Author's Notes: While I eagerly await Sly 3: Honor Among Thieves (yay!) I decided to write up a little fic. So as not to confuse people... this is not a one-shot. This is probably a two-parter, maybe more, and I promise it will have a happy ending for fellow SlyxCarmelita fans.
Reviews are gladly appreciated.
So without further ado...
Sly Cooper
in
Rooftop Rendezvous
Night fell deftly on the Paris rooftops, cascading over the rough stone, pooling down into the streets. A figure sat silently, alone, a statue among the mobile city below. The silhouette idly twirled something in long, dexterous fingers - a lithe cane, not for any sort of crutch, but some odd perception of distinguished heritage; a family secret passed on in the form of an innocent item.
Sly Cooper was not one heavily bent on introspection. There were times, however, when he needed to slow down, and it was in those times that his thoughts caught up with him. So it was those times that he would quietly slip out of the comfort of the Cooper Gang's Headquarters, scale a fire escape ladder, and nimbly travel from building to building until he reached a particular spot.
And there he sat, police cars down below, officers none the wiser. On the wall in front of him a weather-worn banner read "Le Police Internationale". Directly in his line of sight was a rugged sort of balcony encasing glass windows that depicted an office. A light burned dimly where most others had gone out. The hint of an agitated, twitching tail cast long shadows across the wall. He watched them in comfortable silence, allowing them to be the backdrop for his thoughts.
Tomorrow would mark another year since the Fiendish Five incident. Incident. He smirked at that. What a cold, informal word he had devised. Using words such as that, it seemed only appropriate that he was sitting in front of one of the largest police organizations. His thoughts trailed away, but were reigned in once more by the nagging realization that yes, tomorrow was the day.
He had spent his life trying to avenge his family and live up to the Cooper name, but when he stopped to consider it in times of solitude, he found that he'd been chasing his own insecurity. He had been so useless; so helpless, but for the other 364 days he could forget about that and concentrate on the task at hand. Tomorrow would be the day he could not.
Bentley and Murray would be sensitive to his memories, as always. They would go out somewhere, take the van and drive for a while, pull off some ridiculous, low-class scheme just for the fun of it. They would come back to the hideout, maybe have a few drinks, and then his companions would drift off to sleep, leaving him vulnerable to his thoughts once more. It was no fault of their own - they tried, and Sly was grateful for such friends - but inevitably he would always end up in the same place. Back in the Cooper house. Watching his life ripped away. Watching.
Sly shook his head. It was time to stop thinking. He stood and climbed along one of the building's highest beams, getting a better view of the Interpol officer's window. He couldn't explain it. Well, he supposed that wasn't entirely true. He just might be able to explain it, but whatever the case, somehow slipping back into the routine helped him feel more comfortable, and nothing more so than harassing a certain cop.
Carmelita Fox mulled over the documents before her, her tail twitching frantically. Her eyes threatened to close (and did, on several occasions), but still she read every word of the case file for what seemed like the millionth time, hoping that if she read it enough - comprehended it a little bit better - she would come to understand something that might help her, and ultimately, she admitted, make her a better officer.
That was, after all, what it was all about. She had to improve. She had to be better. She had to finish what she started. Recognized mostly for her beauty, rarely for her talents, she always wanted to push forward, to make people see her skills first. It was hard enough to be taken seriously as a female officer at Interpol, but it seemed even worse for Inspector Fox. Her personal standards drove her forward with such dogged persistence, but at times, they became draining, and not just physically.
She had the headlines for the Fiendish Five. She'd logged the records for the Klaww Gang. But the back of her mind made sure she remembered that she hadn't done all the work. Someone had been there, every time. Sometimes she saw him. Sometimes his presence at first eluded her. But she knew he was there, and she was always a step behind; never good enough.
She raked a nail over the thin paper, nearly ripping it, and emitted a low growl and huff of frustration.
"You're so cute when you're angry."
That cool, velvet-laden voice pooling into the room. It could only be one person. She whirled with such force that she knocked over her chair.
"Cooper!"
He was just outside her window, hanging precariously from the fire escape by the crook of his cane.
"See, I rest my case. The fire in those big, beautiful eyes. The ruffle of that gorgeous fur. Really, Inspector, how could anyone resist?"
Carmelita was fuming. She had spent the day glaring at fellow officers making lewd comments in passing, and now she had to hear them from the thief who continued to prove to her, day in and day out, that she still wasn't good enough.
"Shut it, Ringtail. You walk right into my privacy like this, you're walking right to your grave."
"Such poetic flow of language, such rhythm of--"
Sly's flirtatious commentary was cut off by a buzzing flash of light rattling the ladder from which he hung. He used his cane to propel himself away from the iron structure just before the Inspector blasted it again, sending it crashing down against the building. As he landed on top of the closest structure she leapt out onto the balcony, aiming once more.
Their chase continued, just as it always did. With every powerful blast from her shock pistol, the force pushing up into her arms, Carmelita felt a bit of her frustration release. Even if he always had surer footing than she, better reflexes, or craftier escape routes, at least she could blast something.
Sly made a running leap, landing gracefully atop a lone spire. Carmelita pulled the trigger once more, sending the shock wave toward the nimble raccoon. But something was different. As she readied herself to follow him quickly, she realized she didn't have to. Sly Cooper had stopped.
The blast hit him dead-on, the Inspector's aim never better. She watched as he writhed, emitting a pained yelping noise. The top of his body began to topple over, as if it were now too heavy to be supported. His feet slipped lifelessly from the spire and he fell backward, the Cooper cane sliding from his relaxed grasp. There was a loud crash of glass breaking, and then nothing.
Carmelita was stunned. He had just stood there… stood there! That wasn't part of the deal. That wasn't part of their elegant routine. Cooper ran, like the criminal he was, and she chased, hoping to corner him. But he had remained motionless, not even looking at the shock blast that was heading toward him. Instead, his attention seemed to be transfixed on something else, and he appeared deeply captivated. But in the next moment, that light was gone from his eyes, replaced by her searing electric bolts.
She ran to the edge of the building, carried by some intangible force. He had shattered the glass in one of Interpol's old prison keeps, an archaic clash of old and new. She couldn't see him down below, but it occurred to her that she might not want to see him. She cringed, but her feet continued to carry her downward, climbing carefully along the ledges, approaching the building from an angle.
She would find him, cuff him, and once he proved to be perfectly alright, she would bring him into the chief in the morning.
But what if he's not 'perfectly alright'? What if you killed him? Carmelita's mind questioned her motives.
Then that's one less criminal in the world.
She swallowed hard, forcing down the uneasy feeling in her stomach. Her features had grown pale, her pulse increasing significantly. As she made her descent, she made herself believe it was just adrenaline.