Let me tell you the story of this fic real quick; I started watching Leverage. That's the basis of this idea, really, it all stemmed from Leverage. (Though, I do hope it takes a tone of it's own.) I thought "I wanna write a short thieves oneshot for AU week!" Boy, oh boy, did that not work out. Not only have I been working on this for almost two months, but it's almost as big as Openheart (my only other multichap project) word count-wise. Needless to say, I felt I owed it to the material, myself, and you lovely readers to break it down into multiple parts rather than a 30k oneshot.
That said, if it seems familiar to you, I did post a sneak preview of it for AU week over on my tumblr: .vu/post/147697444330/cs-au-week-belated-day-4-thieves-au-the
Big thank yous to Sandy and Steph who helped a lot with this just by proofreading and cheerleading! I honestly would not be able to write anything - good or otherwise - without their support. I really hope readers enjoy this fic!
And to cap off the world's longest author note, I'll end with a general disclaimer for this fic; I know astoundingly little about Greenland, art museums, and security systems. Therefore, much of this fic is definitely fantastical in nature. Think of the show Leverage but with even less research. Also, so, so little about French government. Please suspend your disbelief okay I'm so sorry
Emma is casing the private gallery of some New York socialite the first time she sees him.
The thing about thieves is that they all have a tell. Some oversell, others avoid eye contact. Most work alone, off to the side of public places where they can do their surveying in private. Emma isn't just a thief, though, Emma is the Best Thief (trademark pending). Along with this title come a few perks; a warehouse full of some of the world's most prized art and jewels, the means to keep oneself out of homelessness and poverty, and the ability to spot another thief from a mile away.
And there is absolutely no way that Killian Jones, a man with all the subtlety of a hand grenade, is taking her score.
She ducks to the side of the room, cramming into a bend in the wall, and watches him for a moment. He certainly looks the part of a thief, dressed head to toe in black with most of it being leather. He keeps one arm tucked against his side, bent at the elbow. The fingers at the end of it are stiff and Emma is unsurprised at the false hand. It's part of his legacy. Killian Jones can steal, con, and fight better with one hand than most men can with two.
At least Emma had the common sense to dress the part of an art connoisseur. This isn't her first day on the job and she already has the guard schedule figured out. She waits in her spot for the security personnel's rounds to bring them to her. Seeking them out would only make her stand out more.
"Oh, excuse me," she says, once one rounds the corner. Her fingers wrap around his upper arm and she nods her head in Jones' direction, pulling the man's gaze from her face before it even lands. "I heard that man over there saying something kind of, well, alarming. I think he might be planning something to do with the Monet."
The guard frowns, looking from Jones to her and back. She merely blinks, concerned frown fully in place. There's nothing menacing in her daisy patterned skirt and powder pink top. Nothing in her face that screams "Wanted for grand theft in 32 states and 40 countries".
Killian Jones, on the other hand, looks like he's taken his fashion advice from Thief Wear Weekly. There's probably a Buzzfeed article bookmarked on his computer; How to Dress Like You're About to Commit a Felony. He's well enough known in the criminal world, Emma supposes. Enough that she knows who he is. He's known better as an errand boy - Retrieval Specialist, whatever the hell that means -, but he's best known for his exits.
Emma's tactic is simple; get in, get out. She doesn't dilly dally, doesn't like to show her face if she can help it. Occasionally, there's the hiccup of a security camera she can't hack or a guard who catches her for a moment. Typically, though, by the time her score is realized as missing, Emma is halfway across town.
Jones, on the other hand, lives for the grift. The big scene at the end of the night, when you've got what you want, but there's an escape to be made. At this, Jones is all but legendary. The way people talk about him, you'd think he'd simply talked his way into and out of most of his scores. Emma doesn't need to know him to know she doesn't like him.
The guard watches Jones pluck a flute of champagne off the buffet table and skirt the edge of the room. Emma catches the guard's eyes narrowing as Jones steps a little too closely to a particular painting, eyes surveying in a calculating way, and she knows she's won.
"We'll handle it, ma'am, thank you."
Emma doesn't even get to titter out a response before the guard is stalking off, muttering into the radio at his shoulder. She watches with satisfaction as he marches up to Jones, who is immediately on alert, and navigates through the man's usually disarming charm.
"Sir, I'm gonna have to ask you to leave," the guard says, once he clearly hasn't gotten the proper responses out of Jones. The thief's eyes grow big, arms swinging out to his sides in a grand gesture, and Emma knows he's about to make a scene. The guard is having none of it, though, another one showing up to help him escort the rowdy man from the premises.
As he being dragged away, Jones notices Emma. She steps out from her concealment and even offers him a smug wave. His eyes darken, but the corners of his lips tick up in a smirk. Emma can hear the threat as clearly as if he'd shouted it at her.
This isn't over.
She swipes the Monet on the night of the exhibit's grand opening a few days later. Jones is nowhere to be seen.
-/-
Emma's been a thief practically her whole life. Pilfered candy bars as a child, boosted cars as a teen. There was a time when it was due to a necessity. If she didn't steal something she could sell or consume, she didn't eat. Homelessness and poverty were defining characteristics of her youth. It wasn't taking more than you needed when you had nothing and needed everything.
Now, she's lost that moral compass. A warehouse, rented under an alias, holds her favorites of her stolen artifacts, but much of it gets sold. Emma has enough money to keep herself comfortable, even some run off she donates anonymously to orphanages. It'd be easy to sell off most of her stolen possessions to the highest bidders, escape somewhere without an extradition treaty, and live the lavish life she'd only dreamed of as a child.
And dream it, she had. Laying awake in a lumpy bed in a room shared with four other children, or shivering in an alley and trying to lull her mind to sleep, Emma had indulged in the fantasy. She'd imagined parents who loved her, coming out of nowhere to sweep her away. She dreamed of being a lost princess belonging to a palace in some unheard of country.
Those dreams are dead now, a reminder of how naive she'd been. No, Emma doesn't steal because she has to, because it can mean the difference between a night in a warm hotel room and sleeping out on the street. Now, she does it because it's fun.
There's a rebellion to it, in the rush of absconding with something nearly priceless and renowned. Something like rubbing it in the face of a system that never gave a damn about her anyway.
It's a little childish, sure, but it's not like she got the luxury of a childhood when she was young.
It's been about a month and a half since the Monet went missing. There's an auction uptown, tons of expensive jewels up for bidding, and it's absolutely begging for her attention. Most likely, the bidders will be private collectors hoping to find something worthy of their millions. These types of events are pretty easy to intervene in the stages between the bidding and the actual shipping of the items. Emma's sure to score something astounding.
Her dress screams rich housewife, with just enough dip at her chest to make anyone who looks a little too closely underestimate her. She's halfway out of her apartment when something makes her halt, a sixth sense maybe. A car door closes just under her window and Emma rushes to peer out over the fire escape. A man leans against the black sedan, cell phone pressed to his ear as he looks straight up at her apartment.
Emma ducks out of view and frowns to herself. It's possible that whoever it is isn't actually here for her. It's a question of whether or not she's willing to take the chance.
"Nope," Emma sighs, answering the question aloud to herself. She grabs a duffle stuffed under the couch and heads out of the apartment. The roof access door is kept locked, mostly because they have some kids in the building, but also because her landlord is a grumpy old asshole. Emma picks the lock with ease, the tumblers clicking into place and allowing her to swing the door open.
It's hardly a picturesque rooftop anyway, no gardens or murals. Just some gravel and bird shit. Blessedly, though, the fire escape goes all the way to the roof on the old brownstone. It drops off in the alley and Emma can easily catch a cab from the next block. She swings the duffle onto her shoulder and begins her descent, wishing she'd had the forethought to switch out of her heels at least.
She hits the pavement with a grin and heads in the opposite direction of the front of her apartment. A man steps into view at the mouth of the alley, nearly identical to the man leaning against the car. The grin falls.
"Emma Swan," he calls out, not a question, and Emma pivots to run the other way. Except Goon #1 is blocking her path that way now.
"Shit," she hisses, turning back to look between the two men. Identical black suits, not terribly pricey ones, though. A thin cord curling down from one of each of their ears. Adjusting her bag, she calls out, "Private security?"
"We need you to come with us, Ms. Swan," one of them, Emma isn't even sure which, calls out as they both advance on her. Her only escape is back up to the roof and, even then, where does she go from there? No, Emma has a very good fight or flight response, it's how she's survived all these years. And, right now, she knows her only option is compliance.
"I actually had somewhere to be," she says, because she can be compliant without seeming weak. Her jaw is set and her shoulders are stiff, there's no fear in her gait. She's very good at tempering it. Not to mention, these guys definitely aren't law enforcement. So, she's kind of intrigued.
Rather than put up any real fight, Emma lets them lead her back to the black sedan. She keeps one hand on the door handle, but one of the men is sitting in the backseat with her. No chance of an escape before they hit any higher speeds. They actually head in the direction of the auction, though Emma can tell they've veered more West.
Every attempt at fishing information out of the men comes up short and Emma barely refrains from pouting when they lead her from a parking garage into a shady security office. They seat her in a chair and leave her by herself. Emma hears the telltale click of the lock on the door when they shut it. Now she's really starting to worry for her safety.
They hadn't confiscated any of her belongings, though, and her lockpicks are still tucked into her dress pocket.
"Ah, Emma Swan, I've heard much about you."
It's at least ten minutes before the man enters the room. Emma crosses her arms over her chest, tilting her head at him. He's suited, much like the security she's already encountered, but it's expensive this time. Cufflinks glitter with blood red gems at his wrists. Old money, Emma thinks. The man himself isn't exactly young, his false smile causing wrinkles around his eyes and the top of his head is still dusted with white hair despite the shave.
"All good things, I'm sure," she offers in response. As much as she's reading him, she's sure he's doing the same to her. He chuckles and it's anything but pleasant despite his efforts.
"Let's just say your reputation proceeds you, hm?" He flashes perfect white teeth at her and Emma is reminded of a predatory animal.
"Well, you've got me at a disadvantage here," she says, shrugging as she leans back in the uncomfortable wooden chair. "Seeing as I don't know who the hell you are."
That earns her a reaction. It's barely there, a flash in his bright blue eyes. He expects her to know him, he's unseated by the fact that she doesn't. It's an interesting response to be sure. To his credit, he continues on as if he hasn't taken offense.
"My name is George Spencer." He must catch a flash of recognition at the name because suddenly his grin changes from false hospitality to smugness. "Ah, you've heard of me, good. Then you know I can pay well."
"Well" is an understatement, really. George Spencer is practically modern royalty, the closest a man can come to being a king without physically running a country. Emma doesn't even know what he could possibly be interested in hiring her for, but the cash signs are racking up in her mind. Still, she'll keep her skepticism for now.
"Pay me for what, exactly?" Emma asks, cutting to the chase. She's not interested in his games.
"I am assembling a team of people with certain, shall we say, unsavory skillsets," he explains.
"Thieves," Emma says.
"Criminals," George corrects, unashamed as he leans forwards towards her, teeth flashing in the flourescent lights. Emma contemplates him, tries to decide if he's desperate or devious. She isn't sure which type of man is more dangerous. "The best of the best."
"As I said," he goes on, "I can pay very well. I can't divulge the full details of the job until you've agreed, of course, but to put it simply; someone has stolen something very important from me. I'd like you to get it back."
"And if I say no?" She asks.
"Then you are free to leave," he shrugs, straightening his shoulders. "I am not keeping you here under duress, you're free to leave whenever you like."
"And if I say yes?"
George's grin grows and Emma knows that for him the question is just as good as a yes. "Then, you'll meet your new team."
-/-
Emma wants to believe she's better than this, but the number George gives her is too good to pass up. It could put her in retirement. At least, for as long as it took her to get bored with retirement. Hell, it could feed an entire orphanage for a year. The possibilities are endless and Emma is sure she'd kick herself down the road for refusing.
George gives her an address, date, and time. Two days later, she meets her new - temporary, that angry little voice in the back of her head reminds her - team. The address brings her to a cache of warehouses, because they're really going for all the cliches here apparently, and Emma is momentarily struck upon entering.
It's not just a warehouse. It's a headquarters. There's six screens stacked together on a wall, their displays all a bright blue as a woman stands off to the side of them untangling and attaching wires. She's muttering to herself, Emma catches some profanity and something about "morons who couldn't hook up a VCR", and she decides to leave the woman to it.
It's as she's passing that Emma notices the red streaks in her dark hair, the matching polish on her nails, and suddenly realizes who the woman is. Damn, Spencer was not lying about getting the best.
"Tell me something," an accented voice says in her ear. "That Monet you stole, what did you do with it?"
Emma doesn't jump, nor whirl around to face him. Calmly, she turns her head to find herself mere inches from Killian Jones. He's smirking at her, though his eyes are trained on where the screens have now gone all black, six identical lines of code flashing across them.
"I sold it," she answers simply.
"Sold it?" Jones repeats, eyebrows ticking upwards in surprise. "You sold Beach in Pourville?"
"I'm not much of a Monet girl," Emma shrugs. "I'm more of a money girl."
Jones is utterly unimpressed with the joke, brow pinched in annoyance, and Emma grins at him. He shakes his head at her, mutters something unflattering under his breath, and stalks off.
"Sore loser," she comments, continuing across the warehouse. There's another woman sitting in one of four chairs behind a desk facing the wall of screens. Emma isn't particularly interested in any more conversation, but it seems like those seats are for them. Might as well take advantage.
She takes the seat farthest from the other woman. Upon closer inspection, Emma could swear she recognizes her. Their business isn't exactly the type that encourages networking, but when you're especially good, people tend to take notice. It's how Emma is able to recognize the woman working on the displays.
She doesn't actually know her name or her face, that's not how it works. Most people, the people who like to make a show of it, have a signature. The red hair, nails, lips. Those are specific to a certain well known hacker. Red. Yeah, it's a little on the nose but, hey, they're criminals.
The woman at the desk, though, Emma can't place other than a familiarity. There's something off about it, though. Like the eyes are right and the chin is familiar, but everything else seems wrong.
"You're staring," the woman points out and Emma does jump a little this time because she hadn't even realized she was.
"Oh, uh, sorry," Emma says haltingly. "Just thought I recognized you from somewhere."
"Oh, sweetie," the woman sighs, a grin that somehow both mischievous and melancholy lighting up her soft features. "You probably recognize me from everywhere."
Emma frowns at this but the speaker system gives a loud noise of feedback and the screens have gone an ominous shade of blue again. Red lets out another string of curses and tugs on a wire until it disconnects and the sound stops. Jones comes towards the desk, chuckling and rubbing a finger over his ear. He drops into the seat next to Emma, wagging his eyebrows at her. He seems to have forgiven her for the Monet joke.
"Ah," Jones grins, directing his attentions at the other woman this time. "Ms. White, I thought you'd made an honest woman of yourself, last I heard."
"Turns out honesty doesn't suit me," is all the other woman offers, not even looking up to meet Jones' eye. Whether it's out of general disinterest in the conversation or an effort to lie, Emma can't tell. Which, in and of itself says something about this woman's skills.
Emma frowns at the moniker, and the exchange as whole, but it makes something click in her mind. Ms. White. Snow White. That's why Emma recognizes her. Of course, the last time she'd stumbled upon Snow in the middle of her own con, she'd been blonde with a more orange-based foundation. World class grifter, known for her ability to spin a tale and convince the weak and unimaginative minds to simply give her whatever she wanted.
It's a bit simple for Emma's taste, but game recognizes game.
Regardless, it's the same case as with Red, Emma only knows the woman by her codename - Snow White, in case there was still pause over Red as an actual thief's handle -, but most of her victims know her by her personas. A bored housewife name Paula, a French art inspector named Emilie, the English duchess Charlotte. These are only the ones Emma's even heard of and can directly tie to Snow White. The woman's actual alias count is probably beyond Emma's purview.
She had intended to come to this meeting, whatever it is, and be the silent, mysterious type. Her curiosity is too much, though, and she can't keep herself from blurting, "You two know each other?"
Of course, she regrets it as soon as Jones' gaze lands on her once more. His lips have ticked upwards in that smug smirk she's quickly growing accustomed to and his eyes dance with mirth.
"No need for jealousy, darling," he drawls and Emma resists the childish urge to kick him in the shin. "Snow and I have merely set our sights on the same mark a time or two before. It's a friendly competition of sorts."
Snow snorts. "Can it be called a competition when you always lose?"
Jones' eyes flash with something like annoyance and Emma guesses their dynamic may not be as friendly as he'd like her to believe. It instantly makes her question the validity of this supposed crack team Spencer has assembled. Negative dynamics make for a difficult team, it's why Emma works alone now. Jones has different skillsets, but Emma can tell he prefers the grift. Two grifters on one team can be messy.
To his credit, Jones doesn't respond short of a false grin in Snow's direction. Emma is considering getting up and leaving, letting Spencer and his mess of a team sort out his problem without her, when the warehouse door falls shut loudly behind a pair of new arrivals.
Two men cross the large space and, even before they hit the low light illuminating the center of the warehouse, George Spencer's straight-backed gait and silhouette is easily recognizable. When they reach the light, Emma studies the man with him. He's younger, looking to be closer to her own age, and his light hair is cut in a similar style to George's. It's not quite as shaven, but cut short into something resembling a military cut. His suit is nearly identical as well, tailored and expensive, a shade lighter gray than George's.
His son, she realizes, remembering the information she'd pulled up on Spencer after their first meeting. He has one son, an only child. His wife passed away right after their son, James, was born. There's some weirdness surrounding the pregnancy and birth itself, but Emma kept to the important stuff. Like what exactly Spencer might be involved in currently that would cause him to hire a team of criminals.
She'd found exactly nothing. Not to be misled, the guy is an asshole. Exactly what you'd expect him to be from looking at him. A list of lawsuits filed against him longer than Emma's theft record, but all of them seem to just disappear without ever making it to court. Not a good guy, to be sure, but nothing that has really chased Emma off the payday so far.
Once she realizes who's joined them, Red stops fussing with the cords and joins the rest of them at the desk. She has a remote in her hand now and, despite taking her seat, continues to fiddle with it. Images light up the screens for quick seconds before disappearing and being replaced by others. Spencer clears his throat, but the movement on the screens doesn't stop.
"I assume you've all gotten yourselves acquainted by now," he says, as if he's addressing a class of grade schoolers rather than four of the world's best thieves. Emma realizes that he's already got them on the hook, now he can let the genial facade from their first meeting fade. This time she'll be meeting the real George Spencer. "If not, I'm sure you'll make time if you like. At the moment, it's time we discuss the details of your employment."
Emma can feel the skepticism rolling off of the four people sharing the desk. If she doesn't trust Spencer, she's certainly not the only one. Jones' leg bounces in an irritating rhythm next to hers and she can hear the repetitive clack of Red's nails against the wood.
"James, if you will," Spencer says, gesturing towards Red. James steps forward and plucks the remote from her hand, not without effort to release it from her grip. With an almost disarmingly charming smile at Red, he presses a button and the six screens come to life. The image of a woman covers the six of them. Smiling and unassuming, she appears to be nearing sixty with gray streaked hair and crinkles around her eyes.
Jones' leg stops bouncing next to her as Emma's eyebrow goes up in consideration. She looks perfectly harmless, but she of all people knows looks can be deceiving.
"Ruth Nolan," Spencer explains. James has clasped the remote between his hands, resting them in front of himself. "Don't let her friendly appearance blind you, she's a ruthless negotiator. A woman who put herself through law school at a late age, Nolan is now a self-made woman with a mediator position at the top law firm in New York."
"What did she do to you?" Snow pipes up when Spencer pauses. He turns his gaze on her and it's hard and calculating, but Snow doesn't cower under it. Emma is impressed. "If it were something triable in court, you wouldn't need us. She's a mediator, but you have some of the world's best lawyers on your payroll. So, what did she do?"
"Well deduced, Ms. - what was it? - White?" Spencer says, his grin lacking the charm of his son's. Regardless, he answers her question, "She stole some documents from me. I have reason to believe she's keeping them in the safe in her office."
"If she stole them, why not just call the police?" Jones asks, his fingers dance over the wood of the table and the metal of his rings make a quiet rhythm. "Surely you've got one or two of New York's finest on your payroll as well."
"This is a very sensitive matter and I can't trust the police with the discretion necessary," George explains, ignoring the accusation in Jones' words. "You four on the other hand, well, discretion is your livelihood, isn't it?"
"And what is it, exactly, you want us to do?" Emma asks, quickly growing weary of the exposition. Her fingers are prickling with the want to run, but she feels obligated to see this through. It's simply the thief in her rebelling to the idea of attachments and variables team members bring.
"Ah, well, for that I'll leave it to my son. He'll be in charge of your little mission and you'll defer to him with any and all questions." Spencer nods once, brusquely, as he claps James on the shoulder. James echoes it with a nod of his own before turning another smile on the group. Emma might be fooled by the gentle look of it if she didn't know better. Everything she's read tells her one thing; James Spencer is, first and foremost, his father's son.
George turns and heads out of the warehouse. Emma figures this will be the last time they'll see him. He's washing his hands of this illegal endeavour and, once they've been paid, they'll never hear from him again.
"Right, well, Nolan's law firm has thirty-four floors," James says, tapping a button on the remote that fills the screens with a large blueprint of the building. Another press and it zooms suddenly, highlighting a floor a few down from the top. "Her office is on the twenty-seventh floor."
"And how do you suggest we get there?" Red asks, a bite to her voice that makes Emma think she's probably still annoyed at having her toy taken from her. "Everything above the first eighteen floors are only accessible with an employee ID badge."
James raises a questioning eyebrow at her, but Ruby only smirks enigmatically back. Emma shakes her head and looks back at the screen.
"So, we go down from the roof," she says at the exact moment Snow says, "We'll have to steal an ID badge."
Snow leans forward on the desk to make eye contact with Emma past Jones, looking a little bewildered by the suggestion. "The roof?"
"Sure, set up a rigging that gets us from the roof of an adjacent building to the law firm after closing. From there, we use the air ducts," Emma explains with a shrug. "Though, they're more suited for one person than four."
"Not that simple," James inserts, looking a little peeved that they've stolen his briefing. "During the day, those floors are teeming with people. Lawyers, paralegals, interns, you name it. At night, the alarm system comes up."
James clicks the remote again and this time a simulation comes up. The floor plan of the twenty-seventh floor lights up with laser traps, motion sensors, and bio scanners.
"Whoa," Emma breathes and Red lets out a low whistle.
James smirks. "Now that I've got your attention, allow me to tell you the plan."
-/-
"Jones, I've got your badge, where's mine?" Snow's voice comes crackling over the comm in Emma's ear. She shakes her head as Killian grumbles over the line about impatience. She's just listened to Snow successfully distract a man while she picked his pocket and stole his employee ID from his wallet in no time flat.
On his end, Killian is still lavishing some poor, unsuspecting girl with compliments while he talks her out of her ID badge. The competition is ridiculous, but as long as they're both playing their parts Emma doesn't mind. There's an ID scanner at the front entrance that logs every time an employee enters or exits. It's a bit high grade for a law firm, but it cuts down the cost of a manned security check-in.
Unfortunately, it means Snow and Killian have to corner their targets outside of the firm and work their IDs off them from there. It's nearing the end of the business day, though, so the front sidewalk is teeming with unsuspecting workers waiting for cabs and moving about busily.
"Tick tock," Snow singsongs, enjoying herself perhaps too much, as she waits by the front entrance. Emma can see her from her perch on the building over, but it's difficult. Her light grey pantsuit nearly makes her disappear among the rest of the crowd. Killian, on the other hand, stands out in his expensive burgundy suit. Emma aims her binoculars at him and her eyes nearly roll out of her head in annoyance when she realizes he still has the top three buttons of his shirt undone.
"Can't rush perfection, love," he comments lowly, in order not to spook the girl, but his target is slipping him her card and turning to head down the sidewalk. He bends his arm behind his back and, as he turns, Emma catches the flash of the white ID card standing out against his colorful suit. He meets Snow at the entrance and they swap their cards out surreptitiously.
"If you two are done screwing around," James bites. "Can we get a move on?"
"Relax," Killian hisses. He's disappeared through the doors now and Emma can no longer see him. She drops her binoculars. "We're well on the time schedule, mate."
"Don't jinx it," Red comments. Emma doesn't have to raise her binoculars to find her as she cuts through the crowd. Her outfit is casual, a bright red scarf tied around her hair and a pair of glasses that look remarkably like the ones Emma wore as a teenager perched on her nose. "Just get me in the building."
She's carrying a messenger bag and follows after Snow and Killian into the building where Emma can't see them anymore. They've still got half an hour before the building actually closes, but she sets to work on hooking up her rigging. From here, it's Snow and Killian's job to get Ruby inside, under the guise of off-site technical assistance, and down into the server room where she can bend the alarm system to her hacker whims.
Emma's job is just to zipline the fifty or so feet between buildings onto the law firms roof and then make her way through the ventilation system onto the twenty-seventh floor. Easy, really.
The rigging is secure enough to transport her weight and Emma hears Red confirm that the rest of them are in position, but it's still a waiting game. Emma figures that, even in New York at sunset, people might take notice of a woman ziplining between buildings. The plan is to wait for security to do their last walk through, after which Red will loop the feed from the night before to the security monitors. Once the building is well and truly closed, they go in.
"This is a silent heist," James had said, ignoring Red's questioning 'shouldn't all heists be silent?'. "Meaning we get in and out without anyone knowing we were there to begin with."
By "we", of course, James had meant them. He was hardly about to storm the building with them, tucked safely away in their getaway van on the next block over. He would monitor them through the comms and any of the security feed Red fed him, but that was it. Not that Emma minds, the man may fancy himself a mastermind, but he's hardly a seasoned veteran of the thief business like the rest of them.
Emma swings her legs over the edge of the building she's on, perched on the safety barrier meant to keep people from doing exactly what she's doing currently, and peers down at the busy street below. Cabs are still speeding along, yellow blips from her high vantage point. The cars remind her of lines of particularly dedicated bugs, weaving around obstacles like buildings and other cars, intent on their destination.
The last time she'd worked with a team had been so long ago, another lifetime it felt like sometimes. Their heists hadn't been nearly as grand or organized as this, street kids left out in the world, stealing because it gave them a sense of control. That control had been Emma's anchor, those people whom she loved almost too much for it to end in anything but disappointment. Before it all went to hell.
She's a thief, light and quick. She's not really supposed to be weighed down, anyway.
The thought must pull some sort of noise from her, a huff of discomfort or groan of pain, without her knowledge because she hears Killian over the comms, "Alright there, Swan?"
"Yeah," she grunts, pulling her legs back towards her and sliding easily off the barrier and back onto the roof. The sun has nearly completely set and the black cords of her rigging all but disappear into the twilight backdrop. "Just wanna get this over with."
It's been a long time since she's allowed herself the thought of that team, her first and only until now, in more than passing. Despite the time between, it still aches through her chest, unseating her in what should be her element. There are some pains she'll never get over, she supposes, but it's nice to convince herself she has sometimes.
"Patience," Snow chides, her voice light and quiet over the bud in Emma's ear, Red's own design. It's not harsh or patronizing, but gentle and firm. Like a mother chiding an overeager child. "The key to a quiet heist is picking your moment."
Emma wants to bite back - she's been in the game longer than most people, after all -, but finds herself incapable. Instead, she sighs and wraps her gloved fingers around the cords, allowing her whole weight to dangle from it. She presses her toes to the concrete of the roof and bounces a few times, checking the security of the rig once more, if only for something to do.
"Ah, hello, mates," Killian's voice comes again, clearly directed at someone other than the team. Emma frowns, placing her weight back on the solidity of the roof. There's some shuffling on the other end, a few grunts, and then sudden quiet.
"Jones!" James barks, a little too loudly considering the speakers are literally inside of their ears. "What the hell was that?"
"No worries," Killian huffs back, sounding mildly out of breath. "Just ran into some security doing their final sweep. They'll be alright come morning, save a minor headache."
"Dammit," James hisses.
"So much for a quiet heist," Snow laments at the same time.
"You really aren't good at subverting security, are you?" Emma asks, more amused than the rest of the team. Killian tutts at her, the sound just barely being picked up by his own earbud, and she can't stop the smirk from twitching at her lips.
"Careful, Swan," he admonishes. "Don't think I've forgotten about our last encounter."
"Alright, that's final sweeps," James says, though it feels like background noise to their conversation. Still, Emma knows what it means. "You're good to fly, Ms. Swan."
Emma rolls her eyes at the awful turn of phrase and steps up onto the barrier once more. She hooks the harness around her torso onto the cord between the buildings.
"How could you?" Emma grins, her words directed still at Killian, her toes dancing dangerously close to where concrete meets open air. "I'm incredibly unforgettable."
She steps off the ledge and then there's suddenly nothing beneath her or above her besides the wind. Mankind has created a metal marvel that transports people through the air, but this? This is the closest they'll ever get to knowing flight.
It's an indescribable feeling and, despite having done it before on multiple occasions, Emma can't stop the breathless laugh it pulls from her lungs, high and slightly manic.
The only thing she hears over the wind rushing past her and her own laugh is Killian's voice, something like pride or bewilderment shining through, "Aye, that you are."
Her feet land on the concrete roof of the law firm and Emma drops easily out of her harness. She presses a button on the rig and the cord detaches from the metal anchor on the building she'd come from. The line slaps harmlessly against a window a few stories below her and begins to be retracted into the anchor on this side.
Her own personal rigs aren't usually so high tech, but Red spent a week perfecting this one for this moment. Some things about having a team aren't so bad, Emma will admit.
"I'm on the roof," she declares, pressing her index finger to her ear unnecessarily. James begins speaking, but it's directed at Red, so Emma tunes him out. She pulls a screwdriver from the small pack tied to her waist - it's not a fanny pack, she had needed to insist to the team more than once - and begins loosening the screws on the air duct.
"Jones, go meet Swan once she gets to the office." That gets her attention. She halts the circular motion of her wrist, jerking it back from the duct. The screw is loose enough that it tips and falls from the hole, making a metallic tinkling as it hits the pavement and rolls away from her.
"What? Why?" Emma questions. She chases the screw down and stuffs it in her pouch with the other three and the screwdriver.
"Security is down two guys," James explains as Emma lifts the grate up and deposits it quietly on the roof. "If they decide to go looking for them, you're going to want backup."
"Being that it is my fault," Killian admits, surprisingly chagrinned. "It'd be a pity for you to get caught over it."
Emma grumbles a little bit, more disgruntled noises than actual words, as she climbs down into the duct, but decides not to fight it. She's done just fine on her own without backup for years. Regardless, she knows part of her payday depends on her ability to follow Spencer's son's orders. If he says backup, then backup she shall have.
Red guides her through the ventilation system down to the twenty-seventh floor. It's not ideal, lots of sharp drops and cold metal from the day's air conditioning. At least, the firm appears to have some esteem for their workers' health, Emma's never been in a cleaner vent.
"Red, can you override the ID lock on the lift bay?" Killian asks.
"Shit," Red groans. "I can, as in I have the ability, but it'll alert the security office to an unauthorized use. I could try to override that particular system, but I won't be able to keep it up long enough to get the elevator down to you and then up to the twenty-seventh floor."
There's a beat of silence. Emma figures everyone is aware that if Red is saying she can't do it, that means it simply can't be done.
"So, what can you do?" Killian responds after a moment.
"Advocate wholeheartedly for the stairs," Red says.
There's a quiet curse from Killian, but no further argument. Red overrides the keycard locks on the stairwell doors when he reaches them and Killian begins to head towards Emma's location. Less than a minute later, she pulls a vent up and drops quietly into Ruth Nolan's office.
"Jones, I'm here," she murmurs. "ETA?"
"Bloody hell, do you know how high up the twenty-seventh floor is?" Killian pants in her ear. "It's twenty-seven flights of stairs, Swan, I'm not the Flash."
Emma rolls her eyes and focuses herself instead on finding the safe. There's nothing that outwardly screams safe. A few locked cabinets that most likely hold client files, a locked desk drawer with nothing underneath it.
"Killian, stop," Red says suddenly. She must be typing with a vengeance because Emma can hear the clacking of her nails against the keys over the comm.
"What?" Killian gasps, exertion evident in his voice.
"Someone's called the elevator with a security key card," Red explains. "Whatever floor you're currently on, if you can get to the elevator bay I can mask you behind the secure card swipe from their elevator."
"Got it," Killian says. "Thirteenth floor."
"Halfway there," Snow comments. She's been silent mostly now that her major part of the heist is over. Emma figures she's still in the server room with Red. "Might as well run the rest of the way."
"Hilarious," Killian bites.
Emma decides the most obvious choice is also the most probable and pulls the painting hanging on the wall behind Nolan's desk away from it's nail. Predictably, a rectangular metal door hides the wall safe behind it. It's pretty basic, as safes go. She figures it's something Nolan had installed herself, rather than the company providing it and paying for a state of the art safe. It makes sense that she would assume whatever secrets hide inside would be better protected under all of the security in the building than in her home.
Most people don't make contingencies for the unlikely, but not impossible, happenstance in which four of the world's best criminals team up.
"Okay," Emma breathes, leaning towards the safe. It won't take long to crack, but she's going to need silence to be able to hear the tumblers clicking into place. She spins the dial slowly, listening to each tick as a number moves past the dial.
It's only a moment, but it feels longer as she waits for the pop of the tumbler that lets her know to start spinning the opposite direction. Right after it does, Red speaks and Emma pauses in her work.
"Okay, Jones, the elevator is about to reach your floor." Killian grunts in response and Red goes on, "Whoever is in there is using a security pass. Do us all a favor and don't punch your way out of this one."
"I never do if I can help it, darling," he drawls, but there's an annoyance there. Emma knows he's considerably renowned for his skills in talking his way out of things. She wonders if he isn't a fan of the violence he's also well known for.
She keeps still, commless ear pressed to the cool metal of the safe, and waits. There's the ding of the elevator, nearly a whisper over the earbud.
"James?" Killian asks and Emma frowns. That's not reassuring.
"I'm sorry?" She hears over the comm a beat before James says, "What's wrong?"
"Oh, sorry, mate," Killian chuckles. "Thought you were someone else."
It goes quiet, no one questioning Killian now that he's sharing the elevator with someone. They must not ask him why he's still in the building or how he got missed on the security walk throughs. Emma goes back to the task at hand, turning the dial until she hears the next telltale click, back the other way once more until the locks slide into place and she can swing the safe open.
"Not security," she hears Killian mumble.
"What?" Red asks. The sentiment is echoed on Killian's end from his company in the elevator.
"You're not security," he clarifies a little louder. Emma stops again, her fingertips on the edge of the safe, and focuses on trying to hear the other man on Killian's end. The comms are easily the best in existence, but they're not totally reliable for hearing everything.
"Uh, no," the guy chuckles, a warm sound. "Just forgot something in my office."
It's a good lie, but even over the feed Emma can hear it is one. Killian takes a long time to reply and Emma knows he's drawn the same conclusion. James calls his name from the safety of his nondescript van, but Killian ignores him.
"Sorry, Red," he sighs. "I told you when I could avoid it."
Emma hears the sound of his fist connecting with what she can only imagine must be the other man's jaw. He doesn't go down as easily as Killian is clearly expecting and there's a grunt that she figures means Killian took a hit in return.
She ignores the commotion and plunges her hand into the safe. It's tall, taller than she'd expect Ruth Nolan to be, so Emma has to reach up on her toes and just sort of feel around. Her hand lands on a velvet pouch and nothing else.
"Bloody hell," Killian murmurs once the commotion has stopped. It doesn't sound frustrated or tired out, though, Emma realizes. It sounds scared. Which is enough to give her pause.
"What's the problem, Jones?" James asks.
"I'm on my way to you, Swan," Killian informs her, ignoring the question. Emma doesn't respond, instead unzipping the pouch and peering inside.
"We have another problem," she says.
She hears the elevator ding on her floor, Ruth's office close to the elevator bay. Red must have total control over the security systems by now, because Killian knocks on the office door gently. Emma turns and pulls the door open.
"Another one?" James questions. Emma holds the bag out for Killian to see. He frowns and lets out a quiet curse before turning to the safe to double check. Emma would be offended, but at least he's tall enough to actually see into the safe.
"There are no documents in her safe," Emma explains. "Nothing but a bag full of some jewels. They're not even worth a whole lot, they just look old. Maybe they've got sentimental value."
"I don't care about the damn jewels!" James snaps. Emma looks up just in time to catch Killian spin around from the safe, back towards her. He catches her eye and raises an eyebrow, Emma's own furrow.
"Calm down," Snow says softly. There's a surprising heat behind it, though, a beratement. Emma doesn't know how the woman can convey so much in her gentle tone, but respects it nonetheless. James is breathing heavy on his end, anger getting the best of him.
"The computer," he barks. "Check her computer."
"And do what?" Emma responds, annoyed at being snapped at like trained dogs. "I don't even know what I'm actually looking for."
"Red, can you access her computer from where you are?" He asks.
"Uh," Red hesitates, but Emma kind of feels like it's more for emphasis. "No. Not without a proxy or a trojan that actually lets me access her computer from mine."
"Dammit, did we not have a contingency for this?!"
"Hey! This is not our fault, all right?" Emma snaps, zipping the velvet bag closed. "You were supposed to be the genius here, we were told to show up, follow instructions, and get paid!"
There's something like a growl from James, but Red is already solving the problem rather than fighting about is. "Jones, the security guard in the elevator, what'd you do with him?"
"I left him in the elevator car," Killian says with a frown. "But, he wasn't security."
"He had a security badge," Red enthuses. "I'm masking the elevator from sight in the security office, but I don't have long. I'm sending him back down to you, get the badge from him."
Killian doesn't waste time asking questions, instead he turns and jogs back to the elevators. Red turns her attentions on Emma.
"Swan, I'm sending a download for an app I created to your phone," Red continues, barely taking a moment to breathe. "Download it."
Emma feels her phone vibrate in the pouch at her hip. She pulls it out and starts the download. Killian returns with the badge just as it finishes.
"I moved the man to the bathroom on this floor," he explains. There's a furrow to his brow that Emma doesn't like, but Killian must sense the question she's about to ask and shakes his head. Not now, he mouths, hand still clutching the security badge raising to tap his ear, and Emma nods once. Whatever it is, Killian doesn't want it broadcast over the comms.
"Okay, that app is gonna read the magnetic strip on the ID badge," Red explains. "It'll send it to me and then I'll be able to match the ID badge Snow has to it. I'm gonna send her up to you guys with a trojan horse."
Emma nods, even though Red can't see her, but figures she isn't really looking for feedback anyway. Killian holds the badge up, magentic stip facing her, and Emma points the camera on Red's app at it. It identifies the strip with a green box and, well, Emma can't even begin to explain how it does whatever it does, but it must work because the next thing she hears is Red telling her Snow's on her way up to them.
Killian catches her attention and taps at his ear once before removing the comm altogether. Emma frowns, responding to Red, and follows suit.
"What is it?" She whispers, well aware that the earbuds might still pick them up. Killian reaches forward, taking the velvet bag from her gently and placing it on top of where their comms rest on the desk.
"The man in the lift," Killian begins quietly. "He- fuck, I'm not sure who he was, but he looked just like James."
"James?" Emma responds, raising an eyebrow in confusion. "How similar?"
"Identical," Killian hisses. "There is more here than what Mr. Spencer and his son are telling us."
"More?" Emma frowns. "What do you think, Jones, he's a cyborg sent to replace James and destroy us?"
"Nothing so fantastical," Killian sighs, an undeniable pout turning his mouth downwards. "I just think we may want to tread carefully."
The elevator dings outside the office and Emma nods at Killian. He lifts the bag and holds her comm out to her. She presses it back into her ear as James begins rattling off a list of buzzwords that the documents may be titled or contain so Red can narrow her search. It's not like Emma trusted the Spencers before, so Killian's assertion that they should be wary doesn't really change anything. It does, however, confirm that it's not just her that is feeling that way.
"You guys went off comms," Snow says, coming into the door. Killian had left it open behind him after going to get the security badge. "Is everything alright?"
"Yeah," Emma nods, trying to look innocuous. Red groans.
"God, were you two making out? Yuck. You were making out, weren't you?"
"No," Emma says at the same time Killian says "Yes." She turns to glare at him and he smirks in response, attempting to wink at her, but both of his eyes close with the gesture. It's oddly endearing. Emma returns her attention to Snow. "Do you have the virus?"
Snow nods and takes a seat behind the desk. She boots the desktop up, pushing a USB drive into the port.
"Shoot," she hisses. Emma raises an eyebrow at the non-swear and Snow explains, "Password."
Emma leans forward, around Snow, and feels under the desk. Her fingers sweep over a piece of paper taped to the wood and she pulls it off, feeling victorious. "Password security is no joke," she comments as she hands it to Snow.
"D-A-V-I-D," Snow reads aloud as she types the letters in. The computer unlocks to the desktop and Snow opens the flash drive, double clicking Red's trojan virus. Almost instantly, she loses control of the computer to the hacker twenty-eight stories below them.
The cursor moves of it's own accord, the screen lighting up as Red searches each drive for the keywords James had given her. Emma watches the words move across the screen, but they're almost too fast to keep up with as Red works furiously.
At some point, Emma hears loud footsteps in the open space of desks and cubicles outside of Nolan's office. They're heavy and clumsy movements and Snow must hear them, too, because she starts shooing Emma and Killian towards the vent Emma had dropped down from earlier.
"I'll handle it," she hisses. Emma watches her dubiously for a moment, but, short on options, hops up to get a hold on the vent and hoist herself inside. Snow takes the velvet pouch from Killian before Emma helps him in as well. It's admittedly a tight squeeze, with Killian landing on top of her, but they're too busy holding their breath and watching Snow through the grate to think much of it.
Snow moves back towards the computer, turning the monitor off and pulling the USB drive from its port, before busying herself with pretending to be digging through the safe. Emma chews her lip and watches.
"What are you doing in here?" A man asks and, when he comes into view through the slots of the grate, Emma has to press her hand to her mouth to keep from gasping.
"Told you," Killian murmurs so quietly Emma feels the words form against the skin of her ear more than she hears them. It's not smug, which she would expect from Killian, but concerned. She understands, though. It's not just a similarity, it's like Parent Trap-level identical. And that was just one girl playing both roles.
Emma frowns at the thought and tries to remember the keywords James had given Red.
"Oh," Snow breathes, her surprise working for her to make her sound breathless and startled at the intrusion. She lets out a tittering laugh and presses her hand over her heart. "You scared me. I was just looking for something I locked in my safe before I head home for the night. It's been a long day."
"This isn't your office," the man says, advancing on Snow. Emma frowns, eyes focused on the scene. She shouldn't have left Snow to deal with it on her own.
"I'm sorry?" Snow responds, hands on her hips as she stares the man down. "Do you even work here, Mr…?"
"Nolan," he answers smoothly, taking another step in Snow's direction. "And no, but my mother does. In fact, we're standing in her office."
Mother, Emma thinks a little startled. The pieces click together and she realizes exactly what they've been missing this entire time. She wants to scream, a particular string of curse words coming to mind, but holds herself together.
Snow tilts her head defiantly. "You're not supposed to be here either, are you?"
"Not technically, no," he shrugs. He lurches forward suddenly, sending Snow stumbling backwards, but all he does is snatch the velvet pouch from her hands. "But I'm not a thief, so they'll forgive me. I wonder what they'll do to you."
"Do you wanna call security or should I?" Snow asks, tilting sideways towards the desk to reach the corded phone. She holds it out to him, cord stretched between them. When the man reaches for it, Snow lashes out suddenly, striking him with the heavy plastic. It knocks him to the floor at least, disorienting him. Emma notices his chin is bleeding.
While he struggles to get his bearings, the fall probably knocking the wind from him as well, Snow snatches the velvet pouch back. She gives one furtive glance in the direction of the vent and bolts out the door.
"You can't run from this!" He yells after her, pushing himself to his knees. He stumbles out the door, possibly suffering from head trauma at their team's affliction. "I will find you!"
"Okay, we are officially out of time," Snow says, huffing into her comm. Emma assumes she took the stairs, rather than the elevator. "Emma, Killian, get out of the building. Red, I'm coming to you. Do me a favor, send an elevator up or down, I don't care. Don't mask it, though, I want alarms blaring. Just make sure it's not going to stop anywhere near the ground floor."
"Roger," Red responds, furious typing once again loud enough to penetrate the comms.
Emma shoves at Killian's shoulder and they twist awkwardly until she's on top of him. It's a process to get in the position and they both huff for a moment, a little winded from it. Killian grins up at her, back to his usual self now that he's registered their position more fully. He leans up towards her and Emma thinks he might try and kiss her, wonders why she isn't punching him in the face for the attempt, but he veers suddenly. His lips land right next to her ear, the one without the comm she notices.
"What do you say, Swan?" He breathes, warm breath dancing over her earlobe. She can't see his grin, with his mouth nearly pressed to her skin, but she can hear it in his voice. "Shall we make that kiss a reality?"
Emma shoves his shoulder down roughly, the blade of it connecting with the metal of the vent with a thud. He takes it in stride, though, chuckling as she pushes herself onto all fours and crawls over him.
"Crawl," she commands. "Just follow me, alright? Our escape route is on the roof."
He does as he's told, crawling through the vent with a little less grace and a little louder than she'd normally like. But, to be fair, he can't exactly put the weight on his false hand and the whole heist has already been blown. At least if security is trying to chase them through the vents, they're not looking at Red and Snow walking right out the front door.
Emma doesn't actually know if her rig will support their combined weight once they reach the roof, but it's their best bet. Climbing up eight stories through the air ducts is hard enough, climbing down twenty-seven would take too long and be too much of a risk. They'll just have to trust Red's hardwork will pay off.
"How do you feel about heights?" Emma asks, taking Killian's hand to help pull him from the duct once they reach the roof.
"There's a reason I own a ship," he says. "It means no air travel."
"Ah, and here I thought you were just a man of refined taste in sea travel," Emma comments, pulling her abandoned harness back over her shoulders and buckling it appropriately over her torso. Killian stands at the edge of the building, peering over the safety barrier.
"Aye," he nods, voice tight. "That as well, of course."
Emma steps over to him and motions for him to remove his suit jacket. He does, tossing the dark red material aside. It's a shame to lose it, she considers, objectively the color really does suit him. She frees a strap from the harness and loops it around his waist, through his belt loops.
"Okay, this isn't really meant for two people," she tells him. "So, you're gonna have to hold onto me. Tight."
"Oh, love, I was so hoping I'd hear you say that," he offers, a smirk dancing across his features. Emma rolls her eyes, but she can tell he's feeling nervous about this, so she let's him have it.
"I'm not gonna drop you." She clips them onto the rigging and flicks a switch on the anchor that will allow them to repel slowly. Well, slow-ish. They step up onto the safety barrier.
"I would despair if you did," Killian responds, once again trying for light and just falling short. Emma tugs him towards her, arms coming around him in a bear hug. His eyes meet hers, bright blue and intense, and he copies her movements, arms wrapping almost painfully tight around her ribs.
She doesn't actually give him a warning so much as just nudge him over the edge into a freefall.
-/-
James picks them all up in the van, but drops them only a few blocks away after Red gives him the drive with the files and assures him they'd been deleted from Nolan's computer.
"Why take the jewelry?" Killian asks suddenly, once James has driven away and they're all standing on an empty New York sidewalk right before dawn. Snow turns to him, eyebrow raised at the question, but it's Emma who answers.
"Misdirection," she explains. "If they know Snow was there for the safe, they won't think to look at the computer."
"Clever," Killian admits and Snow ducks her head to hide her smile.
"So," Snow sighs a moment later, because they're all still just standing around like idiots. "This was fun."
"Yeah, I'm still not much of a team player," Emma says immediately.
"One time thing," Red agrees, nodding. Her fake glasses are hanging from the neck of her t-shirt.
Snow and Killian nod in return. Emma slaps her palms against the outsides of her thighs and shrugs. "Well, see you guys around, then."
She turns and heads down the street, more interested in putting distance between herself and them than making sure she's heading in the right direction. In her peripheral, she sees the other three do the same thing, heading in their own random directions.
Except, she makes it about four buildings before suddenly Killian comes out of an alley to rejoin her. Emma raises her eyebrows at him. His suit jacket gone, he's unbuttoned the sleeves of his dark grey dress shirt and rolled them to his elbows. His hair is still windswept from their test of gravity.
"So, what are we gonna do?" He asks, like they've been having a conversation.
"I'm gonna go home and sleep for the next ten hours," she tells him. "You feel free to do whatever you want, far away from me."
Killian rolls his eyes, huffing as if she's the one being difficult. "I meant about this Spencer situation. I'm sure we're both thinking the same thing about David Nolan."
"We don't know he's David for sure," she rebuts.
"Fine, then, what are we going to do about Nolan's son?" He tries again. Emma halts on the sidewalk and, after a few steps, Killian realizes she's stopped and follows suit.
"Nothing," Emma says, once she has made direct eye contact with him. "We're not the good guys, Killian. We did what we were paid to do, alright? Anything else is out of our hands."
She starts moving again, striding right past him. He doesn't follow her this time, contemplating her response. She doesn't glance back at him, but he calls out to her when she's nearly too far away.
"You don't actually believe that," he says. It's not a question, it's a statement. As if he knows her after one shared heist and a week of prep. He doesn't know shit.
Emma keeps walking.
-/-
His name is indeed David Nolan.
Emma hadn't read anything about him because, in her initial study of Ruth Nolan, she hadn't been looking. She'd been looking for the nitty gritty, something dark and depraved Ruth may have done that would lead a man like George Spencer to go after her. She hadn't found a thing, not a blip. There wasn't even so much as an article that mentioned both of their names.
She hadn't been looking for Nolan's family history, her son and late husband. Now, it's all she can think about. David had been a child when his father passed away. After years of rehab, he'd fallen off the wagon and drove his car into a median on the highway. After that, Ruth had decided to go back to school in an effort to get a job that could support her son. The family had been struggling since the beginning, with Ruth's meager salary and her husband's instability keeping him from holding a job.
When she takes a second look into Ruth Nolan, it really ends up being a testament to Emma's poor research skills. The woman isn't even currently on payroll with the law firm she'd helped break into. She'd been on sick leave for months, holed up in one of the nicer hospitals in town, before the company said they needed to hire a replacement. It isn't an official termination, but it's a pretty good blow off. The upside is that she's still benefitting from the company's high quality health insurance.
Emma isn't sure what makes her go to the hospital, it's absolutely what she'd consider getting too personally invested in a mark. She does it anyway, though, pulling on a pair of pajamas that could pass for scrubs if no one was looking too closely and taking a cab. Inside, she bumps ungracefully into a passing doctor and apologizes profusely before clipping their ID badge to her shirt. She grabs a lab coat from a break room she passes and makes a mental note to return it before the napping doctor inside wakes up.
"Can you tell me what room Ruth Nolan is in?" She asks, stepping up to the nurses station. The tired looking woman behind the desk nods and checks a chart before pointing down the hall and giving Emma a room number.
It's a private room in the back corner of the hospital, nice and secluded. A cozy place to die, Emma thinks morbidly. Because that's what this is. Maybe that's why she's here, because she just helped some asshole steal God knows what from a dying woman, because if she'd just done her homework she would have known. But, she didn't. Now, Ruth Nolan is dying and Emma is the one who is absolutely going to hell.
She lingers around the door, it's got a viewing window, but the curtains are drawn. It's not like she plans to go in and talk to the woman. It just that- well, that's the thing, really. Emma doesn't know what it is. Being here is risky and stupid.
Someone comes from inside the room and Emma presses herself against the adjacent wall, trying to disappear. She recognizes them though and reaches out to grab their wrist.
"Snow?" She hisses and the woman spins, eyes wide and a little terrified, before they land on Emma. She's dressed like a candy striper, with a red band tied in her short hair. "What are you doing here?"
"I just wanted to," Snow starts, but cuts herself off as she glances back at Ruth's room. She turns her gaze back on Emma, a little harder this time. "What are you doing here?"
"I," Emma tries, faltering when she can't come up with a reason. "I'm not sure."
Snow seems to soften at this. "Yeah, I got home and started looking into her. I just wanted to find out who the man in the office was to her. I didn't expect, well, this."
"Shit," Emma sighs. "That's what we get for letting a couple of zeroes override our common sense."
"Yeah," Snow says, nodding solemnly. "Anyway, when I saw where she was I kind of just, I guess I wanted to meet her. I think maybe I was hoping she was some awful person and that I could justify it to myself."
"And?"
"Yeah, no such luck," Snow chuckles, a soft smile coming to her face. "She's lovely. Even tried to set me up with her son."
Emma's eyes go wide, darting around the hallway. "David? Is he here?"
"No, she said he'd be back soon, though, so we should probably-" She hooks a thumb over her shoulder, jutting it towards the front of the hospital. Emma nods and shuffles after her, tugging off the coat and ID badge and tossing them into a laundry basket.
"So, did you just have that outfit laying around or..?" Emma questions, raising an eyebrow at Snow's attired.
"Emma," Snow says, lifting her chin in a way that makes her seem every bit the royal she's pretended to be on more than one con. "You never know when you'll need to sneak into a hospital."
Emma laughs, a real, belly laugh, of surprise at the statement and the delivery. Maybe it's delirium from lack of sleep thanks to her obsessing over Ruth Nolan. Her visit to the hospital hasn't necessarily made her feel any better, but she likes Snow. Despite her best efforts, she could see them being friends. Not that she intends to stick around that long.
She hears someone shout across the parking lot, but doesn't think much of it. Not until there's a hand on Snow's shoulder, tugging her around to face them. Both Emma and Snow go into fight mode, Snow's arm coming up to shove the hand roughly from her shoulder as Emma steps forward to insert herself in the situation.
David Nolan glowers down at Snow, uninterested in Emma's presence. When they realize who it is that's stopped them, the fight mostly leaves them. Snow's chin is still high in defiance as she looks up at him and Emma keeps her shoulders stiff, ready to intervene should he become violent.
"I told you I'd find you," he comments. It's not as harsh as Emma would have suspected. He doesn't exactly seem friendly, but, hell, he hasn't called the cops. That must be a positive.
"Technically, I found you," Snow says. Emma raises an eyebrow at the brazenness. She's growing to like Snow more and more. David smirks, the movement tugging at the tight skin on his chin and drawing Emma's attention to the newly scabbed flesh. Who knew office phones could be so dangerous?
"Do you know who you're hanging out with?" David asks, turning his attention on Emma now. "She's a thief."
Emma just stares at him defiantly.
"Oh," he sighs, deflating a little. "Of course, you're both thieves. Did you help her rob my mother's office? Have you already sold all that jewelry? Probably wasn't worth much."
"No," Snow says quickly. "No, I didn't. Well, I don't have all of it on me, obviously, but I have…" She reaches into the little pocket of her candy striper apron and pulls out a ring. It's a small thing, probably worth almost nothing compared to the things Emma has hidden away, with a square, green gemstone in the center. David looks from it to Snow's face and back. When he goes to reach for it, delicately, Snow pulls it back just barely. He raises an eyebrow at her.
"Look, it's not worth anything," he bites. "You can keep the rest, I don't care. Just give me that ring back."
"I will," Snow assures him, radiating a surprising calm. "But, first, we need you to answer some questions."
"Sure, fine," David huffs, his shoulders bouncing up and down in anxious approximation of a shrug. "What do you want to know?"
"Do you know George Spencer?"
By the look on David's face, Emma thinks it's going to be a longer answer than Snow bargained for.