WARNINGS: Reference to a past abusive relationship, reference to dead parents, violence (broken nose, some bleeding), self harm, suicidal ideation, epilepsy (not graphic), casual verbal ableism (use of "cripple" in the last scene).

"Stop. There. That's our thief," Armand says, pointing at the vague outlines of what has to be a person, well, a person's shadow in-between grainy spots and lines of black, grey, and white. The camera's pictures are mediocre, widely open to interpretation, and initially that had been the point, but now? He turns away from the screen, pinching the bride of his nose, and tries to hide the sharp edge to his voice as he asks: "Is there anything else? Anything we can actually use?"

Armand's security team murmurs something that sounds like Sorry, boss but stays silent other than that. Five people look to the floor, the walls, the flickering screen – anything to avoid his gaze. Nobody wants to be the one attracting his anger, and by God, he is angry. Just not for the reasons they assume.

Armand shakes his head. "I need a list of what was stolen and I need someone to inform the affected clients. Discreetly, in case this needs saying. And somebody print this,", he gestures to the screen, "great shot and leave it in my office. I'll call our director and the police myself. Any questions?" He raises his eyebrows, looks around, but nobody seems to want to make eye contact. The silence is short but uncomfortable. "No? Then you're dismissed."

More mumbling, then his team hurries out of the room. Fucking incompetent- Armand breathes in deeply, tries to calm himself enough to focus and not betray any more of his anger. He locks the door, then, and returns to the screen, staring at the silhouette of the person who ruined his coup, the coup he's planned for literal months. Now it's all been for nothing. He's clenching his fists so hard that his nails bite angrily into the flesh of his palms. Who are you?, he thinks, and, If I can find you, you'll have made your last mistake.

Weeks pass. Nothing happens. Well, nothing that leads him to the thief anyway, but considering how engrossed he's been in work ever since the incident that's not really surprising.

Armand is busy dealing with angry clients who threaten to sue the firm, sue him personally even, over the loss of their valuables; he's busy dealing with them in what feels like his every waking moment. It's not about the money, they claim, it's about the artistic and personal value! Greedy liars. Faking concern, Armand pretends not to know that many of these clients don't even know or care about what exactly they had stored there in the first place. Forcing out a smile and shaking hands, reassuring that, yes, they are doing their best to resolve this unpleasant matter, he ignores that they just want their money back before the tediously slow – and so far inconclusive – investigations of both the insurance company and the police come to an end.

Sometimes Armand considers quitting, but he needs the director's recommendation for the next job he'll apply for – and who would hire someone who left the ship like a rat during what's made out to be an existential crisis? Exactly. He'll be trapped here until he either miraculously finds the stolen valuables or the firm is bankrupt, which isn't an option, not really, because he would then be known as the head of security who failed to do his job and couldn't save the business reputation.

Armand crosses his arms and stares grimly at the picture of his new arch enemy as he does during every break between clients, meetings, and calls; it's not that he's obsessed, it's just that he's furious. At the thief, at himself, at the fucking universe – what does it even matter? Nothing of this would be a problem if he could've gone through with the original plan. He wouldn't care, wouldn't have to care, if he'd been the thief. He could quit, fuck his so-far stellar reputation, and retire somewhere, at the age of 24, which is four years later then he'd initially set the goal for, anyway. But now? Now he's fucked.

He's fucked.

Inside knowledge on black-market activities isn't what it used to be. Sellers and buyers are suspicious, accusing every second person of working for the government, so that any interaction turns out long-winded, riddled, and unhelpful. It's even worse for people like Armand who prefer to remain faceless but don't have enough money to send others to represent them at personal meetings.

Written exchange is frowned upon, which Armand knew, of course he knew, but he gets confirmation time and time again. Once someone apparently got angry and left a sloppily written note in his anonymous letterbox, telling him that he wasn't "the fucking cardinal" and can't rely on people putting their trust in him "as stupidly as they trust their God to be on their side". Somewhere down Armand's catholic heart that comparison hurts, but it also sticks. Thus, The Cardinal is born, not that many people know of, not yet.

Despite the problems he encounters trying to get information, he does get bits and scraps. Mostly, it turns out to be bullshit. The only thing he comes across repeatedly is, ironically, a legend. Okay, maybe not a legend yet, but a rumor on its best way to becoming a legend. It's quite simple (and quite stupid, in Armand's opinion): An alleged master thief chooses high-security targets and robs them for the fun of it, not once trying to make money out of the stolen items. Sometimes a piece would appear, randomly, carelessly left for anyone to find. Not in an exact Robin Hood way, but close enough for the whole thing to get a romanticized note. Never mind the obvious chaotic nature of that person, their waste of time, resources and talent. If they were even real.

Armand smiles thinly. He's not gullible enough to believe that he was screwed over by a legend. There is someone, an ordinary human being who did this, and human beings have flaws, however clever and skilled they might be.

Luckily, Armand has a special skill too: Finding out weaknesses and exploiting them to his best interest. How hard can it be? He will just bait this wannabe-thief and lure them back, but this time he will be prepared.

Armand gets dressed in the early morning. Pale light falls through the window and as he takes a quick look down on the street he sees it already filled with people. Well, so much for his quiet walk home. Not that he cares about being seen when he leaves the building, hell, he doesn't even care if anyone sees him walking in and out of the apartment. In company of renowned Dr. Richmond. Kissing, groping. It has happened before. Jonathan – who he met as Owen at a bar, years ago – has insisted on being more cautious, and maybe that has been the reason for their break-up. Maybe not.

"You still drink your coffee black?"

Armand makes a noise of agreement and follows Jonathan's voice into the kitchen. Jonathan smiles one-sidedly, looking way too fresh and awake for just having gotten out of bed. "Still grumpy in the mornings, I see. Some things don't change."

The corner of Armand's mouth goes up ever so slightly. He's almost forgotten how much he can't deal with unnecessary small-talk and Jonathan's general… cheerfulness in the morning. Maybe that had been the reason for their break-up. He sits down at the chair, looks at Jonathan who hands him a cup of coffee, and feels something like guilt creeping up his chest. It's not fair to ask him what he's about to ask, it's plain unfair, actually, because he knows Jonathan can't refuse him if he asks for a favour. Fairness, Armand scoffs internally. Their treatment of each other hasn't been exactly fair in the past either, has it?

As if he can read Armand's thoughts, Jonathan sits down opposite him and asks: "So, I think we both know you're not here to reconnect." He doesn't look sad, he looks worried. Armand hates it, tries to swallow the bitterness that fills his mouth, tries to not feel small and helpless. It doesn't work. Jonathan sets his cup aside, and gives him a look; suddenly he's not Jonathan anymore, he's Doctor Richmond, aged by a decade, serious, talking to a patient: "Has it gotten worse? I told you, if you need prescriptions or a referral-"

"It's not about that," Armand snaps, "and even if it was, it would be none of your business." Anger makes his heart race, tears cracks into the carefully constructed image he has created of himself. For himself. "I'm not your fucking social case."

Jonathan pauses for a moment before he slips back into himself, Jonathan, just Jonathan, leaving Dr. Richmond behind. "I'm sorry." Softly. "I was just worried, okay?"

"I can take care of myself, thanks." Armand avoids Jonathan's eyes.

The reason they broke up, the real reason, was Jonathan's weakness. Not for him, specifically, not even for younger men, no, it was his weakness for broken people. But Armand? He wasn't broken, not for Jonathan, not for anyone, and he wouldn't let anyone treat him as such. Jonathan couldn't stop fussing over him - it was in his nature, good-willed, helping, always worrying, always so concerned about his health, unwillingly and unconsciously talking down to him - and so Armand has left, intending never to return. Yet here he was.

"What do you need?", Jonathan asks.

"I guess you've been following the news? It's about that." Armand swallows his guilt and his pride and his hurt, and says: "I need to borrow your Picasso."

The people in the high places are overjoyed to hear that Armand has acquired a new, wealthy client despite the troubled condition the firm is in; they release a press statement within an hour, putting emphasis on trust and integrity and professionalism. It seems to work, because the public, or rather the tiny fraction of the public who actually cares about a security firm that fell from grace, responds well to the image polishing.

Armand doesn't fucking care about the public opinion either way, he only cares about the thief, hopes that they read the news and fall for his trap. He pointedly doesn't enhance the security status, even though that's a direct order from above, to make the break-in even more irresistible. Of course the set-up screams trap!, but the potential danger probably just tempts the thief's ego even more. That is, if Armand's own ego is in any way indicative of theirs.

He's reading through his night shifts, the team as small as ever, and for a week nothing happens. Jonathan's Picasso stays safe and Armand tries to not feel uncomfortable having it around. (It doesn't work.)

It's the eight night and Armand's reading the same page of a cheap detective novel over and over again. He can't focus, and his jaw vaguely hurts from the tension that has built up during the waiting. What if he was wrong? What if the thief won't come back and he went to Jonathan – of all people – for nothing? Armand chews on his bottom lip. Of course, there's still the option of him resigning and getting his recommendation writ, moving on to a new project, putting all of this behind him. But honestly, it isn't about this job, or any follow-up job anymore. This is a hundred percent personal: Between one thief and another.

He puts the bookmark (a printed and folded picture of his, well, the thief, which doesn't show any kind of fixation, no, it's simply a tool to remind himself of his priorities, to keep his focus) into place and shuts the book. Exhaling slowly, Armand straightens his back.

The clock says it's 2:37am, and technically he should be tired, should let his team handle the hourly inspection round, but instead he gets up and says into the walkie-talkie: "This is Richelieu. I'll take care of the inspection. Have a break, some coffee, but keep watching the monitors, until I'm done. Afterwards you're back in charge. Over and out."

Such lowly work for the head of security, Armand thinks with a mild frown as he walks through the halls. Well, lowly it may be but it's also calming and silent and he's not surrounded by the sounds of technical equipment; all in all a good deal. He feels alone, away, unnoticed for the first time all day, even with the cameras watching his every movement. But that's it, camera eyes and his own steps are his only company.

The building is sparely lit, but Armand doesn't care. Darkness isn't a stranger. He chases away a shadow with a flick of his flashlight, letting himself become less tense, and passes through another room. So, maybe it's pointless to hope for the return of his- the thief. Maybe he lost. And maybe it's about time he admits that to himself.

Armand's frown deepens. He doesn't like the facts but he will accept them. He lost the game but he won't lose his sense of reality to the faceless thief, too. He will finish the inspection and quit this goddamn job first thing in the morning.

(Thirteen minutes later, with sirens wailing, his nose bleeding, and his heart racing painfully in his chest, his throat, blood rushing through his ears, after he's lost a Picasso, lost his goddamn mind, apparently, when he runs out of the building and into the night, Armand can't help but think that he didn't mean to quit quite like this.)

It's 3:19am.

It can't be, it can't be, it can't be, it can't be…

The music is louder than his thoughts (barely) and the bass is shaking his body harder than his own heart beat (just about). And the lights! Armand loves the lights, their flashing, bright, rapidly moving, always changing, never still, and he stares right into them, white and black spots, colors, swirls, flashes-

"Armand…?"

"Where's- where's your fucking cane?"

Armand shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut to make the voices go away, to forget this encounter ever happened, in his firm, his ex firm, and he wants to cry and to laugh, but instead he moves with the dancing bodies, moves like the lights, and throws his head back. It can't be. It simply cannot be.

"You are Richelieu?"

"You need to get out of here. Right now."

"Not leaving without it."

Anxiety and fear creep up on him, and he thinks that they know. They all know. The police knows and his team, his ex team knows, and everyone who as much as looks at him knows. And while sweat trickles down his spine, his own words trickle through the sounds wall into his mind and he can't ignore them, "Then fucking take it." Again and again, because he's guilty, by God, he's guilty of so many things, but above them all he's guilty of this, and it's the only thing he can't redeem himself of, he'll be forever guilty-

Armand feels his body convulse, once, hard, before everything goes blank.

(It spares him the "Punch me. Not like- make it look real.", the "Run. I mean. I mean walk." and the "Fuck you, Jean, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you." At least for a while.)

"You alright, love?"

Armand opens his eyes to a woman with broad shoulders and long lashes, handing him a glass of water. Muffled music, dim yellow lights, a sofa. The private rooms? It takes him a moment to realize why he isn't out in the crowd anymore. Right...

When Armand doesn't take the glass, the woman sets it aside, watching him intently. It makes him uneasy, being watched like that. He's shaky and he wants to move, he wants out, but his body doesn't listen to him, refuses to do more than flinch and twitch. Coldness holds him tight, hunger rips a hole into his stomach, and his face and pants are wet. Disgusting, he's disgusting. He wants to cry, but he's too exhausted and empty.

"Do you know what you took? Do I need to call an ambulance?" The woman's cheek bones are covered in glitter and her eyes are serious, but she doesn't look grossed out, she looks like she's seen people like him before – breaking down with a seizure, fucking pissing themselves – and doesn't expect him to be the last.

"No, no ambulance," he says softly, shakily, "It's just common epilepsy. I didn't- I should've known better."

"I see." She doesn't judge him the way he judges himself. She doesn't ask why he would risk triggering a seizure, why he's so goddamn stupid. He doesn't think she cares. Everyone has their reasons to come here. He's just one of many, and maybe he's not even the unluckiest bastard tonight. He drags himself into an upright position, swallowing and shaking and smelling just how much he stinks. Shame burns on his cheeks and he looks at his hands.

After a while, the woman asks: "You here with someone?"

"No, I'm- thank you. I'll go. I'll pay for the mess. I just. I need to leave."

"Don't worry about it." She gets up, her dress as sparkly as her makeup, and gestures to the door. "You can go out in the back. Or I'll call you a cab…?"

"The driver would be delighted." Sarcasm sneaks back into his voice, and that's how Armand knows he's slowly becoming himself again; a shivering, messy version of himself, but himself. He manages to stand, smiles thinly at this triumph. "I'll walk."

The woman makes a mhmm noise, and Armand quickly says: "Thank you." He hopes she hears the honesty, he hopes she knows.

"Take care, love."

"You too."

The fabric of his pants sticks to his legs, his brain feels fuzzy, and he trips over his own feet as he walks out of the club, but despite it all: He feels calmer than he has all night.

It's 5:03am when Armand closes the bathroom door and steps under the shower. He has hastily eaten some toast, naked and stinking, so when the water finally hits him he can't help but sigh in relief. There are bruises on his wrists, arms and ribs, now faintly red but soon purple-blue, and he wonders if the people holding him down during the seizure had thought about securing his tongue so that he wouldn't bite it off and swallow it and choke on it.

A sharp pain fills the inside of his nose and Armand snorts without thinking, regretting it immediately as the pain gets worse for a moment. It's a fucking miracle he still feels it. So he snorts again, deliberately, and this time the pain evens out after a breath, two, three. A thought strikes him (that this is the only thing he has left of Jean after all these years, a fucking nose-bleed, and this is it, there's nothing else), and it hits him harder than the punch Jean has landed.

He has spent literal years not thinking of Jean. When he walked away from the graveyard he'd watched devour his mother's coffin, he'd walked away from his past. It was too painful for him to carry around. He left to survive. And Jean, Jean belonged to this past. Suddenly angry, Armand turns off the shower, shaking, avoiding to look at himself in the mirror.

The past was supposed to be the past and stay there, it wasn't supposed to steal itself back into the present, into his life, not like this.

It can't be.

He rubs his temples, bitterness and sadness and shame ablaze behind his eyes, but he doesn't let either of it take over. He's had enough for the day. He can go to sleep or he can jump off the roof, there are no other options. Sleep, demands the rational part of his self; death, whispers a small voice. Armand pinches the bridge of his nose - pain, clarity, a decision to delay possible suicide plans and just get the fuck over his self-pity for at least some hours.

Somehow, Armand makes it into his bed and pulls the covers over his head. It's 5:26am and the sun starts rising somewhere. He knows that he will have to deal with the fall-out of his actions later – letting a thief punch him, take a fucking Picasso, and walk free, before running off without saying a word to anyone -, but the last thing he thinks about when he closes his eyes is that he hasn't fed Pedro in two days.

(He wonders, drowsily, who is most likely to grant him forgiveness: God, Jean, or his fucking cat.)

Meowing wakes Armand after what feels like a mere second of sleep. Go away, he thinks and rubs his temples, turning so he faces the bedroom window. There, safely shadowed from the sun, Pedro paces up and down the window sill, making the most wretched noises imaginable.

"Go away," Armand says and hears his own voice crack, just as he feels his body crack with every little movement. He's sore and he's not getting up anytime soon. He's not. Pedro's amber eyes flash at him with reproach, overlaid with a soft cry, and Armand groans. So maybe he is getting up. Fucking cat. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The meowing gets more urgent, while Armand drags himself out of the bed and walks over to the window. "I'm coming, I'm coming, okay? Jesus Christ, let me live." He opens the window and Pedro slips into the room, looking right past him and heading right for the kitchen. "Nice to see you, I missed you, too, you know!", he calls after Pedro before he can stop himself. Armand snorts, shutting the window before also walking into the kitchen, because really? Doing the passive-aggressive routine with a cat? He's pathetic.

It must be afternoon, because the sun doesn't reach into his apartment anymore, and he wonders why the police didn't come to arrest him yet. Well, he figures it can only be a matter of time. He opens a can of cat food and puts it into a small bowl, practiced enough to not pay the process too much attention, and places it on the kitchen table. (Bad manners, letting a cat eat where he eats, but who's here to judge?)

"I know I fucked up. I'm sorry," Armand says softly and sits down, slumped and tired and aching. He knows he should shower and dress and eat and walk right into the firm, he should perform the maximum of damage control he's capable of, yeah, he knows that, but the truth is that he's not up for it. He just can't do it.

"I brought this on myself, didn't I?" He smiles unhappily. "I know. I know I did. I'm a fucking idiot."

Fuck, he's so fucking fucked. Even Pedro takes pity in Armand now, and touches his head lightly to his forehead, purring. The soft sound vibrates through Armand's fingertips as pets Pedro behind his ears. He makes a mental note to ask his elderly neighbor to take care of him while he's in police custody. He should do it right away, the sooner the better, who knows when they will come and kick in his door? He'd rather have everything sorted out by then.

Armand closes his eyes.

Fucked – he's definitely, undoubtedly fucked.

If anyone asked Armand about his top three weaknesses, he'd answer without hesitation: Pride, greed, anger. Yes, in that order.

It's good to know such things about yourself in general (his priest would eagerly agree), but it's absolutely necessary to keep them in mind when you're living off deceit and theft. Be honest to yourself, lie to others; screw them over, not yourself. Living a thief's life is easy if you follow these rules.

So, naturally, Armand takes pride in being aware of his weaknesses at all times. 14 hours ago his self-awareness wouldn't even have been up for discussion, it would've been true if he'd said: "I'm easily slighted, I'm insatiable, I'm quick to lash out."

Problem identified, problem avoided, matter solved. The end.

What Armand didn't consider was a turn of events, the reveal of the one weakness he hadn't been aware of in a long time. A weakness that goes by the name of Jean, fucking Jean, a weakness that now that people are knocking on his door, impatiently, rapidly, will cost him his head.

He clenches his teeth, shushes Pedro out, and braces himself for the inevitable. Maybe his defining weakness is, after all, hubris. It's ironic and it's fitting and he can't help but smile self-deprecatingly.

Fucking Jean.

Armand opens the door.

"Sign this and you're free to go."

Armand looks over the statement, not really caring what it says, not caring that someone else has dictated and written it in his name, because it's a better lie than he could've come up with to justify the events of the past night.

The police, an insurance lawyer and the director had sat across him with hyper-polite faces and asked what had happened. Armand told them that he couldn't remember; none of it, but the vague memory of an attack, shock, a seizure, and that he somehow woke up at home. Three pairs of eyes looked at him, seriously, and his now-former-boss told him: "So this is how it offically went down."

That's where the statement comes into play. It's such a carefully constructed lie that it lets him walk unemployed but free, parted amicably from the firm because he kept "medical conditions" hidden from his bosses but with an excellent reputation. He knows, of course he knows that they just want to keep the firm out of the media and protect their own interests, that they would've sacrificed him within the blink of an eye. If they'd had the chance.

That's where the most important detail comes into play. Security footage shows Armand talking to someone in the shadows, opening the safe, getting knocked out; it shows a faceless person taking the painting away as if they had all the time in the world, it shows Armand calling for help through the walkie-talkie, and running. It doesn't show enough to prove that it was a set-up, that Armand and the thief worked as a team.

The footage does show that the Picasso never even left the building, though. Police action over a theft that's never been properly carried out? An embarrassment for all parties involved, an embarrassment better filed away and forgotten.

Fucking Jean, Armand thinks and tries to keep a neutral face. Causing all this drama over nothing after risking the second break-in, that's exactly something Jean would do. Chaos, courage, stupid fucking kid- It dawns on Armand that Jean must be the legendary master thief he'd heard so much about. He almost starts to laugh right then, bites down hard on his bottom lip, and keeps a neutral expression.

"Here, a pen."

Armand doesn't stall signing the papers any longer. He writes his name under the report, and then, suddenly, it's all over. He walks out of the police station and feels like he did when he walked out of the club the night before. Calm yet shaky.

(He visits church that night, late mass. He sits in the last row, makes the sign of the cross, and thinks about his mother. He manages a smile. Maybe all will be okay.)

Even from the street he sees that the lights in his apartment are on. He makes a sound of frustration. Really? Isn't it enough already? He tries to fight it, but uneasiness settles in Armand's stomach as he goes up the stairs. He fears that maybe Jonathan has kept a key and let himself in, demanding more of a thank you for helping out with the Picasso than a surprise stay over. The thought makes him sick and angry. He shouldn't have involved him, he should've let the thief, Jean, he should've let Jean go.

Fuck. Preparing himself for the worst, Armand steps into the apartment. He's not prepared. He's not prepared to see Jean sitting at the table and petting Pedro's head like it's the most natural thing to happen. No mask, no black clothes, no shadows, it's Jean in the light, his hair a mess, cane leaning against his bad leg, an effortless smile on his lips. It doesn't completely fade when he looks at Armand, it just gets smaller, more guarded. He's the same Jean he was back in the snow, back at the graveyard, just taller, less soft, less boy-ish.

Armand closes the door behind himself. Breathes. In, out, in, out. He doesn't know what to say, he should feel violated, with his privacy invaded like that, with his goddamn cat's affection stolen, but he finds himself not minding.

"You should get a better lock," is all Jean says. He stops petting Pedro.

"A better lock wouldn't have kept you out, either." Armand sounds cold, it's his go-to intonation, it's how he's always talked to Jean, and somehow that makes it real, makes it bad, makes it hurt. He pinches the bride of his nose. "Why did you do it?" Meaning, why did you leave that fucking painting behind when you literally could've walked away with it?

Jean looks at him, shrugs. "Why did you do it?" Meaning, why did you literally hand me the painting and made me hit you?

Armand huffs out a breath. "How did you do it? All this…?"

"Would you ask me this if I wasn't a cripple?" Jean's voice isn't angry, it's not even annoyed, it's just… disappointed. He takes his cane, gets up, and takes a few slow steps closer. "Look, Armand, I'm sorry I targeted your firm. And I'm sorry I broke in here. I didn't seek you out on purpose, but when you were there, I guess I hoped it would be…" He smiles sadly. "But it isn't."

Armand is suddenly taken back to the day their parents were buried, when he'd walked away from Jean, letting him believe he hated him, blamed him, and now Jean walks by him, and he doesn't tell him to wait, that he's sorry, sorry for the years of silence, sorry for abandoning him, sorry for everything. He just stands still and lets it happen.

"Goodbye, Armand." And then, just like that, Jean is gone.

(And just like that Armand finds himself alone with that special brand of guilt again: The guilt that is having failed, the guilt of still failing Jean.)