#truly the au ever. theyre idiots your honor<3

[definitelynotshouting]

like “jealousy”, “painting”, and “trees”? for your three word prompts (if I did it right)!

for the three word fic prompt (closed) | ao3 link

This took forever but hopefully it was worth it anon <- did not expect this to be like. 900 words. Anyway ART HEIST AU POGGGG

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"If Mumbo wasn't our client, what do you think his role in a grift would be?"

Grian's voice is a soft slip through golden hour, pitched low to avoid puncturing the bubble they've built between two trees and the roofline. Fifteen feet up and hidden within the foliage, they have unfiltered access to the ebb and flow of Craft Museum's clientele; the crowds have thinned as six-thirty creeps forward on dying knees. In about twenty minutes, the last honeyed rays of the setting sun will douse themselves against the horizon– but until that point, Grian has time to kill.

What they never tell you about heists is how long you spend waiting. Casing a location takes time; past the heady buzz of a new assignment are days, even weeks, of studying shift changes, security systems, building plans, and the object of interest itself. Ninety percent patience, ten percent actual thievery– and while the adrenaline rush is worth it every time, between those crystalline snapshots lies nothing but dull monotony.

So, inane questions. It's better than trying to play I Spy.

For one taffy-stretched moment, Scar doesn't respond. Unlike Grian, whose eyes began wandering an hour ago, his gaze is glued to the sky; whether he's counting the minutes to nightfall or admiring the colors is anyone's mystery– though if Grian had to hazard a guess, it's a little mixture of both.

Then Scar rolls his shoulders and says, with the teasing nonchalance Grian has begun to associate with all of their interactions: "Oh, eye-candy for sure."

Grian chokes on thin air. "Scar!"

Scar's head shifts, neck craning to display how his brows leap into his hairline. "What!" he says, eyes far too wide for genuine innocence; a common tactic for him, though it's been some time since it's worked on Grian. "It's true! He'd make a great distraction– he's got the suit-look going for him, and that luxurious mustache–"

Whatever else Scar says is lost in a rush of grey static. As with all people, Grian is a great many things: cocky, thieving, and selfish account for several of them. He's the kind to covet, which can be dangerous in this line of work– you never make it farther than your front door if you can't learn to let things go.

Unfortunately for all of them, Grian is also possessive– over items, jobs, people– and in the face of this fatal flaw, the gilded snarl of teeth that snaps between his ribs shouldn't catch him so off guard. He reels anyway, punch-drunk and lightheaded, a haze of red smearing behind his eyes. Grian fumbles to cover it with another indignant splutter.

"Don't flirt with our client!" he snaps when he can risk words, appall dripping from every syllable. "We're supposed to be professionals!"

Scar has the actual gall to shoot him a wounded look. "I am plenty professional," he protests. "Besides, he's not even here right now– it's not flirting if they can't hear you say it."

A dozen barbed retorts sizzle to life on Grian's tongue in response to that, stinging his gums with a vitriol far too strong for the circumstances. He opens his mouth, lips peeling back from teeth–

Nestled in his ear, Grian's comm crackles; a harsh, grating buzz that drags his heart all the way up into his throat. Beside him, Scar jumps as well, throwing out a hand before he can upset his balance.

Mumbo's voice is an apologetic stumble tripping over itself. "Sorry, um, just thought I'd let you both know this channel's still open. I can hear you." A beat. "Sorry."

The glance Grian exchanges with Scar is mute, wide-eyed, and brimming with chagrin. Without breaking eye contact, Grian reaches up and switches his comm to off.

After a moment's hesitation, Scar mirrors him.

"I cannot believe you," Grian hisses the second he lowers his hand.

"Now how was I supposed to know the channel was still open?" Scar shoots right back. Then, with damning accusation: "I don't know why you're getting so bent out of shape about this, G– it's not like I don't talk about how good people look all the time!"

"But not the clients," Grian stresses, steamrolling past his own hypocrisy. "There's professionalism involved here, Scar, we can't just– just go around– complimenting everybody!"

Scar's lips part, only to flatten back into a thin, straight line. Ruddy sunlight slips over the bridge of his nose, painting his profile in flame; Grian's lungs hitch without permission. Even half his face cast in shadow isn't enough to conceal the stark, appraising glitter growing in his eyes.

"You've never had a problem with it when I do it to you," Scar finally points out, cadence threaded with a creeping, thoughtful edge.

Grian's throat dries. Holding Scar's gaze becomes an exercise in futility– his eyes drop to skitter across the roof, snagging on a sharp crag in the tile next to him. One finger taps against his knee, keeping time with the rabbit beats of his pulse. Between two trees and the roofline, Scar's stare threatens to strip Grian down to his last, raw, aching nerve.

Speaking takes a few attempts; he has to clear his throat twice before his voice jogs out of it. "Let's just… focus on Mumbo's painting," he mumbles at last, once the silence has stretched far beyond the event horizon. Then, clamping his jaw shut, Grian shifts his attention back to the skyline– past the heavy, dragging weight of Scar's scrutiny, and the way it boils, persistent, across every inch of his skin.