Disclaimer: Not mine. Ocean's 11 belongs to whoever it belongs to.
A/N: Yeah...this was one of those little things I wrote when not able to get to sleep. It seemed like a good idea at the time, and the quality seems to have diminished with time...but eh. It was written at like two in the morning. And for some reason I'm uploading it...ah well.
"Why do you do it?"
It was a question he'd been asked so many times before. And never, not once, had he given a proper answer. Because how could he? How could he put into words the exact reason, the myriad of reasons, he had for the way he lived?
There was the thrill. That soul-deep, adrenaline-pumping, irresistible thrill, every time. From the moment a mark is identified to the second it's all over, through all the planning, the research, the execution. Some find that thrill elsewhere, whether they save lives in a hospital or a burning building, or they teach, or they rule, or advise, or even crunch numbers all day. Everyone finds their own thrill, and this was his.
There was the danger. All those little things that could go wrong. Being able to identify all those little things and prepare for them. Knowing that what they were doing could ruffle many feathers the wrong way, irritate a little too many people who could seek retribution and more. Knowing that, and yet still going forward with it, every time. Even if the guy whose patch they were just skirting on could mean business. Even if the police or other law enforcement could get involved. It was just worked into the plan, like everything else.
Of course, sometimes things go wrong. And those times, it isn't his own life that he worries for, that he is terrified for. And yet, even if there is pain involved, even if there's blood, even if there's worse than that, they always end up going back to what they do. And that's what so many people don't understand. Why do it, when you've seen first hand what can happen? Why do it, when you've still got the scars to show for it? The thrill can't last forever, they say. It's got to wear off eventually.
And yet, eventually has taken over three decades and still hasn't shown up.
But obviously, it's never just the thrill or the danger. There's the pure love for it, for every single element of it.
The variety it offers, always different, never the same. And yet, always the exact structure, whether a half-second lift or a six-month con. Planning, research, execution.
The people they work with, too. Ever-changing, yet always the same. Every job they do, every elaborate heist or casino con is never the same. Yet they know the can count on every single person they have, because they just know.
But any of those reasons, which could be the full answer to the question, only form the icing on the cake of the way he lived his life. Because the real reason, the biggest reason, the only reason, could only ever be his partner. His business partner, his partner in crime. His reason for living. The man who knew his every thought before he'd thought it, and who he'd have an answer for before he'd replied. The man who was the other half of his soul, who nobody ever thought of him without, who was happy because of their life.
The way his eyes sparkled when they were in the middle of a con. The way his forehead crinkled when thinking out a problem. The way his entire face would light up when a solution came to him. The way a mischievous grin would appear when he'd had an idea. The way his body radiated energy, which everybody else would benefit from but nobody else could notice except for him. And the way his body would relax after they'd accomplished a con successfully, and his smiles would be just a bit more free and wild.
These were the reasons why he lived the life he did. Why he braved the dangers and the threats. Why the thrill and personal fulfilment were just a bonus.
His best friend was happy. That was all that mattered.
"It's what we're good at. What we've always done."