enjoy!

God, did he love his boots.

There weren't many things in this world Flynn did love, not many at all. There weren't many things in the next world he loved, either. Or the next, or the next, or the next.

And really, saying he 'loved' those things was a bit…much.

More often than not, what caught his attention for long enough to hold it was something he wanted, borrowed (stole), then quickly lost interest in.

Once the larceny cycle was complete, he'd sell them on with the deepest, most sincere, wishes that they'd find their way back to their original owners.

A rare crystal pitcher of fine Earth wine sold to a Hrul system oil mogul he was sure he never wanted to cross paths with again.

The antique cellular communicator with a bobble headed white horse still hanging from the port (he didn't much care for animals and the horse was menacing at best) went to the creepy rich kid down past Garriko.

A shit-ton of duck quills were scattered between a shit-ton of lecherous Lopol monks.

The gold coin he found on Arendelle…well, he certainly got rid of that, too.

Anyway.

Point was, attachments (especially the people kind), were a no-go. The kind of no-go that made diving into Kileia's bajillion degree lava pits sound like a fun day at the beach.

So, incredibly, the boots were the one attachment in his life that he kept out of soppy, sentimental, choice. Even his crappy ship, The Boxlighter, would've hit the scrap-planet years ago if it weren't for, y'know, space being what it was and money being exactly what he didn't seem to have.

Beep, beep, beep–

"Flynn Rider, totally not the dashing thief I'm sure you've heard so much about," He answered charmingly, still admiring his worn leather boots beneath the panel of clunky buttons and blinking lights, "How did you get on this channel and why haven't you hung up yet?"

"Prick." Came the gruff reply.

"Ah! Stabbington-point-one, Mr Talker, how the hell are you? Stabbington-point-two, you there? I'm sure the pink eye's doing spectacularly, no?" Met with only silence, Flynn grinned to himself, "I'll take that as an excited agreement. Now, what can do for you, fine gentlemen?"

"You got everything ready?" God, the line was bad. He'd have to see what he could do about that. How could anyone hear how handsome he was if the line made him sound like he swallowed Darth-fucking-Vader.

"Yup." He dragged out the word, popping the 'p' at the end, "You boys have your extra scary faces on?"

"Fuck, you're annoying. Five minutes." The line went dead.

"Five minutes." Flynn grumbled, flipping switches and slipping his hands in the handles of his controls: Lefty and Mrs Dalloway. He didn't know why, when he got the ship those names were carved into the grimy metal. "As if I haven't been waiting for your lazy asses to get here for the last," he glanced at the digital display above him, "fuckin' hour, jesus."

Usually, he wouldn't be so wound up about the intricacies of a job like this. Get in, get the shit, get out, hide. Simple.

But staring down at Corona from just outside its tracking range for the past sixty minutes, following the swirling organic glow of greens and blues and the glitter of the legendary Golden City shimmering through the sparse clouds, he felt the tug of a home he didn't possess the right to have.

And honestly?

It felt like shit.

To wired to sleep, and too lazy to read, he admired his boots instead. Because deep feelings, of any sort, was The Worst.

"Well it's all right, ridin' around in the breeze." He sang to himself as he boosted his engines and zipped straight down to the planet.

Flynn docked on the outskirts of the city, for just long enough to pick up the waiting Stabbingtons and head to the unused underpass they discovered in ancient manuscripts and blueprints of the city.

Well it's all right, if you live the life you please.

Underground, Stabbington-numero-uno detonated a small explosive right beneath their target, blowing a hole the size of a dinner plate in the hilariously thin foundations of the Citadel.

You'd think one of the richest familes in the whole fucking quadrant could afford better security, no?

It wasn't like he was complaining, exactly, but, like, invaluable relics shitty security.

As rubble fell upon their heads, Flynn started to prime his bot, Humphrey Bogart(no relation). The spherical little robot, with pincers twice the length of Flynn's own arms, rattled to life.

"Nice, you good men go to the meet point. Remember, turn left." Flynn said with a charming smile, taking Humphrey's controller out from the inside of his leather jacket and switching it on. When he let go of the old Mr. Bogart, the robot floated in mid-air for a few seconds, clicking and whirring, before taking off through the hole.

The Stabbingtons eyed him.

Flynn sighed dramatically, clutching his heart, "What? After we've been through together, you don't trust me?"

If anything, their glare intensified.

"Listen," he dragged out the word, "we have three minutes to get my bot in and out. You two blocks or meat need to go, like, now to ram straight through any, y'know, bloodthirsty guards with electric laser spears?"

Stabbington The First tapped his brother on the chest with the back of his hand, and Stabbington The Second nodded, jogging off with one last stink eye at Flynn.

Well it's all right, doing the best you can.

The remaining Stabbington, Flynn didn't know what the hell his name was, turned on Flynn and poked him in the chest, "You run, you die."

Their eyes stayed fixed for a moment, and then he followed in his brother's stead.

"Ouch." Flynn said monotonously to the empty tunnel.

Humphrey Bogart's controller lit up. Flynn had pre-programmed it to find and retrieve the target by itself. He had uploaded images and schematics to its hard drive the night before to ensure Humphrey Bogart knew exactly where it was going and what it needed to get. No time to waste.

Flynn tapped at the controller display, cursed when Bogart hit a wall (hey, he said he programmed it, he didn't say he programmed it well), and before he knew it, the target and Humphrey Bogart were both safe and sound in his pilfering hands.

"Now," he said, switching Mr. Bogart off and slipping it and the target into his satchel, "I go right."

Well it's all right, as long as you lend a hand.