Disclaimer: I own no part of Hetalia whatsoever. Wouldn't it be nice if I did, though?

Ace of Diamonds

It happened on the train, on my way to work in the early morning. It was crowded and stuffy, like the New York subway system always was during the rush hours, especially for those commuting through downtown Manhattan, like me. I found myself squeezed to an uncomfortable proximity between some greasy teenager and a frail old man (whom I was disappointed to see had not been offered a seat yet, despite the abundance of healthier and more able people at a position to give him one). Then again, this was New York: home of the self-righteous, seat-hogging, uncaring hipsters.

I've never considered myself to be one of them. And you can say what you want, but I was quite proud of that fact.

I had lived in New York for quite a while now, though, which meant that simply moving was far easier said than done. I might have removed myself from society in my mind, but in reality, I knew I was just as much a part of New York as the next guy. Manhattan was my home, and over the years, I had even begun to lose a little of my "proper" accent. That realization had petrified me when it came, and it had spawned an impromptu trip back to London for two weeks of vacation time.

My boss hadn't appreciated that, but I couldn't care less. England was and always would be my home, and damn these Americans for trying to change me. They did that to everybody, especially the New Yorkers. All about integration in every sense.

Well, had they ever considered that not everybody wanted to be a part of their little happy family?

Yet here I was, having started a career in Manhattan completely on accident. But now that that had happened, and now that I had gotten myself a decently cozy apartment, learned my commuting route so well that I could fall asleep and wake up at just the right stop, and finally accustomed myself to the taste of bagels, it seemed like I was here to stay, whether I liked it or not.

And trust me, I didn't like it, especially the commutes like this with the other drab and dreadful citizens of the city.

I struggled to reach my phone, hoping that I could at least get some work done during the ride. Productivity was what I did best; working, working, working. The life of a solitary bachelor in his thirties offered little else in that stead, aside from hard drink and soft women, neither realms which held my interest in the slightest.

The people around me didn't seem to appreciate my efforts to reach my pockets (my lanky elbows have never been to my advantage in any situation). Thus, I gave up productivity for a lost cause, cringing at the dirty looks I had received for having made even the slightest disturbance before. I instead resigned myself to staring out whatever sliver of a window I could find. It wasn't much better, to be honest, considering there was nothing out there but stale concrete.

When we arrived at Spring St., two stops before mine, I saw an opening in the seating and sprung for it. I swear, real estate agents should have expanded their market to train seats as well; there was a gold mine to be had down here during rush hour.

A light-haired male had made to get up, gathering together his scarf and sunflower (I don't understand why he had that) in the telltale signs of departure. I would have leapt across laps if I had to; my legs were aching for some reprieve. From home to work was a relatively long commute, and usually I was lucky enough to spring a seat by halfway through, but today just hadn't been my day.

Still, as I stared down that seat on the far side, I knew in an instant that it would be mine. For sure.

I plopped right into it just as another blond was about to make himself at home there instead. I grinned with triumph, smugly crossing my legs as I placed my briefcase beneath. I felt so proud of myself that I even looked up to gauge my opponent's reaction, only to find that he was out of sight. It turned out that he had indeed taken a seat after all—the one right next to me.

I looked over, unsure whether or not to grin or to blush. I wasn't quite so triumphant anymore, was I? Plus, he was... staring at me, and with such directness and overtness that I immediately had to look away again. Then look back. Then look away again. Then look back.

He was still staring.

"How can I be of service?" I asked, trying to sound mocking and sarcastic, but my job actually involved that phrase so much that it ended up coming out quite seriously.

The stranger beside me kept his gaze serious and even for a few more moments before bursting into laughter, loud enough that passengers in the neighboring seats glanced over and shot us annoyed glances. I tried my best to put on the I'm-really-not-with-this-idiot-I-don't-even-know-who-he-is look, which was easy this time around because it was actually the truth.

When he didn't say anything, but rather continued to laugh to himself, shaking in silent mirth, I cleared my throat and tried again.

"What's so funny?"

The young man beside me shot me a smile, which I'll admit was actually quite attractive. I told you I wasn't interested in women, didn't I? I leaned the "other way," so to speak, and this stranger here fit all my male tastes just fine. Too bad that he seemed to be an immature and annoying prick as well.

"Just you," he observed, his voice surprisingly (and sexily) deep for a face so young. He couldn't have been older than nineteen, though perhaps his loose-fitting hoodie and slightly ripped jeans did something to contribute to that irresponsible teenage image.

"Well, I'm not laughing," I replied, trying my best to look irritated rather than so bloody aroused. It had been a while since I had been with anyone, let alone in conversation with someone so young and attractive, or at least in any situation outside of the workplace. "You clearly know something I don't," I continued, "so please inform me as to where my humours lie."

The kid laughed again, and he even had the audacity to give me a light punch in the shoulder.

"Chillax dude," he advised (honestly, the nerve he had). "You're just funny, that's all." He shrugged and smiled up at the ceiling. "There's nothing bad about it."

I grumbled darkly, my face alight with a blush despite my brain yelling at it to stop. It was stupid, feeling happy about something which I wasn't even sure was a compliment or not. I mean, as he had said, being funny wasn't a bad thing, right? But the way he said it still made me feel like I was being made fun of in some way.

"You should be proud, you know," he murmured. "Not many people can steal from me, even if it's just a seat."

I rolled my eyes. If that wasn't the most arrogant and egotistical thing I had ever heard, I didn't know what was. Plus, it didn't even make much sense as a boastful claim, considering seating was quite random, generally dependent on who got off and on at each station. There was some skill involved, but only a minor amount.

"Whatever," I muttered, crossing my arms. My smug happiness from having won my seat was completely gone at this point (though I guess it might have been replaced by a secret, very deeply buried joy for being in conversation with someone so... refreshing, even if he was an annoying prat).

I was snapped out of my silent brooding (and imagination of exactly what sort of body was hidden underneath those baggy clothes) when I felt him nudge me in the shoulder again. I turned around, ready to give him a piece of my mind and tell him to back off, when my eyes came face to face with his. Bright cerulean, with flecks of grey that were somehow still attractive despite the glaringly poor train lighting.

It was breathtaking.

What was even more startling, however, was the proximity of his smirking face to mine. I think if I shifted even a centimeter, our noses would have touched, though I don't think I would have minded it all that much. He did have quite a perfect nose.

"I... uhh..."

"Woah, you've got some nice eyes, dude." His smile widened. I expected him to back up after that, but he actually leaned in closer, causing me to move back myself.

"I was going to say something else," he continued, "but your eyes sorta distracted me." He glanced back and forth between my left eye and my right one. I wanted to avert my gaze. I really did. Really.

Thank god the government didn't pay me to lie, otherwise I'd be quick out of a job.

This— this teenager kept staring, his own eyes almost glowing with a look that my mind slowly registered as...

... hunger?

It was gleaming with the same sort of predatory desire that I imagined tigers possessed as they encircled their prey, knowing the battle was already won before it had even begun. With tigers, it was scary. With this guy right here, it was downright hot.

"They're like jewels, man," he whispered in admiration, pulling me back to reality. "Your eyes are emeralds."

I have to admit I glowed a little with pride at the obvious compliment—that is, if my mind could even consciously register that emotion underneath my countless layers of arousal, shock, and apprehension.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him slowly reach a hand up to touch my face, and I immediately swatted it away, breaking his concentration and shattering that breathless moment. He leaned back with a light chuckle, though there was definitely something lurking underneath it now. His voice was rough, almost as if he were aroused as well.

Nope. I wasn't even going to entertain that idea.

"Sorry, man," he murmured, rolling his shoulders as if to stretch. "I just..." He shot me a glance that spoke volumes, though I wasn't sure what those volumes were about. He breathed out, letting his shoulders drop.

"I just really have a thing for jewels."

How was I even supposed to react to that? Was that just a blatant attempt to flirt with me? Did that count as some invitation for me to continue this conversation over coffee? If he liked jewels so much, could I just tell him to take this one right here home with him and add it to his collection, yes please and thank you?

Luckily—or perhaps unluckily—I was saved from making that decision by a glance out the window. I had actually overshot my stop by one, and that sent me into a temporary panic strong enough to distract me from making any inappropriate moves on a man likely to be at least a decade younger than I was.

I swore under my breath. I had to act now otherwise I'd have to go another stop before turning around. If I was late for work, my boss would murder me (and considering I was a detective for the government, my department knew well enough how to hide bodies from, well, themselves).

Without a glance back or an explanation, I swept up my briefcase and stood up. I knew that if I turned around, I likely would have decided that perhaps being murdered wasn't all that bad of a consequence for just a few more moments with this irritatingly attractive guy.

I had to escape.

I took a step toward the door, but I felt a tug on my jacket, which made me react and turn around before I even knew what I was doing. He was smiling at me still, though in the most blatantly flirtatious way imaginable. God did I want to stay behind.

"Just don't keep me waiting too long," he murmured, winking.

Wait—what?

I opened my mouth to ask, but before even the first syllable could pass my lips, he laughed and gave me a push. I stumbled out the doors just as they were starting to shut, and the train was already picking up speed by the time I could regain my balance and look back.

I dusted myself off, straightened my tie, and tried my best not to look like someone I didn't even know had just practically given me an orgasm on the train with just the sound of his voice. Much easier said than done, I tell you.

As I began to find my way to the crossing that would take me back to the other side of the tracks, my mind returned to his last words. I was supposed to not keep him waiting... but how? What was I going to do if I didn't even know his name? How would I ever find those enchanting eyes ever again? And how was he so absolutely sure that I would?

I shook my head and bit my lower lip. Maybe it was nonsense, and he was just playing games with me. I sure hoped that wasn't the case, because I felt like we might have had something there, if he would only get a new wardrobe and a lexicon with less slang. I wanted to see him again, and he sounded like he knew that I would.

What an enigma.

Luckily, I made it to work just in time. No one paid me any attention as I quietly made my way to my office, heart still beating wildly from my odd train encounter. I couldn't comprehend any aspect of that chance meeting, no matter how hard I tried. Thus, as I set my briefcase down upon the side table and took a sip of the tea that my secretary had so kindly prepared me, I was hoping that the new case I saw lying on my desk would distract me from those riveting blue eyes, even if it was for just a little bit.

Cracking my joints, I stretched as I took a seat. My work wasn't actually all that interesting, and it got repetitive and dull quite quickly. I might have been part of the investigative quarter of the NYPD, but I wasn't in something "cool" like special victims or serial murderers. No. My cards lay in the realm of theft.

That's right. I investigated anything from petty larceny to those large cases of grand thievery, like art stolen from the MOMA, for example.

But the latter of the two came very rarely (I've only ever worked on one in my entire career so far, and that was way at the beginning, when the only job I was relegated to was sorting out papers). Thus, the majority of my days were filled with complaints of breaking and entering, lost jewelry, stolen handbags—the works. How very interesting, I know.

Oftentimes, I wondered why I was still even here, working for the NYPD. I was still young enough to find another avenue for my life if I really wanted to, and yet here I was, still taking my earl grey each morning as I examined yet another case, as if it even mattered.

However, as I took a more careful glance at the file on my desk this time around, I could see that it really wasn't "yet another case." It was thicker, heavier, with papers arranged messily and stuck out at odd angles. It was jammed full of so much information, in fact, that it required one of those large binder clips to hold it shut.

In other words, it was big.

I nearly dropped my tea in a rush to open the folder (and for me, that was a huge deal). But before I could, there was a knock upon my door. I usually would have ignored it, except for the fact that it was my boss's voice that rang through from the other side.

Growling with irritation, I muttered my assent for him to come in.

"Arthur, I need your driver's license for just a moment," he murmured, glancing at some sort of checklist he held in his hands. I knew better than to ask "What for?" because I'd simply be labeled as cheeky, and he still wouldn't have answered.

With a sigh and a desire to get this over with as fast as possible so that I could return to that tantalizing file, I stood up and swiftly walked over to him, fishing out my wallet from my pocket as I went. Opening it up, I was halfway done rifling through my cards when a small piece of paper slipped out. I leaned over, picked it up—and promptly dropped everything I was holding.

"Arthur? Your license, plea—"

I tossed it right in his face, not caring that he sputtered in surprise and shot me an angry look. He opened his mouth to berate me, but I slammed the door right in his face. I could deal with the possibility of being fired later. I could deal with anything later, after I relearned how to breathe and got a chance to look at that piece of paper once again.

And when I did, I looked away. Then back. Then away. Then back, unable to process even half of what was going on. Everything was happening far too quickly.

The note read:

'Hey I just met you, and this is crazy. But here's my number, so call me maybe?*
*I'm not really giving you my number, though. You've got me right there on your desk, so I'm leaving it up to you, babe.'

I whirled around, not sure what I was expecting to see, but nothing was out of place. There was no visible change in anything whatsoever, let alone someone sitting on my desk as this note seemed to claim. But what was lying on my desk, on the other hand, was that file.

I rushed back to the table, note clutched tightly in hand. It struck me that I should have probably feared for my life in that moment, should have wondered where my stalker was hiding and whether or not he was armed. But of course my mind was stupidly occupied, all my years in training down the drain, simply due to my foolish imagination—for I had read that note, all right, but I had read it in the seductive voice of that boy on the train.

And that went straight to my crotch.

It had to be him, though. No one else had come close enough to my wallet to slip that note in this morning, and it definitely hadn't been in there when I had gotten on the train initially. Plus, in context, even the content of the note made sense, despite the fact that I was quite peeved at him for referencing such horrendous music.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, then flung open the cover to reveal page one of the case. I flew through the opening lines, faster than my mind could even register them. And when they did, I swear my heart had stopped.

'Mr. J, more commonly known by just the name "Ace," is the subject of this investigation. This is the first time he has committed a theft inside New York jurisdiction, stealing a diamond from private collector Makarov Sayansky, estimated to be worth at least $2,000,000. Ace has a distinct trademark that is further explained in the fourth document within, which makes his work easily recognizable.'

Ace. Thief. Stranger on the train.

It couldn't be. There had to be some way that this note was mistaken, that I was mistaken. Some way that I had missed something somewhere along the line and was now just making trouble for myself.

I cast a brief glance over my neatly organized desk. Perhaps there was something else on it besides just my cup of tea? Anything? A speck of dust, even?

Lack of evidence eventually brought my eyes trailing back to the case, back to the file that was already gripping my life and turning it upside-down even before I knew its complete contents for sure.

But I did know, didn't I? Somewhere in my mind, I definitely knew. And of course, reading onward only confirmed it.

'Ace has been suspected for a wide variety of cases over the years, but he is most notable for his keen interest in jewelry, especially sapphires and emeralds.'

I stared at those words.

'Keen interest in jewelry,' it read. 'Especially sapphires and emeralds.'

He was the thief, all right. It made sense. Too much sense. He had even mentioned that little comment about seat stealing, which I had written off as frivolous teenage arrogance before, but now I could see that it was so much bigger than that. That handsome, exuberant stranger was Ace, and I had flirted with him. He had flirted with me. Dear Lord, I had even briefly imagined him naked. I had wanted to get to know him, to learn more about the person behind those annoyingly low-hanging pants. I had wanted to take him out for coffee.

But you know what was the worst part? The worst part was that, even after reading these words and taking in all its implications, I was quite sure I still wanted that cup of coffee with him anyway.

There was only one thing to do then.

It took me a few tries and something akin to what I swear was a few hours, but I finally managed to sit down and slowly relax my heart (or at least remove enough anxieties so that I was able to think with some clarity). I calmly placed the file in the middle of my desk, taking deep breaths and trying to keep my mind withdrawn from the situation for long enough to take in the necessary information. Then I flipped open the file, took a sip of my tea, and proceeded to read.

I was going to find that number, and anything be damned if it got in the way.

Author's Comments:

I hope that being a thief and approaching Arthur in the disguise of a regular counts for this day's theme (which is "Masquerade," involving disguises in some sense). I was on the fence about that, but I really wanted to write this idea, since I've always thought that Alfred would be an amazing thief (you already know, if you've read my profile, that I've got a long fic somewhere in my mind brewing about thief!Alfred and detective!Arthur, hehehehe). So I hope this idea counts!

Man, I just love to write in Arthur's point of view, though, don't I? I don't know why this phase is happening to me so suddenly in recent times, but I sort of like it. He's just been quite inspiring recently, and his observations in my head always make me so happy (whereas Alfred's POV generally is quite dark in my mind, even though I know the both of them can go both ways). Maybe I'll write all my fics this week from Arthur's point of view. Who knows?

Well, happy reading!

- Galythia