A/N: Some of you might be thinking, "wait, a fic where Eric is a conman and Kyle is a hacker? Why does that sound familiar? Didn't shorty write something like this before?" And you're right! I did! I wrote 'Worth the Risk' nearly five years ago now, and didn't finish it. Mainly because I had no idea what the hell to do with the story. I'll level with you guys and tell you that writing fics about crime, and action, and heists, is something I'm unfamiliar with and still am unsure whether I can pull off, but something I've always wanted to do before and after 'Worth the Risk,' and want to try out. Now that I'm older, maybe a little wiser, and have actually did a lot more planning and structuring the second time around, I'm rebooting 'Worth the Risk,' and have a lot more faith in myself! For those of you who remember the original story and liked it, there will be a couple of similarities but not a lot. I really wanted to try something new. Nonetheless, I hope you guys stick around and enjoy! I'd love to know your thoughts!

Amsterdam, the Netherlands

Eric finished his Martini with a demure sip, leaving only the faintest stain of scarlet lipstick on the rim. He had turned a few heads upon his entrance to the hotel bar, ambient shadows concealing lust and envy... to the untrained eye at least. The ability to read people, anticipate their next move in order to influence their next one was an essential part of the con, the grind of the grifter. Eric saw the haze of arousal descend over irises, the jealous, narrowing eyes of others, and offered them an easy, confident smile. Served up with an extra swing in his hips, posture corrected and extenuated by his modest, sparkly kitten heels. He ignored them now, he had his man in his sights and had ensnared him too.

Andrew Mitchell. An English gangster who six nights previously had taken a precious, sovereign ring from Eric's 'boss', Folke. He had called Eric, incensed, already booking his flight to Amsterdam before Eric could tell Folke not to call him at such an ungodly hour. Eric had little time to prep, and even though it was admittedly a personal job, a favour, he didn't like to slack. He knew where his mark was staying, forgoing sightseeing so he could follow his daily movements, feel out his routine - like when he retired to the hotel bar for a drink. Instead of visiting the museums Eric instead toured the hotel, locating every fire escape, service stairwell, restroom, elevator, and of course he had to stop off for some lunch in the kitchen. A speedy, effective exit was arguably the most crucial aspect of any job. Eric preferred slipping through the mundane, pedestrian cracks in the walls.

Evenings were spent doing more intimate research on his mark. His history, his hobbies, his tastes. Eric learned that Andrew Mitchell had been married three times to tall, curvy blondes, and so he transformed. Tumbling, bleached blond locks hid his chestnut hair, and he wore a mask of winged eyeliner, shimmering blush, and blood red lips. He had attempted contouring too, to achieve a more feminine bone structure. For once in his life, his babyish face with little to no stubble actually felt like a blessing. He only needed to wax his armpits, forearms, and legs, and they were painful enough endeavours. He had fashioned a convincing pair of breasts out of a push-up bra, chicken fillets, and a contoured cleavage spilling out of his almost obscenely tight black leather mini dress. It gleamed alongside his red acrylics, and with its jagged, creased edges it was both an alluring, and formidable garment, daring anyone brave enough to attempt to tame the wearer. And with the help of some suffocating spanx Eric spent an undignified amount of time wriggling into, promised tantalising, voluptuous rewards.

Eric stopped admiring his reflection in the aureate drenched bar when he noticed his mark smiling at him from the other side. Flirty, cocky, lecherous, greedy. Like Eric was another pretty, shiny something he could snatch from someone's else grasp. Of course that's what Eric wanted him to think tonight. But he wasn't for keeps. He returned the smile, lowering his chin and fluttering his false, feathery eyelashes. He plucked the wet, discarded olive from the glass, placing it on his tongue before closing his mouth around the green, gleaming bulb and sucking it from the tiny stick.

Andrew's smile quirked, jolted by Eric's coy yet provocative display as though it were electric. He fidgeted, shifted in his seat, and Eric wanted to snicker, self-satisfied, at what was probably going on south of Andrew's belt. He ushered the bartender over to him, leaning in to murmur his order. The bartender nodded, and soon went about making his drink.

"A Dirty Martini, Miss?" the bartender said, sliding the glass in Eric's direction. "From the gentleman across the bar."

Eric batted his eyes, mimicking surprise. He arched a pencilled eyebrow at Andrew, with a humbler smile.

"Thank you," he replied to the bartender, before lifting the glass to his lips.

He kept his eyes on Andrew, daring him to come over by the time he finished his sip.

Five, four, three, two-

"Excuse me, miss?"

One.

Andrew was approaching him now, shyer in the shrinking distance between them.

Eric placed his drink back on the bar, giving Andrew his full attention.

"I don't normally buy drinks for beautiful strangers but I 'ad to make an exception for you," he continued, gloating at his attempt at smoothness. "You are..." he raked his pale blue gaze over Eric, shyness forgotten. "Absolutely stunning."

Eric snickered, head bowed as he played with a platinum curl.

"Well, it's not often I get blokes buying drinks for me," he replied, slipping into a girlish English accent. "Who said romance is dead, eh?"

Delight lit up Andrew's face, and in the space between his lungs and the waistband of his spanx Eric found a tiny, relieved breath. It seemed like his binge-watching of The Only Way is Essex in the name of prep had paid off.

"And you're a Brit too!" Andrew grinned, taking a seat beside Eric. "It can't get any better."

"Oh, I don't know," Eric mused. "The night is still young..."

With that he crossed his leg, dress riding further up his smooth, bare thigh. Andrew gulped, fidgety once more and Eric swore he saw sweat glistening on his well-lined forehead.

"So where you from, then?" he asked, perhaps in an effort to cool down.

"Basildon."

Andrew peeled back a grin.

"Shoulda known you'd be an Essex girl."

Eric laughed, the sound tinkling, and rolled his eyes.

"And I suppose you're a..."

"An East End lad."

"Of course you are..." Eric chuckled, lidded eyes roaming over Andrew.

Andrew chewed his lip, hazy and thoughtful, with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He soon remembered himself, back to forced pleasantries when he no doubt had decidedly less pleasant, and more tawdry things in mind.

"I'm sorry, I didn't give you me name," he said, extending his hand to shake. "Andrew Mitchell." he smiled. "Andy."

Eric shook his hand with less pressure than usual.

"Irene Badman."

"Nice to meet you, Irene," Andy said, low, hand still gripping Eric's.

"You too, Andy."

Eric was the one to let go, swishing his hair over his shoulder to reveal brilliant, diamond earrings that cascaded to his shoulders. Andrew... Andy... was a magpie, drawn to jewellery, and so Eric had decked himself out in a few trinkets. A cat collar-like choker with a diamond pendant clutched his neck, and his fingers shone with rings slender and stacked, shimmering and bulbous. He even wore his own sovereign ring, daintier than the one he was sent to retrieve, but just as tacky.

"Those are cracking earrings..." Andy commented.

"Thank you," Eric replied. "I do love my bling!"

"And a sovereign ring? You don't see a lot of birds wearing 'em these days..."

Eric held out his hand, fingers splayed, pretending to admire the gaudy ring on his finger.

"Oh, I love 'em!" he gushed. "Me old man used to wear bloody stacks of 'em on his fingers. He loved his jewellery, fancied himself as a bit of a Pearly King, if I'm honest!"

"I'm partial to a bit of jewellery." Andy nodded. "In fact, I've just got meself a new sovereign ring."

Eric gasped, hand pressed to his chest.

"Really?" he squealed, reaching for Andy's hand. "Let me see!"

Andy chuckled, swiping his hand from Eric's grasp, and pleased with his enthusiasm.

"It's in my room, I'm afraid..."

"Oh, that's a shame..." Eric sighed, reaching for his drink and taking a sip. "I'd 'ave loved to see it..."

He took another long sip of his drink as Andy deliberated an invitation. Desire swallowing his inhibition.

Let him think he's going to lose you.

"You could always come up and take a look, if you want?" Andy asked, trying to be cool when his rushed question was anything but.

Eric flashed him a pleased, flirtatious smile.

Got him.

Despite being located on the fifth-floor, Eric stepped into a larger than average hotel room, all cream and gold, with gauzy curtains shielding the tall windows, and a handsomely decorated living area leading into a just as handsomely decorated bedroom. The door clicked shut behind him, and no doubt Andy was admiring how Eric's hips swayed in his dress while he admired the plump throw cushions, and polished fittings.

"Gorgeous suite..." Eric said, hand running along the top of a plush couch. "I wish my room was as nice as this!"

Not entirely disingenuous. Eric had sprung for a suite in his own hotel, and he couldn't help but feel ripped off.

"Maybe if you asked nicely you could get an upgrade?" Andy asked, voice dripping with innuendo.

"I've done a lot more to get inside a swanky hotel room," Eric replied with a wink.

Andy gulped, smug smirk wavering and he smoothed down his shirt.

Eric sighed, placing a hand on his cocked hip.

"So where's this ring, then?" he asked, with a smidge of impatience.

"Right here..." Andy grinned, gesturing to a cream cabinet.

Eric sauntered over to him, so quiet and delicate that he practically slithered. And like a snake, he wrapped himself around his mark. Head resting on his shoulder, tilted slightly to show affection, over-familiarity, a forwardness that Andy would clearly appreciate. Eric's manicured hand slid up Andy's back to rest on his opposite shoulder, giving it a gentle, coaxing squeeze. He could practically feel Andy relax under his touch, his charms, trusting him already because Eric was only offering him an illusion of what he wanted, a gold dust trail that led to nowhere. And because he believed in Irene, trusted her, wanted to fuck her, he let Eric watch him enter the combination to his safe.

Right 40. Left 50. Right 30.

The safe opened, revealing stacks of Euro notes - no doubt the payout of illegal or at least morally repressible business dealings - and a sovereign ring. Andy pulled it out of the safe and held it up to the warm, low light of the room at evening. Real, glinting silver.

"Oh my god..." Eric gasped. "It's just like the ones me old man used to 'ave!"

"Yeah, it's quality." Andy replied with a sigh, before placing the ring back in the safe. His gaze trailed over Eric, and his breath was coming terse and heavy in the small space between them. "I seem to be encountering a lot of beautiful things lately..."

Eric pursed his lips, feigning coyness. Blond curls fell in front of his face, concealing a possible blush when a hand roamed from his waist and on to his ass... or that's what he'd at least let Andy think was happening behind his wig.

"Is there anything else you'd like to see?" he asked, voice ragged.

Lifting his head, Eric met Andy's eyes with a wicked smile. He moved his hand to the nape of his neck.

"Hmm... there is one thing..." Eric replied, playing with dark brown curls, greasy with product. "But if I told you, you'd might get the wrong idea..."

Eric glanced at Andy's crotch, his bulge obvious in his jeans. Andy didn't need another hint, he lunged forward and claimed Eric's lips. Hard, wet, and open-mouthed, and suddenly the hand that was at his ass was squeezing him and another arm was wrapping around his waist.

Fucking chill, dude!

It wasn't long before Eric felt Andy's burgeoning erection against his thigh, and so he decided to return the kiss, to give as 'good' as he was apparently getting. A pleading whimper escaped his lips, and he tilted his head as he shoved his tongue into Andy's mouth. Thoughts of slobbery kisses and an alcohol soaked tongue were replaced with the exhilaration of walking out of there with the ring in his possession, and the look on Andy's face when he opened his safe to realise it was gone.

Eric felt Andy stiffen when he grabbed him by his belt, leading him to the bed. Andy pawed desperately for control, fingers skidding over the leather of Eric's dress, resistant to traction, and tugging at curls hard enough to make Eric nervous. He diverted any rough tugs and squeezes by pulling Andy's jacket off his shoulders, throwing it to the floor.

That was his cue.

Eric gasped, sharper than glass.

"Oh my god..."

Andy moaned, pleased. His lips had migrated to Eric's neck and were peppering kisses there.

"No, no, wait!" Eric pleaded, wrestling out of Andy's grip. "My jacket!"

Andy lifted his head, face pinked and pupils dilated. He was collecting his breaths, trying to follow this new, unwelcome trajectory of conversation.

"Eh?" he asked, brow furrowed.

"My jacket!" Eric fretted. "I left it downstairs! Oh, I only got it the other day!"

He pouted, lower lip wobbling as he forced petulant tears into his eyes. He tucked some hair behind his ear before Andy stepped in to do it for him, fingers brushing against his cheek.

"It's alright, love, I'll go get it..." he said, smiling.

Eric batted wet, doe eyes at him.

"Would you, really?"

Andy didn't seem so sure. He sighed to himself, smile fading into an impatient frown.

"If it's that important-"

"It is!" Eric nodded frantically. "Oh, what if someone's pinched it?!"

Andy sighed once more, as if he were dealing with a child.

"No one's pinched it," he assured. "I'll run down and get it for you right now."

Eric smiled, hands clasped at his chest as he watched Andy leave.

"Aww, you're such a gentleman!" he gushed.

"Am I gonna get something in return for my chivalry?" Andy asked over his shoulder, stood by the open doorway. His eyebrow was arched and he was practically drooling.

Eric snickered, and lowered his chin. He fiddled with the zipper at the front of his dress.

"Maybe..." he smiled, biting his now smudged lip. "How 'bout I make myself comfortable while you fetch my jacket?"

Eric gave the zipper a tug, exposing more of his fake cleavage. Andy swallowed thickly, eyes following Eric's fingers as if they could finish what Eric had started. He shook his head before he rushed out of the room, door slamming shut behind him.

Now alone, Eric fixed his zipper and grimaced.

He returned to the cabinet, grabbing the clutch he had dropped on the coffee table and tucking it under his arm. He opened the safe, grinning triumphantly at the ring just waiting for him. He tried to slip it on his index finger, but it was tighter than the fucking spandex. Getting all dressed up and part-way seducing a man to get to this damn ring was one thing, having it surgically removed from his finger was another. Instead, he tucked the ring inside his purse and was out the door.

Leaving the room, he checked the coast was clear of any horny Englishmen and made his way to the service stairwell situated at the far end of the corridor. He eyed the elevators as he slipped off his kitten heels. Modest they may have been, but it would be a much simpler jog down the stairs if he was barefoot.

Lacking in central heating, it was a cold descent to the ground floor, and even the pattering of his feet seemed to echo in the hollow stairwell. Flushed with sweat and panting by the time he reached the bottom, he was delighted to see that his white faux-fur jacket was still waiting for him next to a florescent yellow bucket, and not snatched by some maid or waitress who liked expensive clothes and stealing just as much as he did.

He shouldered open the heavy door, and was greeted by a welcoming breeze and a not so welcoming smell of garbage as he stepped out into the alley. He slipped his jacket on his shoulders and his shoes on his feet. Emerging from the alley he then hailed a cab, and breathed a content sigh when one soon pulled up beside him.

"Hallo," he said, as he slid into the back seat.

At least he could brush up on his Dutch whilst in Amsterdam.

"Hallo," the cab driver replied. "Waarheen?"

"Hyacinth Club, alsjeblieft."

"Zeker."

"Dank je," Eric replied, sinking into the seat.

The cab pulled away, and out the window the Amstel was illuminated by the city lights. Eric reached into his clutch, pulling out lipstick and a compact, wiping away the stain of Andy's eager kisses.

The Hyacinth Club was a members only establishment that any decent person wouldn't want to be a part of. Despite the elegant piano tinkling in the distance, the waiters' chins and trays held high in the air, and the crushed velvet and gleaming satin in blacks and dark purples, it catered to a delinquent underbelly, a criminal elite. Escorts sat on the laps of sleazeballs like the guy Eric just conned, and men and women dressed in dark colours leaned in close to have murmured, clandestine conversations. They often turned their heads to guard their chatter, paused when their waiters who had taken an oath of discretion approached their tables, and eyed each other warily when they were sure they weren't looking. In this world, trust was earned through dangerous, sacrificial initiation, and suspicion was never truly discarded. If you had lived in it long enough, you simply forgot how to trust.

"Good evening, Miss," the Maitre d' greeted him as he approached his desk.

"Good evening," Eric replied. "I'm here to meet Mr Nilsson."

The Maitre d' smiled and nodded.

"Follow me."

Folke was taking a long sip of wine when Eric reached his table, narrowed eyes trying to peer through the opaque drapes.

"Your guest has arrived, sir."

"How it's going, Folke?" Eric asked, dropping his feminine, English accent.

Folke's green-grey eyes followed the sound, and twitched only slightly in surprise.

"Mitch?"

"Thank you," Eric said to the maitre d', flashing a grin.

He left, and Eric pulled up a chair. Folke watched him with a crease in his brow, and lips quirked in what looked like amusement. When Eric was first approached by Folke in college it seemed like his face was set in concrete, or perhaps alabaster. Emotions buried and bubbled beneath the surface, barely stirring his hardened features. Perhaps his stony expression was due to his accident, but Eric could never imagine his features ever stretching in laughter.

"Well?" Eric asked, still grinning. He flicked his long, blond hair dramatically over his shoulder. "What do you think?"

Folke eyed Eric up and down.

"Excessive."

Eric fought the urge to roll his eyes. Didn't anyone appreciate showmanship anymore?

"Wow, I thought your English was better than that. Don't you mean 'impressive?'"

"No, I mean it is too much," Folke replied, humourless. "This was only supposed to be a small job, Mitch."

"Come on, we all want to play the chick once in a while, right?"

Folke blinked, perplexed and unamused.

Eric sighed, figuring he should move on and get down to business.

"Besides..." he reached into his clutch and pulled the ring out. "The mark totally fell for it."

Folke smiled then, actually showing his teeth.

"Excellent," he replied, plucking the ring from Eric's gasp.

He inspected it, before tucking it in the inside pocket of his jacket.

"So what's the deal with the ring?" Eric asked, arms folded and elbows resting on the table. "I didn't even know you liked jewellery."

"It's not about fashion, Mitch."

"Clearly..." Eric murmured.

"I may not wear the ring, but I carry it with me every day," Folke continued. "It has been in my family for generations. My grandfather gave it to my father, and my father gave it to me. It is a symbol to remind me how important family is." He tilted his head downwards and glared at Eric across the table. "You would do well to remember that too..."

Eric shrugged, unperturbed. What was the point in remembering when 'family' was a notion he had deserted long ago? When he had so little of it? His mom had been a hindrance for most of his life, and he had no idea what the hell the friends he had spent most of his childhood with were doing now. It was ridiculous to even ponder it, but that still didn't stop him from doing so when he found himself bored and alone.

"I don't have a family to remember..."

"You have us," Folke pointed out.

It was harder to resist rolling his eyes then. For as long as Eric had been working with Folke and his crew, the idea that they were all a 'family' had been drummed into him. Folke had tried to bind them all together with a sense of duty, unite them with a feeling of belonging. Maybe Folke thought it would dissuade them from turning against him? It was an admirable attempt at manipulation, but Eric knew it was futile when the nature of the business they're in forced them to have a dagger up their sleeves, ready to stab each other in the back for a bigger payout, or a head-start if they had to flee. They were colleagues, nothing more. But perhaps even that was pushing it. Accomplices, at the least.

"Yeah, well, I don't think-"

"Would you like to order a drink, Miss?" a waiter cut in.

"Yes, I'll have a Dirty Martini," Eric said with a smile.

"Certainly." The waiter nodded.

"Anyway, back to the ring," Eric said when they were alone. Anything to divert them from the topic of family. "If it's so precious to you how did Andrew Mitchell get it in the first place?"

Folke sighed, staring into his glass and watching the wine swirl.

"I lost it. In a poker game."

Eric blinked, brow furrowed.

"Wait, you actually fucking bet it?"

"I had no choice," Folke snapped. "Putting everything out on the line is a sign of confidence. I thought I could win."

"You told me he stole it." Eric frowned.

"He did."

Eric's frown melted into a smirk. He arched an eyebrow at him.

"Sounds to me like you're a sore loser..."

"You're mistaken," Folke replied, serious as ever.

"Your Martini..." the waiter announced, approaching their table.

"Thank you..." Eric replied, as his drink was placed in front of him.

"I have a job lined up in two weeks in St Tropez," Folke said when they were alone once more. "Would you be interested?"

"Depends. What is it?"

"Sophia and Pierre Bisset, wealthy French socialites, are holding an auction at their family's St Tropez property."

"Auctioning what?"

"Jewellery, mainly," Folke replied. "Their family is infamous for owning some of the finest jewels in France. But Sophia and Pierre are very self-conscious of their privilege and their family's past, their ties to colonialism. Their ancestors acquired a lot of the jewels in Africa. They want to, uh... 'wipe the slate clean.' Start over. Have you ever heard of Le Grand Arc-on-ciel?"

Eric shook his head, taking another sip of his drink.

"It's one of the pieces that will be auctioned. The most valuable piece, and on the black market I believe it would sell for more than it's estimated value. I'll split the profits between all of you."

"All of us?" Eric asked. "You mean..." he groaned, his enthusiasm plummeting. "Ugh, those dipshits are coming too?"

Whenever Eric could run a job without Folke's troll-like lackeys he was glad. They may have had the muscles, and intimidating scowls perfect for a job that required some brawn, but Eric had little patience for their idiocy.

"It's a big operation," Folke replied, growing snippy. "I need all the help I can get."

Eric huffed, slouching in his seat a little.

"Fine..."

"So you're coming, then?"

"Yeah, of course," Eric replied. "It's fucking St Tropez! And if this rainbow diamond goes for as much as you're saying it will - and if we actually pull it off - then it's a payout I can't refuse."

"I'm glad..." Folke murmured to the rim of his glass.

"You'll need one well of a hacker though," Eric pointed out. "I imagine the mainframe is gonna be a tough one to crack... and I know I'm good, but that techy stuff isn't my thing. I could try, but-"

"I've got it, uh, 'covered,' as you say," Folke cut in, almost excitably. Almost grinning.

"What's with the smirk?" Eric asked, chuckling a little nervously. Before it dawned on him. "Oh, shit..." he said, all humour fading. "Have you found them?"

Folke simply nodded.

Eric had taken a sip of his drink while he waited for Folke's reply. Unwise. He choked on surprise, forced to spit out the drink before it came out of his nose. He coughed uncontrollably, eyes watering.

"You're... y-you're seriously?" Eric asked, rasping. "You've got Glitch?"

"Yes, I am..." Folke paused, grimacing. "Seriously..."

"H-h-how?"

"You know I've been trying to track them down for years, to recruit them," Folke replied, tone cool and smug. "They're very in demand. It was only a matter of time before I found them though. It's a freelance job but still..." he flashed his teeth again. "I've finally got them."

Eric nodded, his coughing fit subsiding. Folke had been talking about Glitch for as long as they'd worked together, had tried to draft them into every con where they needed somebody with tech know-how. But Glitch had always evaded him, whether because of lack of contact, lack of availability, or their retainer was too high and Folke was too proud to pay it. They had become legendary now, almost mythic within their crew, and Eric was often in awe and in doubt of their supposedly brilliant abilities. How much better could Glitch be than the other hackers Eric had worked with, after all? He often found himself simmering in jealousy when Folke's attention was so consumed by them (Eric's need for validation and praise did not discriminate, much to his occasional annoyance); growing cynical when Folke had failed to recruit them yet again; and lost in silent reverence when he considered just how skilled and formidable Glitch could be.

"Shit, well... they better be as good as you've always said they are," he replied with a wry smile. "I wouldn't want you to get your hopes up."

Eric took another sip, and wondered how he would react upon meeting Glitch. If they showed up at all. What was to stop them from bailing at the last minute? Would he be starstruck? Irritated? Would they clash, or would they gel? Eric couldn't contemplate it further. Sitting in a seedy club in Amsterdam, it just seemed too surreal and faraway.

A/N: How was that? Stick with me guys, we are going somewhere with this, pfft!