AN: This started as a funny conversation between a friend and I about what cookies Rusty sent Danny and became a niggling question of if Danny would have issues with touch after leaving prison. Not in the sense of those who never get any kind of touch whether positive or negative, but touch that has no expectation behind it.

I noticed that everyone else is comfortable touching each other in the film except him (besides the times he's cozy with Tess). Danny hasn't had a lot of positive touch that's just because he's cared about, valued over his skill set or money—until now.

Bon appetite!

"You don't get it, do you?"

They're driving around in a convertible at night, and Danny can still taste macaroni and bacon at the back of his molars, from the late-night diner they just left. Why Rusty eats at greasy spoons when he can afford Michelin star restaurants is beyond Danny but he's grateful, since he only had a crumpled ten dollar bill in his tux pocket. He refused to let Rusty cover the cheque.

They're driving around in a convertible at night, and the dichotomy of that suddenly sums up a lot of the insanity that is Danny's life. Putting on a show with no one to watch. Going fast through the darkness of somewhere he doesn't know.

"Get what? The…?"

"Yeah," says Rusty.

"I told you. My cellmate loved 'em too."

"Nuts not too nutty?"

Wisps of hair lining Danny's forehead flare on cool LA breezes. A few tickle his skin when they land. "Nah, he and I liked the 'nice crunch.'"

"Crunch is important."

"That's what I said."

Rusty grins at him askance. "But you don't get it."

"The cookies were macadamia nut." Danny tips an invisible hat at a motorcycle cop as they pass, just because he can. Small indulgences are important like that. "Had a nice dough to crunch ratio and were a dusting of sugar without being too sweet."

"Taste familiar?"

Danny blinks when the car slows at a stoplight. He takes the opportunity to look across at his friend. Rusty is thinner than last Danny laid eyes on him, cheekbones at a steeper convex to match lines of weariness and boredom around his mouth. The shirt's top two buttons are undone beneath the tie, chic and pushing at boundaries as always.

His eyes though. They're brighter than ever, probably at having a friend around again. One who actually gets the life running underneath their day to day humdrum.

Red—to green.

And right when Rusty's foot hits the accelerator, Danny gets it. He waggles a finger. "Checchi's Bakery. Open…"

"…Twenty four hours a day," Rusty finishes, "but only on Wednesday through Saturday."

They laugh over the babble of the engine. Streetlamps pulse in flares across the car's hood.

"Our first job together."

"Checchi hid us in the back," Danny remembers.

They'd run out of the jewellery store in blind panic, to a bakery across the street. Alberto Checchi took one look at the scraggly con artist rookies and stuck the pair in a walk-in pantry. Rusty had eaten some mud cookies left out to dry on a shelf. His favourite cookie flavour.

"They still…?"

"Amelia's gone."

"Ah, shame. Funeral?"

"It was five months ago. I went."

"You sent some, I hope."

"Yellow carnations, just like she loved."

"That's nice." Danny plays with the wedding ring around his finger. Twisting. Spinning. He hasn't adjusted to the pull and tug of it again after so long in the joint. "Hope you gave Checchi my condolences and best wishes."

"Of course."

They leave a moment of silence for the late Mrs. Checchi, with fond smiles of memory, and then Rusty slings the wheel. "So. You started with…?"

"Didn't I tell you I came to your first?"

"Danny."

"Fine, I went to see Frank. He's the best."

"Plus we need him for whatever crackpot job you've cooked up."

"There is that."

~OL~

They get the team together a heck of a lot faster than Danny expects. Prison is good for copious amounts of time to think, if nothing else. He made back up lists of people for the back up list, just in case these ones say no or drop out. And boy does he have a lot of experience with people dropping out, being left to take responsibility, drenched and alone facing the cops.

But somehow all nine say yes to this outlandish proposal and don't bat an eye at the risk. Three casinos in one night. Potential risk of going to prison until their heads are gray.

'Eh, no big deal,' seems to be the general consensus.

"Should be fun," Linus tacks on after the plan is laid out, like this is a vacation. The younger group nods in agreement.

Their respect for Danny and cheeky admiration when interacting with Rusty don't surprise either a lick. Danny has the ambiguous privilege of being a slight 'name' in this business and Rusty is just plain savant at making friends.

It's the way they take to each other that startles him a little.

Saul and Reuben are standoffish at first, set in their ways like most old con men are expected to be, though united through a common desire. It's predictable, easy, greased by excitement over the prospect of all that money.

Then one night in the warehouse, Turk approaches Saul. "Uh, I can't, uh—"

"Slower," Saul barks. He's been working on the practice vault with them until he has to go undercover, currently stacking boxes. Gentler, he adds, "Sometimes it's hard trying to get everything out at once."

The young man nods. He glances around to check if they're relatively alone; neither notices Danny in the shadowed corner, adding up vehicle costs on a spare receipt. His tiny golf pencil scratches at the wax paper. The rest have gone out for a late supper other than Yen, practicing backflips in the 'vault,' and Livingston who times him with a stopwatch.

It's rare to see the twins apart, which is likely the point.

Turk reddens a smidge, just enough for Danny's eyes to catch in the dim light.

"I can't…" Turk digs something crème and crumpled out of his pocket. "Don't know how."

Saul stares at it, blank. Then his eyes widen to the point that lashes brush the top rim of his glasses. "Is this a joke, kid? Cause it's not very funny."

"Nope."

"You've never learned?"

"Sort of. Not really." Turk rolls his shoulders in a figure-eight motion. Forced nonchalance.

"What about weddings? You come from a large extended family."

"Dad wasn't around much to teach us this kind of…stuff."

"Your brother?"

Turk's mouth pinches into itself on one side. "He doesn't know."

And that's the most shocking thing in this entire heist so far. They're practically telepathic, as siblings go. Turk or Virgil keeping anything from each other is almost a skillset unto its own.

Saul's eyes lose some of their tension and he strokes Turk's forearm roughly with a wrinkled paw. "Clip ons?"

"They won't work if we're to pose as your security detail."

"No, they certainly won't," says Saul. "Benedict will see right through that."

"Promise you won't tell?"

Saul runs a forefinger and thumb across his lips. "It will be our little secret. Now. How much have you figured out?"

Turk loops the tie around his neck and executes the sloppiest half Windsor knot Danny's seen in his life. "Something about a rabbit."

"No, no, no." Saul bats Turk's hands away from the silk tie. "Your proportions are all wrong."

"Proportions?" Turk looks lost, an odd expression on the normally cock-sure man.

"You have to loop it far enough around that only a slight tail will remain at the back of the tie, not hang down past the main diagonal bias cut."

Saul uses a lot of other fancy words even Danny doesn't know but his hands carefully tie the knot once. After he loosens it, he walks Turk's hands through the process a few times.

There is none of the impatience Saul is famous for, none of the backbiting or even jokes at Turk's expense, a grown man in his early twenties who can't tie a tie. The two have had a quirky kinship from the get-go.

For five quiet, dare Danny say it—tranquil—minutes, Saul helps Turk figure it out. Simple as that.

And Saul is quite a good teacher. He's got some key words that he says in a rhythm, "Over, under, down behind. Good, do it again," and after four attempts, Turk can do it by himself.

He flushes again, this time from delight at a decent knot he tied himself. "That's not bad!"

Saul chuckles. "Now you look like a security professional to a millionaire."

"Thanks, Saul."

"Don't mention it, please. It's bad for my health."

Turk glances up and sees the sparkling eyes, grinning along. Danny finds himself stiff now that the instructional part of this interaction is over, because…

Because what?

Danny frowns at himself and stays perfectly still, to keep from being noticed. He waits for Turk to pull out a wallet or help Saul with something in return.

But all Turk does is tap Saul's hand, now back on his arm, and leave with a wave. The tap doesn't seem to mean anything. It's not a silent request like he and Russ do. It's not a promise of future pain like prisoners did to each other during exercise hour in the yard. Saul parts ways with a decline of Turk's offer to go out to eat, saying he needs to get ready for tomorrow.

Even after Yen and Livingston leave, off with Turk to get some Lebanese food down the road, Danny stays in the shadows.

He doesn't move for a long time. Long after his feet go numb and the pencil feels cold between his fingers.

~OL~

"Is it viable?"

"It's not on a network connection." Livingston circles his hands. Rusty plants a bowl of teriyaki in one of them, chopsticks already tangled in the noodles. Another goes to Reuben, currently 'napping' on the couch. "But it is closed circuit."

Danny shifts in his seat at the island next to the tech. "So no outside cameras."

"Oh no, of course I've got access to outside cameras. Give me a minute."

A computer sits on the island counter top, battered at the edges from too many years in an FBI truck. Livingston types into it one handed, holding out the bowl to Danny with the other. Slowly, Danny takes it. He sets the bowl down away from himself with only a slight furrow of his brows. Steam loops into the air.

"No, Danny." Livingston stops typing and looks up, all big eyes and tight curls. "It's for you to eat. Lunch is an important meal too."

"Eat?"

Rusty waltzes by and sing songs—"that's what you do with food."

"Shut up, Russ."

"Love you too, Domino Danny."

Reuben perks up and opens his eyes. "Domino?"

Danny sighs. "Don't ask."

"Closed circuit just means only in the building," Livingston explains over the banter. "I can't hack into it from an internet connection."

"So long as we have outside cameras, we're good. Then we can time Benedict's coming and going in his car."

Livingston doesn't respond right away. His eyes are intense, where they flip from the screen to the bowl—and all for Danny. He says it again, "The teriyaki is yours. You've got to eat it."

"What, are you buttering me up for something, Dell?"

"…Buttering?"

"A raise?" Danny asks, tone dry. "Bigger cut for your share?"

Livingston's eyes get bigger, if possible. "I don't want anything from you, Danny. You just haven't eaten yet today. It's worrisome."

Danny startles at the concern, in that his version of startling is to lean back a hair and slide one heel out from where it's propped on the stool's lower bar. He had no idea the others took such notice of his habits or movements.

"That's what I've been telling him for years," says Rusty. "Prison food isn't the best either."

Reuben apparently feels obligated to chime in. "You really don't eat enough, Domino."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, Rusty. Ocean's skin and bones."

Danny scowls. "You're all fired."

Livingston has the nerve to cackle.

~OL~

The room smells like spicy rice, see.

Rusty made himself some this morning for breakfast from the never-ending supply he stashed somewhere. It might as well be a pocket of time dilation—none of the crew can find where he stores bags upon bags of it and this isn't the biggest of hotel suites. Danny's money is on Rusty being in cahoots with Yen to hide it in the vents. Not to mention it's a niche brand of Chinese rice that's hard to buy even in the hedonistic chaos of Las Vegas.

So the room smells of spices and rice, even hours after it was microwaved, and the couch fabric is prickly from a seam coming apart along its back, and out in the hallway some stag party is just now breaking up, despite it being eleven in the morning.

"It's going to be bloody rotten to time."

Basher's voice is the cherry on top of an odd sensation symphony soaking through Danny's pores like cheesecloth.

Frank answers with a hum at first.

There's a rustle of silk shirt when he leans forward to tap the Vegas map in Basher's hand. "Maybe if you park the pinch across the road instead of out back, it'll have a better range for the whole strip. It'll get less attention, that's for sure. We can set an alarm."

Danny stands on Basher's right, Frank to his left, so he's bookended between them. They're behind the couch where Basher can brace the laminate map on its upholstered back. Their shoulders brush against each other with every shift and weight change from one leg to the other.

Danny keenly feels every single touch, no matter how faint.

"We've been over this," he says, mainly to cover the fact he's fixated on the smell of rice and missed the last thirty seconds of conversation. "Let them time the EM pulse from upstairs rather than Basher guessing it."

"Livingston?" Frank asks, leaning around Basher to make eye contact.

"Exactly. He can time it to the second from here, having a direct line to our earpieces in the elevator shaft."

Frank nods. "Makes sense."

"Parking pass?" Basher suggests.

"That's an ace idea." Frank snaps his fingers. "It would allow you to park in any lot Benedict owns, near any of his hotels. I'll see if I can get a spare pass for the van."

He and Basher share a quick, honest-to-God fist bump. Unbelievable.

Frank departs with more humming, this time an old Mardi Gras tune Danny can't remember the name of. It fades away towards the front door, then out and down the hall.

"Thanks for this, Danny." Basher folds the map and tucks it back into his pocket. He doesn't move right away, which strikes Danny as anomalous for the normally animated man; he and Livingston share a fidgety quality that way, though manifested in different styles.

Instead, Basher inhales a very deep breath that threatens to pop a button on the waistcoat underneath his duster and sighs it out with a decidedly satisfied expression. It's not quite a smile, but his eyes roam the living room, complete with the twins' dirty laundry draped over the coffee table and more of Rusty's empty plates sitting everywhere, and looks proud. As if Basher beholds a vault he cracked by hand.

"For what?" Danny finally prompts.

"For being a good egg." Basher doesn't get as lost in his own reverie as Danny did and turns to him with a full grin this time. "I was on the dockin' ropes before Rusty what came 'round with this offer. Feels better than I thought to 'ave people backin' your every move, you know?"

Danny does, but he can't quite verbalize this. He settles for a patron's nod.

"If somefin' goes wrong, I know you'll help me out of it."

"Always." Danny replies immediately, because the thought of leaving any of them out to dry or take the fall for this job—besides himself, of course—is abhorrent. He doesn't want any of them thinking he'd do such a thing. Not even for a second.

Basher claps him on the shoulder. "It's been a Sunday picnic working wiv' you. Good eggs you chaps are, and fair too. Even if this job goes belly up, I'm down for a beer with you anytime."

And just like that he's gone. Off to work on this caper that feels like a one in a million shot, even after so many months of planning inside an eight-by-eight cell. Like it's just another week and this is just another job.

Danny stands motionless for a minute, after he's left alone in the hotel suite. A strange thing with so many people coming and going.

Where Basher touched him, the contact point feels like a subdued firework flare in the background of a larger one, incendiary flashes trapped by surprised nerve endings. Hot sparks burn something hesitant underneath his skin.

The room smells like spices and old carpet and aftershave and Danny is rendered frozen for a full two minutes. Senses dial high in an effort to make sense of it all. He is Danny Ocean and all he can do is stand. Cold sweat breaks out along his neck.

The world is a place he understands, those eons old motivators like money and power and position.

But people.

He thought he knew people. Money is the bond holding this crew together. Money equals loyalty. That's how he ran the plans in his head during a stint in solitary, and those are the rules governing his life. Especially in a career like his.

Now…he's never been less sure. Basher and the others make it sound like they'll still be his friend even if this job is a royal disaster, rather than killing him slowly in his sleep like he expected.

What does someone want when they don't want anything from you?

His shoulder tingles the whole day.