucking, and nipping until your not sure you’re ever going to breathe right again. 

“Yoongi…please…” you moan, trying to hint at this damn boy to stop playing.

“What do you want? This?” He whispers while sliding his hand up your skirt. He teases your mound outside the panties, and you sigh. It’s not quite what you want, but he’s oh so close. 

Yoongi pulls your panties to the side, slipping a finger through your folds. 

“Fuck, you are so wet,” he growls, before sliding a finger inside. 

You gasp and buck onto the finger, wanting more, but he is still in tease mode. He pumps his finger a couple times before he pulls it out and sucks it clean, never breaking eye contact. 

Yoongi pulls off your skirt and panties, then stands up to tear off the rest of his clothes, eyeing your naked body the whole time. He walks back over to the couch, his cock bobbing and dripping with precum. He picks you up before lying down in your former position and places you on top of him. 

“Sit on my face.” He commands, looking at you hungrily. And you almost came right then and there. 

You crawl up the couch as gracefully as you can and drape your dripping pussy over his mouth. He latches on quickly, licking you like he’s starving, nibbling your clit and fucking you with his tongue. It doesn’t take long before your muscles tighten and you cum, riding his face with your hands latched in his hair. 

You climb off and collapse into the couch, sitting there for a moment while you watch him catch his breath and lick his lips. He crawls over and kisses you deeply, holding your head in his hands, and you taste yourself on him. 

Yoongi gets off the couch to stand in front of you, his cock so hard it looked painful. He sends you a grin before grabbing both of your legs and propping your ankles on his shoulders. He grabs his cock and pushes it into you slowly, watching your face intently. You throw back your head and moan as he finally is in all the way, and he pumps slowly, letting you get used to him. 

“Yoongi, faster please.” You plead breathlessly. He groans and pounds furiously into you, He leans down capturing your lips in a sloppy kiss before burying his face into your neck, biting and sucking as he fucks you harder. He slides a hand down between you and rubs your clit and you cum fast and hard, screaming his name. 

When you finally come back to yourself a bit, you look up and see that Yoongi is so close. You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him in further. You kiss the side of his neck and make your way to his ear.

“Cum in me.” You whisper, and that sends him off the edge. His pounding gets sloppy and with a growl, you feel him filling you. He collapses on top of you, breathing heavily into the crook of your neck, occasionally giving it a small kiss. 

“Damn.” He groans, grabbing you and positioning the two of you so you’re lying on the couch together, with his arm around you and your head on his chest. 

You giggle, knowing that was the understatement of the century. 

Suddenly his eyes shoot up and he looks scared as hell. 

“Shit, I fucking came in you. I’m sorry. Shit.” He runs his hand through his hair and you laugh. 

“Don’t worry, I started birth control the day after I met you.” He raises an eyebrow at you and his damn smirk makes a return.

“Sure of yourself, huh?” he chuckles, rubbing his hand up and down your arm. 

“More like wishful thinking.” You murmur, throwing your leg over his and burrowing in. 

“Mmm, we are going to have to make this room comfier. You think anyone will notice the prop room suddenly has a bed, mini fridge and ten locks on the door?” 

“Doubt it. We’ll just say they’re props if they do. Why, do you have plans to come here often?” You joke, trailing your finger down his chest. 

“Hell yes. Until I can tell everyone you’re my woman, this will make a nice love nest.” He murmurs as he grabs your hand and caresses your fingers with is. 

“Your woman?” You squeaked. 

“Fuck yes. Now, is my woman ready for round two yet? I think I missed some weird ticklish spots.” 

[lisatelramor]

NLTSA Extra: Phantom Lady with Vermouth

Takes place before ch 18′s events.

Kuroba Chikage had visited cities around the world in her lifetime, seeing some of the most beautiful places of human creation and some of its worst and seediest underbellies. Chicago was neither the best nor the worst of these cities, but it did have some pretty views and architecture. From her hotel room, she could look out over the Chicago river; it was especially pretty lit up at night, lights glinting off shifting waters and along the underside of bridges. She always did like cityscapes though. It didn’t have the romantic charm of Paris or the dazzling neon of Vegas, but she’d take Chicago in early summer over Orlando this time of year.

Chikage watched the river lights now, little moving ones of the ferries on the water, and the blur of cars going about their business. So many people, so many of them unaware of crimes happening right under their noses, maybe even right at that very moment. Chicago might not be the crime capitol of America, but it was one of the prime locations for crime hubs, being smack in the middle of North America, close enough to Canada for crime to hop borders and stop in on its way elsewhere, or link between the east and west coasts. A perfect foothold for an underground organization to set down roots in to better spread tendrils. They were planted a bit over a decade ago, and Chikage had kept an eye on their growth since not long after its inception.

It was about time that that growth could be tapped again for new information.

The click of the electric lock on the hotel room door interrupted her quiet contemplation. A brunette carrying two large paper bags shouldered into the room moments later, the keycard dangling from her fingertips.

“You wouldn’t believe how busy it is out there right now,” the woman said, kicking off tennis shoes that matched her grey and pink jogging suit. “You’d think it was a holiday, but it’s already past July fourth.”

“Chris,” Chikage said in greeting. She took one of the offered bags. Predictably, it had a large salad from a nearby restaurant.

“I think I passed two different groups out on bachelorette parties,” Chris Vineyard continued. She tugged at her hair, pulling off the brown wig she’d taken to wearing for this operation. “Want to go out and join them? I think they’re drunk enough that a couple of strange women would fit right in.” Tossing the wig aside, she pulled a bottle of wine and two boxes out of the other bag. “I got a nice white wine and some tiramisu from that Italian place you like. I’ve been told the dessert’s on the boozy side.”

“That kind of defeats the point of getting a salad,” Chikage pointed out.

“We only live once!” Chris said, tossing herself into one of the hotel armchairs. Her sock feet kicked up on the windowsill. “Besides, you both know we’ll be working it off soon enough anyway.”

“You always say that,” Chikage said. Her smile belied her words though. “Did you finish everything you needed to do?”

“Completely done,” Chris said. She pulled a wine opener from somewhere and got to work on the bottle. Chikage fetched them glasses and forks, both taken from earlier room service calls that week and hoarded for future use. “Everything is prepared to get us in and out of the building in two days. Their security is pathetic. We should have an easy time with this one.”

“Wonderful.” Chikage would take easy. They’d had more than enough close calls over the years that easy would be a fucking vacation. “That makes just one more run and I can go home for a bit. It feels like ages since I’ve been in Japan.”

“Can you call it home when you’re never there?” Chris asked, a slanted smile on her face. Chikage rolled her eyes. “Just saying. You’re with me more than you’re at the Japan home these days.”

“I own it, it has my belongings in it, I raised my son in it and lived half a dozen years with my husband there. It’s still home.” The wine was dry, more to Chris’s taste than Chikage’s, but the fruitiness of it came through pleasantly enough. It went well with the strawberries and pecans in the salad. “Just because you gave up the concept of home that doesn’t mean I have.”

“Mm, maybe my concept of home is more a person than a place,” Chris said lazily. She stole a bit of salad off Chikage’s fork.

A decade ago it would have been flustering, but by now it only made Chikage feel fondly exasperated. “Use your own fork.” Chris stole the whole salad instead. She was terrible, Chikage thought. Terrible, horrible, and dangerous as hell, and Chikage wouldn’t have anyone else at her back. “Kaito’s been in all kinds of trouble since I left.”

“Is this including getting his arms cut up or the heavy landing he took at the last heist?”

“Mm, either. I’m more thinking about the company he’s keeping honestly.”

“Right, a detective.” Chris sipped at her wine, lounging like a jungle cat and twice as lethal if she wanted to be. “And not Cool Guy.” She sighed.  “They would have made such a dynamic team if they’d ever got their shit together.”

Chikage shrugged, having mixed feelings about that. While Yuusaku and Yukiko’s son was a good person, she’d heard enough about Kaito’s close calls with him to feel comfortable with the thought. That was part of her hesitation with Hakuba Saguru, no matter how polite he had been in the phone conversation they had a few weeks ago. Chikage could still remember him facing off against Kaito when they were teenagers; she wasn’t going to say anything to Kaito or Hakuba, but she could worry about potential betrayal. “Did I go wrong somewhere?” Chikage mused. “He marries a police officer and makes friends with detectives. Is he just attracted to people with strong moral compasses? Is it the uniforms? Enjoys mind games?”

Chris laughed. “Well, I imagine it would be easy to fall into role play...”

“Stop. I am not going to think that hard about my son’s sex life.”

“You brought it up,” Chris said, hiding another smile in her wine glass.

“Yes. Well.” She waved a hand. “I find it a bit worrying that the people he gets attached to always seem to be the ones who are in positions to hurt him worst. I don’t care if Hakuba Saguru is retired, you don’t turn that sort of skill off.” Not thieving, not detective work, and it wasn’t like Chris could turn off the part of her that looked for weaknesses and places that would cause the most damage. It was how they were wired even if they quit the business. Chikage took a decade off from theft and look at her now; skills still sharp as she prepared to break into a building for information that wasn’t hers.

“If he meant to turn him in, he’d have done it by now,” Chris said, entirely unconcerned. But she’d said the same about Aoko after the divorce, so it was probably true.

Chikage’s phone pinged with an incoming text and she leaned toward the bed stand to get it. “Speaking of Kaito...” The text was just a date and time with a question as to if she would be home by then. It was less than two weeks away. “He has the date of his next heist.”

“Oh?” Chris leaned over. “Hm. That’s around when we have that time sensitive thing in—”

“New York,” Chikage finished. Her nails clicked on the phone casing as she drummed her fingers. Chris rescued Chikage’s wine before her lax grip on it let the glass slide from her hand. Chikage pressed the call button. If Kaito was awake to text, he was awake to call.

“Hi, Kaito?” she said as he picked up. “How likely are you to need me for the heist?” Chris stole bits of salad as Chikage listened to Kaito’s response; the usual downplaying of his need for help. That didn’t really make her feel any better about the situation. Kaito would say he could handle it eight out of ten times, even if he had his back to a wall with a gun pointed at him. The only time he asked for help was if he truly didn’t feel he had a chance to pull a heist off alone or she caught him at just the right moment and mindset for him to admit the reality of what he had planned and where it would benefit from another set of hands. “No, no, I’m asking because I need to know if I should try to move up my schedule.”

Another deflection. Chikage bit her lip and caught Chris’s eye. Chris raised one manicured eyebrow.

How likely is it to move things up? Chikage mouthed.

Chris shrugged and wiggled her hand, open palm down. Fifty-fifty.

Not good enough. But if they passed up New York, they would be passing up one of the current largest international hub points for the organization, and Chikage hadn’t managed to get anything vital from there when she tried alone five years ago. With Chris, with their informant ready to abandon their position as soon as the transfer of information was complete—or as soon as their escape plan came into effect and they became a veritable ghost—there was a huge chance at hitting the largest vital info tap this decade. This could be the one that got what they finally needed to tear the whole place apart from the inside out.

“I’m not sure I can make it,” Chikage said, hating herself just a bit. Her son was brilliant, but he was one man. Toichi had been one man once, but even Toichi had had Chikage and Jii at his back. All it took was one moment for everything to go wrong and she knew that. If Kaito wanted, no, needed her there, she’d be there, operation be damned because she might not protest his risks, but she wanted him to live to see old age too. She couldn’t lose him when she’d lost Toichi.

Kaito chattered on in her ear about his preparations and how he had everything more or less ready to go already and really, he’d be fine. He didn’t ask her to come. Chikage wasn’t sure he would ask if he really did need her anymore though. Things like that kept her awake at night. It was nights after she stole information that she slept the best, because those were the days she knew she’d done something to strike out at the shadow looming over them.

“Ok, Kaito,” she said finally, aware of Chris watching and the way a hotel room, no matter how nice, could never quite feel like home. “If something changes, I’ll let you know. Be careful.”

When Chikage hung up the phone, Chris handed her the salad and the glass of wine, filled over the usual amount.

“He’s a smart kid,” Chris offered like smarts would be enough.

Chikage took a large swallow of wine. “We need to push up the dates. As much as we can.”

Chris sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks.”

The happy mood from earlier was gone; the wine left a sour taste at the back of Chikage’s throat.

***

They’d tried to move up New York. Tried being key, because everything had gone to hell complete with flames. Chris was injured, bleeding from a bullet graze on her thigh, and some idiot had managed to set the lab on fire in the rush to catch intruders.

They were two days behind the original planned schedule, down an informant, and caught in a building that was quickly becoming a hazard. Chikage was going to shoot whoever they came across next, consequences be damned.

“You would think,” Chris said, “that they would be more worried about getting out of the building than catching us.”

Around them the fire alarm flashed and blared high pitched shrieks. It made stealth easier, but that was a two-edged sword when it meant they could be snuck up on.

“You’d think,” Chikage agreed, gritting her teeth. On the other side of the globe, her son was starting his day, about to go into a risky endeavor and there was no way at all she was going to be able watch his back now. If only they’d been able to pull off Chicago as easily as it seemed. If only their informant hadn’t pushed the date back. If only he hadn’t ended up dead, but those were just a few more ‘if only’s to add to a lifetime of them. Chikage couldn’t get bogged down by could-have-beens when there was enough now to drown in. “Do you think you can get anything from that computer in the corner or should we just call everything a wash and try to get out in one piece?”

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Chris said, tossing her head. The effect was ruined by how sweat made her hair stick to her face, but Chikage could appreciate the intent. They weren’t quite out of luck yet.

Chikage took the door while Chris took the computer.  Chris was better with them than Chikage, but they both knew how to hack. The program in Chris’s flash drive circumnavigated the firewall easily enough. If only there wasn’t the actual fire encroaching on them. Smoke fizzled under the doorway in hazy eddies. “I am too old for this,” Chikage muttered to herself. The scientists must have evacuated from this part of the lab. Between the fire alarm and the earlier fighting, she didn’t blame them.

There was movement in the hallway, a man with a gun, but he kept walking past the closed lab door, probably thinking they’d continued on in an effort to escape. That or he was running from the fire like a sane person.

“We’re going to die of smoke inhalation, not even something exciting.”

“Quit being dramatic,” Chris said, typing away. “I think I can get something from here. It’s not going to be as big as what we wanted; this is only a research terminal, not an upper management computer, but it will be something. There are probably human testing trials in here somewhere.”

“Something to get more investigating done on this place at any rate. That’s more than we had before.”

“Good enough.” Chris glanced at the smoke curling under the door and back at the monitor. “Give me five minutes.”

“Might not have that long,” Chikage said, voice tight. Flames licked the end of the hallway from what she could see in the small door window. It was getting hard to breathe and the temperature was rapidly rising. There was smoke starting to filter down from the air vents too... “Fuck, Chris I think it’s spreading faster through the air ducts.”

Chris didn’t answer. Her lips were white where they pressed together. Chikage hoped she’d be able to run on that leg injury.

There was an ominous creaking sound from further in the building.

“And we are going to have to go. I think something’s caving in.”

“Not yet,” Chris snapped. “If I don’t get something then what’s the point of all of this?”

“There’s no point at all if we don’t live to see another day,” Chikage reminded her, already abandoning the door to hustle closer. There was a second door that led to an adjacent room, and they’d have to take that door and hope the hallway was marginally clearer there. “Come on.”

“A few more seconds,” Chris said, stubborn to the end.

The ceiling groaned, smoke from the vents making the room start to go hazy.

“Now,” Chikage said, grabbing Chris’s arm.

Chris hit one last key and snatched the flash drive from the tower. “It’ll be what it’ll be, let’s go.”

Chikage dragged her through the door. The next room was marginally less smoky, but not by much. “There’s still some flames in the hall,” she said. Damn.

“Not like we have a choice.”

“They’re going to be waiting for us outside.”

Chris grinned like that was a challenge. Of course she did. She plucked an explosive from her pocket, more bang and smoke than destruction, but their thoughts were in the same direction.

“They’re looking for two women,” Chikage said.

“So we disappear in the chaos.”

Plan settled, they darted out into the hallway. Heat battered at them and smoke choked the air even as they moved almost bent in half. They ran. Chris threw her bomb. Screams sounded and the building groaned and crackled where places collapsed behind them. This plan, at least, went off without a hitch.

***

In the end, they were both covered in bruises, suffering minor smoke inhalation problems, and Chris had picked up another bullet graze in the chaos. Chikage bandaged her in an apartment building stairwell a long ways away from their hotel room. It wasn’t safe to go back there yet, not when they didn’t know whether that had been compromised or not. It was hours since the burning building and it would be hours more before Chikage could get to her phone to check her messages. There was nothing that could be done about it, so Chikage didn’t let herself think about anything more than what was in front of her.

In front of her was Chris, face pinched with discomfort, a slapdash med-kit gathered from three different drug stores, and a quick-mart bag of granola bars and water to tide their stomachs over.

Chris turned the flash drive of data she’d gotten around and around in her palm. Disappointed. They both were disappointed. “Should have expected things would go that bad,” Chris sighed.

Chikage smeared antibiotic ointment into the bullet graze on Chris’s thigh. “We can’t plan for everything no matter how hard we try. I admit I wasn’t expecting our inside man to suicide...”

“Is it suicide when he was cornered?” Chris said. She clicked her tongue and tucked the flash drive away. He irritated expression didn’t change even as Chikage started winding bandages around her thigh, holding a gauze pad in place. “I guess that’s one more time New York won. Hopefully the data we got will be useful to someone. It’s enough to get the...FBI? CIA? Who handles something like human experimentation in the US?” She shrugged. “Someone can use it and it’s a foot in the door for having a reason to check into every nook and cranny that facility has. Who knows, maybe the fire helped too.”

“They’ll have all the local authorities in their pocket and you know it,” Chikage muttered.

“I was trying for optimism,” Chris said. She caught Chikage’s hands as she finished tying off the bandage. “Let me get your scrapes. I noticed that burn on your arm too.”

Chikage held still and let her. Nothing hurt badly, but there wasn’t really a reason to court infection. “Can we call today a wash and go find somewhere to sleep before breaking into our own hotel room?”

“I can do the breaking in if you’d like. Give you a rest.”

“Chris, you’re hurt worse than I am,” Chikage said.  “I just want to sleep, then check my phone for Kaito’s post-heist message, and a stairwell isn’t prime sleeping space.” Especially not when she was past fifty. Aging sucked. Meanwhile Chris barely aged at all thanks to some chemical cocktail experiment she’d been part of years ago. An experiment that lingered in some of the things they stole, not that Chris had been with that group since the major split and definitely not since her branch of it had been busted by Yukiko’s kid. Immortality was an overrated concept and the realities that had come out of searching for it weren’t as ideal as their creators would have desired.

“Fine, fine.” Chris sighed. “The mail box for apartment 324 looked like it was overflowing. Either the owner went on a trip and forgot to stop their mail, or they’re dead. Either way their apartment is someplace to sleep.”

“Really, Chris?”

“You’re not that squeamish about corpses.”

“But we could walk right into a crime scene. Or they could just chronically forget their mail.”

“I’ll take that risk,” Chris said. She stood, stiffly, her injuries apparent now that she wasn’t running anymore. She offered Chikage a hand.

Chikage took it. “I guess we could always gas the owner and find a nice closet to hole up in,” she muttered. “But if there is a corpse in there I swear to god I am not following whatever next impulsive choice you make.”

“It’s not impulse, it’s calculation. And my calculation is that we both need some fucking sleep.”

***

Almost twelve hours later, Chikage dragged herself from a stolen apartment bed to drink from a kitchen faucet and raid poorly stocked cupboards. Then she dragged Chris from where she slept like the dead and moved them both out of the apartment. Besides the missing food and blankets that carried a bit of their scent, they left no evidence behind; the apartment owner (who thankfully hadn’t been a dead body in a corner) probably wouldn’t even notice they’d been there.

“All things considered,” Chris said as they made their way back to their hotel room—disguised of course—“it’s pretty unlikely that they found where we were staying. We didn’t check in as ourselves or wear our faces on the job.”

“But they know our methods by this point, so better safe than sorry.” An empty hotel hallway, a swipe of the keycard to get in their empty room. Chikage checked for traps or signs that the room was bugged. All she found was their own surveillance equipment and a phone charger someone must have forgotten shoved between the wall and the mattress.  

“I’d say you’re paranoid, but I’m also paranoid,” Chris said. Her wounds didn’t seem to bother her much, but they never did.

Chikage thought it was another side effect of the experiments; her own bruises were settling into the deep purple phase where even moving sent twinges of discomfort shooting through her. As Chris moved to her laptop to start going through the data they’d stolen, Chikage went for her phone.

There were four messages there and one voicemail. None of the messages were from Kaito. Chikage closed her eyes. A part of her that felt like it had been battered too many times braced for the worst. She’d lost her husband. She’d lost friends and her parents. That deep part of her wavered, unsure if losing her son would finally make her break.

She listened to the voicemail first.

“Chikage-basan,” Aoko’s voice said, sounding exhausted and strained. “There was an accident at the heist. Accident... Well. Attack. A bomb went off at the museum and according to eye witness reports, Kid’s glider went down during his escape. I don’t think it was a dummy, but I was stuck dealing with the bomb aftermath and a panicked crowd so I don’t know yet what happened... Shit. Sorry.” Her voice broke on the other end. “I’m heading home but I had to call. I’ll message or call when I learn more.”

The line beeped, asking what she wanted to do with the message. Chikage hung up. The call was from four hours ago. The most recent text was...two hours ago. There were several from Aoko, the first essentially the same as her phone message, the second a panicked one about Takumi not being home, and a third stating that Takumi was with Hakuba and the two of them had seen Kid shot down and helped him. Kaito was alive—Chikage’s knees went weak reading the words—but injured.

She closed her eyes and breathed. She didn’t break.

The last message was from Hakuba, strictly to the point. It gave a list of Kaito’s injuries and assurance that he was being cared for, though outside of a hospital. He didn’t say where Kaito was at—understandable; texting was possible to track—but she could probably narrow it down. All she had to do was get back to Japan, then figure out where Kaito was, and then see him face to face to assure herself that yes, her son wasn’t dead. No, he hadn’t been taken like Toichi and Jii.  Her hands gripped her phone so tight she half thought she’d shatter her screen.

“`Kage?” Chris asked, the usually lighthearted nickname sharp with concern.

“Kaito’s still alive, but he was hurt bad. Badly enough he didn’t send his post-heist text and if he was anyone else he’d probably have a broken neck or be a smear on the pavement.” Her legs did give out then, and she crouched on the floor, lungs tight, as Chris abandoned her laptop in favor of taking Chikage’s hands in hers. “Shit, Chris.” There’d been dozens of close calls over the years. Dozens. It didn’t get easier. It didn’t feel any less like she’d missed a step going down the stairs, heart still catching up with the fact that she didn’t fall. “I should have been there. I could have done something.”

“Or they could have done the exact same thing and you could both be hurt,” Chris said, voice even and blank. No emotion, while Chikage was too full of it right now.  “If you went it would have been me going alone into New York, and then I’d be worse off or dead, and we might have had nothing.”

“I know.” She did know, rationally, that her presence wasn’t likely to have changed much. Or maybe they’d have both been targets. Or maybe not. But she could have been there, perhaps could have helped Kaito get to safety firsthand. She took another breath. No, there was no point to what ifs since it wasn’t what was. She’d learned that with Toichi, and learned it again when she found out Jii had been killed. The dead were past helping and so she’d just have to focus on the positive fact that Kaito was still alive. “I have to get back to Japan.”

Chris gave her hands a squeeze. “You sit here and breathe. I can take care of the details for that.”

“I can’t just sit here, I need to do something!”

“Then breathe and get your shit together. Literal and metaphorical.”

“Fuck you, Chris,” Chikage said, but there was no bite in it.

Chris smirked and headed back to her laptop. “Shoo. I’ve got this.”

“Ugh. This had to happen while I was in New York. Why couldn’t it be Vegas? Or San Diego?” That was hours and hours of time that would be lost in layovers and flight transfers and getting across a continent before she could even consider getting across the ocean.

“Breathe,” Chris reminded her, typing rapidly. “I’m glad your kid didn’t die.”

“I’m too old for this shit,” Chikage said. She made her legs work and walked over to her suitcase. It was mostly still packed, but she started tossing every item that was hers within an arm’s reach into it.

“You’re not even sixty yet.”

“Too. Old.” There was no age that losing her son wouldn’t be devastating. They might only spend time together sporadically, but he was Kaito, her Kaito, and he always would be.

“You have a flight in three hours to Chicago and a connecting flight to California. It’s a hop to Hawaii, then Japan. That’s the best I could do for short notice.”

Chikage scrunched a shirt in her fists. Breathe. “Thanks, Chris.”

“Any time,” Chris said. “Always.”

Someday maybe Chikage would be able to believe in an always. Chris, with her unchanging nature and appearance was about as close to a constant as Chikage had. Chikage breathed and finished packing her bags. She had a plane to catch.