The one thing more annoying than chasing Sly Cooper is actually catching him.
Oh, it's an easy thing to forget. In the few short years since first crossing his path, a definite pattern has emerged. When ninety percent of her pursuits end with Carmelita stuck on a rooftop or falling in a river or handcuffed to a volcano, rage and frustration become powerful motivators. Not next time, she tells herself; next time, she'll get her hands on that smirking thief.
And then, the other ten percent, she actually does. And the quiet euphoria of victory is soon buried under his chatter.
"I'm gonna file a complaint, y'know."
Tonight, he's being a sore loser.
"Gonna take this all the way to the top. Don't think I won't."
Normally, he's flirtatious. Other times, he opts for smug mystery, only sharing cryptic comments and revelling in his irritating enigmas.
"Bet there'll be a big media circus. I'll become a folk hero. More than I already am."
But tonight, it seems like she genuinely got in the way of something. Getting arrested wasn't part of his plan. Nor, she suspects, was stepping on a rotting plank of wood and crashing through a roof face-first.
"Probably build me a statue."
It had been less of an arrest and more of a gentle scraping off the floor.
"And make a movie about it. More than one."
And now he's sitting in the passenger seat of her car, handcuffed wrists awkwardly twisted so he can fold his arms and sulk like the child he is.
"I could play myself. I'm handsome enough for Hollywood."
He hasn't sustained any physical injuries, but the wound to his ego is obvious. He glares out the window and his rich voice, while typically ceaseless, is low.
"Doesn't even matter what the judge rules, honestly. I know the public's on my side."
It's going to be a long drive.
"Honestly. In this day and age? A hate crime this brazen? I expect better from you."
Her ear flicks. Legal terminology catches her attention and she zones back in, though her eyes stay on the road. "'Hate crime'?"
"Oh, so you are listening."
Carmelita is far too invested in proper procedure to ignore a claim like that. "What are you objecting to, exactly?"
"All of it."
She sighs. "Let's recap… I receive intelligence that you're in the area and find you while on patrol. You run, I follow, same as always. I catch up when you…"
Carmelita shoots him a quick glance. The temptation to rub failure in his face is fleeting. He looks beaten enough.
"…lose your momentum," she says, tactfully. "I restrain you, read you your rights, and offer you first aid, which you decline. I then lead you to my vehicle and begin driving to the nearest Interpol facility. I'll ask again; at what point did I infringe on your rights?" Her voice is crisp - she has difficulty softening it, on the job or otherwise - so she adds a clarification. "I'm not being rhetorical. I take my job seriously, and would never intend to cause you unnecessary harm."
"Right, right," drawls Sly. "Being a cop is just about the necessary harm."
For a moment, he threatens to sink back into moody silence. But then he speaks again.
"You know what day it is?"
"September 23rd," she says, easily recalling her desk calendar. It had been set to the 22nd when she last saw it, of course. She's very used to working long into the night. Any fox in any uniform tends to get the night shift.
"Wrong. Well, yes. But more importantly," he says, "my birthday."
Carmelita rolls her eyes. "I see. That doesn't count, Cooper."
"It should. The moment we passed midnight, my special day began. And now you've ruined it. I'm gonna be late to my own party! Plus, I'm meant to visit my parents on the way… It's a personal affront. An insult."
Aren't his parents dead? Carmelita decides against pulling that thread. If he's joking, there's no point challenging him. If he isn't…
"So that alone is grounds to get you fired-"
"It is not."
"-but that's not even all today is."
He draws himself up, mustering all the dignity available to a man who recently bounced his nose off of some ancient floorboards. Carmelita sighs internally and readies herself for some obscure, asinine holiday.
"September 23rd is also Bisexual Visibility Day."
Her dry remark, pre-prepared, dies in her throat. "It… what?"
"I'm actually not one hundred percent clear on the middle word?" Sly doesn't notice how she misses a beat. "Pretty sure it's Visibility. Might be Awareness. Or maybe Celebration. But it's definitely Bisexual Something Day and I," he concludes, casually, "am bisexual."
"Oh."
"…And you've arrested a bisexual person on Bisexual Something Day and his birthday. So you're the one who belongs in jail. No question."
He finally notices the change in the usual rhythm. Their banter is usually fast and relentless. Verbal tennis. Now the ball keeps rolling lamely back to him under the net.
"Carmelita?"
"I didn't know," she says.
His expression is still guarded - still sour - but it becomes more thoughtful. When he speaks, it's slower. Cautious. "Is that a problem?"
"No," she says distractedly, eyes on the road. "I can't know everything about you, and this is hardly relevant to your criminal file, so it's not-"
"I meant… is me being bisexual a problem? For you?"
Carmelita yelps.
He has never heard her yelp before. Growls and grunts and other sounds a dignified, professional woman might make while plowing through a fence. But never something so… vulnerable. It's like he jabbed her in the side with a fork. She's now fully back in the car, and the conversation. Ears tall and eyes wide.
"No! No. Definitely not. I'm sorry if I gave you that impression."
Sly pauses for a second.
Then he bursts out laughing.
Normally, she would try to shut him up. But she lets him have his moment, and he settles down quickly.
"Wow," he says. "So under all that Inspector Fox ice, there's a normal person after all."
"Of course," she snaps, a level of her usual anger returning. But not all the way. It's not an 'of course' thing at all, is it? There's every chance he's been met before with surprise or disbelief or invasive questions or… worse.
She wonders what the quote-unquote 'criminal community' is like on this issue. Are they more accepting? Less? Living a life without oversight could go either way, she thinks. There are codes of honour, allegedly, but definitely no HR department. Freedom to be whatever you want. Freedom to scream whatever you want in the faces of others.
Carmelita, of course, only knows the other side. The conversations she's overheard at Interpol, between officers who consider themselves good, decent, hard-working, normal people. Carmelita is a woman, and Latina, and a fox. In her short time as an Inspector, she has gained a lot of experience holding her ground against 'normal' opinions.
But something about this issue in particular always makes her…
She clears her throat. She's on unfamiliar ground, and takes a very unfamiliar route. "Um, Sly…"
"Um Carmelita?"
"Do you want to…" Good god, she's really doing this. "…talk more? About that?"
His answer is slow. "Do you want to hear more?"
"It's…" She misses being annoyed at him. It's a lot more comfortable than this tightrope. "You sounded genuinely upset. I know you were joking, but," she says, with an honesty that surprises her, "I can tell. I'll say it again; my goal is to see justice is done, not to harm you. So if something about the… bisexuality day made you uncomfortable, if," she adds, miserably self-aware, "I am making you uncomfortable right now, please. Uh. Tell me."
Another pause. She braces herself for him to laugh at her again, and the embarrassment that would bring. But, while he does laugh, it's a breezy chuckle. Quiet. Friendly. "Oh, 'Lita…"
Maybe a little too friendly, but she's in no position to reprimand him.
"Don't sweat it, alright? Yeah, I'm annoyed. But mostly because you ruined my birthday." The cuffs jingle as he points an accusatory finger. "Don't think you're off the hook for that…"
He settles back into his seat, relaxed.
"But it also being Bisexual Whatever Day was just me muttering out loud. Honest."
Those hazel eyes settle on her. Not for the first time, that playful glimmer gives way to something much more perceptive. Not for the first time, Carmelita curses the fact that Sly Cooper is a lot smarter than he acts.
"If anybody's uncomfortable here, it's clearly you, Inspector."
From 'Lita' right back to 'Inspector'. That shouldn't worry her, but it does. It feels very, very strange to be this speechless around him, but she's got no snarled threats or dry retorts tonight. She feels too frozen to even nod or shake her head. Probably because she doesn't know which one to pick.
Sly waits for a reply, and when none comes, he begins to think aloud. "But at the same time, you did ask me to tell you more… that implies you're good-uncomfortable, not bad-uncomfortable, if that makes any sense, which it almost definitely doesn't." He smiles. "As much as I love hearing your voice, you don't need to say anything if you don't want to."
A prouder part of Carmelita hates herself for feeling relief; for accepting a lifeline, however small, from her target. But that part of her doesn't seem to be much help here. Eyes on the road, she nods. A semblance of professionalism.
That rich voice keeps rolling on. "I always did wonder how you'd react, y'know. Or even when it'd come up. Our little chats are all too brief and infrequent." She can hear the smirk in his voice. "It goes without saying that your opinion is very important to me."
Carmelita is grateful she is driving, and has an ironclad excuse not to look at his face. She doesn't trust herself to see his smile. Not until she has a firm grip on herself again.
This is so embarrassing. It always has been, from the moment she noticed the signs. Going out of her way to take on every case with Cooper's fingerprint. Wrapping up her other duties quickly (though with typical diligence) to focus on him. Reacting with uncharacteristic ang- well, uncharacteristic defensiveness to the Very Funny Jokes that her fellow officers sometimes made about her obsession with Sly Cooper.
In short, overinvestment in a specific criminal. And his smirking face and pretty hazel eyes.
And now, the problem has a new layer. He's right about one thing - they don't talk much. A string of retorts shouted back and forth, rooftop to rooftop, perhaps once a month. Less. It shouldn't be surprising that they've never discussed something so personal.
It shouldn't be surprising.
Carmelita tries to be objective in all things. This should have no bearing on their relationship - because, she is quick to remind herself, they don't have a relationship. They are arrest-er and arrest-ee. Nothing more. So she doesn't even need to think about this. Absolutely no input or opinion is required from her. This would only be pertinent information if she thought about him in that way. If that one outrageous kiss on a Russian volcano had meant anything to her. If she has unprofessional thoughts about Sly Cooper.
She sighs. Loudly.
"Penny for your thoughts…?"
Sly's voice is still low and smooth, but she's starting to detect the tension creeping in. She catches herself. First, she tripped over herself to avoid making him uncomfortable - then she lapsed into a long, dark silence. She's doing a great job of making this as weird for him as possible.
She isn't sure where to go from here. But when Carmelita is unsure of herself, she doesn't let it slow her down. Just pick a point and start working.
"First off, I want to thank you for telling me."
"Oh." Her genuine tone catches him off-guard. "You're welcome…?"
"And let me know if I ever do or say anything that does upset you. On that front. I…"
She hesitates. She would normally be loath to admit this, and once she does, there's no undoing it. He'll hold this over her head forever. She knows he will.
But they're already being open. That deserves to be rewarded in kind. So she offers him a small smile, knowing the road ahead is safe. "…I would hate for 'our little chats' to hit a sour note. That's all."
She could've predicted his reaction, beat for beat. A glimpse of surprise, then a wave of joy - both smoothly contained, in short order, by an absolutely insufferable smirk. "I knew it."
"Hush."
"You do like our arguments. You like me!"
"Hush, I said," she repeats, with a bit more bite in her tone. He can't be like this once they finally reach Interpol.
God, this boy will be the death of her.
Sly settles back in his seat, quietly triumphant. Any misgivings are more than dispelled. It seems like she's made his night.
"You've made my night," he purrs. "Well, almost. This doesn't quite count as a birthday present, I think, but… I'm very grateful anyway."
Carmelita sighs. "…I'm glad."
Maybe it can end there. Sly gets a victory, she gets some peace and quiet. She delivers him to a jail cell, he breaks out as soon as his brothers find him. Just another night among many.
But something is nagging at her. Maybe it's just the fact that they're unlikely to ever talk about this again. What, will she work it into her threats of arrest the next time he shouts to her from a rooftop? They're alone here. They still have time to kill. And Sly, relaxed and smiling, seems open to further questions.
"What's it like?"
"Huh?"
She fights off a blush. There were definitely better questions.
She's not sure why it slipped out of her. She's normally far more controlled, or at least more reserved. But she asked, and she's too proud to pretend she didn't.
"I'm just…" One word at a time. "Curious."
"Curious."
"That's what I said."
"About what it's like to be bi?"
"Yes."
He smirks. "There's a word for that."
God in heaven. She sinks a little closer to the steering wheel.
He waits a beat or two, but no further reaction to his little joke is offered. Sly keeps talking - after privately committing that moment to memory. "Well, I don't know what to tell you. Nor, sadly, do I have any tantalizing tales of-"
"I did not ask for that," says Carmelita, quick and low. "I just mean in - in general."
"Right." He drags out the word. He's dragging out all of this, clearly enjoying himself. "It's just what it sounds like. Some people might have a particular preference - I'm pretty sure I lean towards women, for instance - but 'in general', it's exactly-"
"'Pretty sure'?" Carmelita raises an eyebrow. "How can you only be 'pretty sure'? It's your own head. If you don't know, who does?"
There's another little pause. Carmelita realizes she probably sounded too sharp, but she wouldn't let a statement like that go unchallenged normally. The best way to put him at ease might be to just act like herself.
It works. Sort of. He laughs.
"Oh wow, seriously?" He bounces back from her interruption livelier than ever. "I don't know why I was ever in doubt… of course you'd react like this."
"Like what?"
"Like the lovably rigid Interpol inspector you are."
His tone is warm, even humorous. But she knows he means every word.
"Whatever else you might be, you are a woman of binary thinking. No wonder you'd struggle with something more fluid. Something that doesn't fit into a box. How many times have we had the same discussion? The way you think there are only two kinds of people in the world… law-abiding citizens, and criminals…"
"I feel like you're talking down to me right now," she says, "but yes."
"But that's not the only supposed binary, right? Men and women. Adults and children. The right-handed and the left-handed…"
She can tell he's gearing up to his punchline.
"…and normal people and freaks. Right?"
"No!" She doesn't yelp this time - there's more defensive outrage to ground her. "Of course not! I don't think that about you, Sly."
"Or you didn't? Until now?"
She feels her hands grip the steering wheel a little tighter. Where's this coming from? His tone hasn't changed, not superficially, but he's relentless. She can tell he wants an answer.
Because, she realizes, her opinion is very important to him.
She takes a moment. Carmelita Fox does not sugarcoat. Neither does she lie. "I… My perception of you might've changed tonight, I'll admit. This is a major detail, and I didn't have an inkling of it before now." Her voice remains steady. Inspector Fox is back. "But it's hardly relevant, is it? If you keep stealing, I'll keep chasing you. That's all there is to it."
There's no reply. She can feel his eyes still on her, so he's waiting for more. What more can she say? The more she talks, the more likely it is she'll make another mistake. And having to think about that forces her, in turn, to wonder why that notion terrifies her. Her feelings on Sly were already confusing. Now this…
But she doesn't let her uncertainty show. And if she doesn't want to hurt the feelings of this thief - who, she reminds herself, saved her life at least once - maybe that isn't the worst instinct. "And, Sly…"
"Yeah?"
"I don't…" Was this the right phrasing? Was it backhanded somehow? Just say it already! "I don't think less of you. If that's your concern."
There's another pause. But Carmelita is filled with an embarrassing relief when he nods. "Good," he says.
He's not normally that succinct.
A few moments pass in silence. Not a heavy silence, but not wholly comfortable either. Carmelita knows they still aren't close to their destination.
"After all," she says suddenly, "nothing you do could make me think less of you."
"What?"
She smirks out the windscreen. "My opinion of you can't get any lower."
There's a half-second's silence - and then Sly bursts out laughing. "Oh, of course! How could I forget?"
It occurs to her that she doesn't often hear him laugh. Fully laugh, that is, not just a wry little chuckle. Getting this reaction out of him fills her with what seems suspiciously like pride.
"That's good to know. May as well admit to everything, right?"
"You have the right to remain silent - as I so often remind you - but you can waive it, too."
"I could just confess everything. Did you know I also used to steal cookies when I was eight?"
"Scandalous," she declares, fervent yet deadpan. It earns another laugh.
He trails off with a shake of his head. "I'll never get tired of these little moments," he murmurs.
She won't either. The realization settles in, followed by embarrassment and then even a mild panic. She should draw herself up and order him to be quiet. Reassert the natural order. The inspector and her criminal.
But she doesn't want that. Can't she enjoy his company, just for a little while, before she's back in view of her colleagues? The thought is bizarre, but intuitive. And appealing.
She steals another glance at him. Lounging in the seat beside her, unperturbed by his restraints. Smiling absently at the night sky. Her criminal. She arrests a lot of people, often because of his involvement. But none of those other criminals are 'hers'.
Maybe, she concedes, he was onto something. She does not look down on him (at least, not for this) - that wasn't a lie. But maybe, now that she really gives it due thought, this new information may have… moved him into a different mental box, so to speak. It's not like she was ever going to take him out to dinner. The idea is absurd. But Sly Cooper just became a little more unavailable. Even more unavailable. That's all.
…Hasn't he?
Carmelita isn't well-versed in these things. But this is the twenty-first century, now, and even a child can grasp the basic meaning of the term. Sly did not casually reveal, in the passenger seat of her squad car, that he was gay. He said he was bi. He said he even leaned toward women.
In a very real way, what Inspector C. Montoya Fox has been haughtily growling was true all along. This revelation doesn't really change things between them.
She's exactly where she was.
A crackle in her ear interrupts her thoughts. There's no radio installed in this vehicle, so the bulletin comes in via her Interpol earpiece instead.
Sly watches with interest. He hears the tinny voice in her ear, though he can't make out the words. His eyes linger on her face as the news comes in.
"Everything alright?"
Carmelita waits for the transmission to end before replying. "Do you really think I'm going to share logistical information with a criminal?"
"I really think I asked nicely," he replies, eyes wide with mock hurt. Back to play-acting. Understandably enough, she realizes - she went back to businesslike iciness herself, without even noticing.
The usual rhythm is reinstated. But now with a new addition.
"Bet I can guess what it was," he says. "News I've been awaiting for a long, long time."
"Oh?" Dry. Feigning disinterest.
"You're finally getting an assistant," he says. "An apprentice, that Interpol is thrusting into your care because of the obvious similarities. Also a fox. Also a young, attractive prodigy. And he also," he declares, "has a taste for crop tops."
"…I see."
"I've always said more men should wear crop tops. Not often, I grant you. Doesn't tend to come up in conversation naturally. But if it does, my position is very clear."
"It is. Yes."
"…So," he says. "Am I right?"
"Never."
"It wasn't that?"
"No."
"Next time," he says firmly, as though promising himself. "Maybe this time next year. In time for my next birthday." He looses another sigh. "My nearest un-ruined birthday…"
She knows he's being dramatic. She knows he's playing up his emotions to garner sympathy and for his own amusement, and she knows - very very well - that he will seize the slightest concession with both hands.
But this solid, steady, bedrock knowledge has a lot of confusing new neighbours encroaching on its territory. Because she also knows that, since she didn't catch him in the midst of an ongoing case, his arrest will need to be processed through every outstanding warrant from every irritated country in a bureaucratic free-for-all. She knows this will take at least thirty-six hours to properly resolve. She knows that is more than enough time for him to escape.
She also knows - and this is perhaps the oddest thing gnawing at her - that it would still ruin his birthday.
And then there's the even bigger worry; the things she doesn't know. She doesn't know why this conversation has thrown her so much. She doesn't know why all she wants to do is find a café that's still open and just sit down with him and talk. She doesn't know what she wants to ask him, and she doesn't know what answers she wants to hear. Above all, she doesn't know why such a blatant disregard of her duty sounds so, so tempting.
Carmelita settles on a compromise. It doesn't feel right to her, but then again, she's not sure anything will.
Sly's drifted into a comfortable silence. (Contemplating crop tops, no doubt.) But he rouses himself when Carmelita pulls over. They're on an empty road just outside of town. The city lights twinkle at her knowingly, as though urging her on. It is, to be blunt, little comfort.
"Listen up, Sly."
"Listening," he murmurs. "Definitely listening."
"I was taking you to the only fully-secure Interpol facility in the region. But that bulletin I got a minute ago was to inform local officers that there was a power outage. All the security is offline."
His eyes light up, but not with thoughts of escape. "Is it-?"
"It's not a deliberate attack from some high-level criminal gang, no."
"Are you sure?"
"A cockroach fell into a major junction box."
"A trained cockroach?"
"Sly."
It's unsurprising that he's immediately back to his banter. No, the surprising thing here is herself. She thought she would stumble through these words. But they flow easily enough, backed with credible Inspector Fox solidity.
"Just forget about it," she says. "Even if it was some major emergency, and it isn't, I wouldn't ask for your help."
"Because you worry about the gossip?"
"Constantly," she snaps, not humorously enough to hide the truth of it. "That, and…"
There are few things that can dent Sly Cooper's terrible smirk. But one method is foolproof. Carmelita calmly unbuckles her seatbelt and leans over.
Instantly, he tenses - not in fear, but in unready anticipation. She can feel the warmth of his body in the enclosed space, and sees him shift under her. Surprised, but very open for her lips to align to his.
Wishful thinking, as ever. But he has a similarly awestruck reaction when, with a muted click, she undoes the handcuffs.
"…it's your birthday." She smiles, without drawing back. "I'm sorry for putting you off schedule, but you can still catch up, right?"
She expects him to bounce back to his usual self. But the moment drags. He stares at her, eyes wide. Genuine. "Carmelita…"
If he won't reassert the normal rhythm, she will. Or she'll try, at least. "Don't misunderstand," she says, pulling away. A safer distance from those eyes. "I will not make a habit of this. I just don't want to go through the trouble of transporting you another hundred kilometers to the next Interpol prison."
The words sound hollow, even to her. Sly isn't fooled, and he doesn't offer her the courtesy of pretending to be. "This isn't like you."
"It's not. So you shouldn't give me any reason to change my mind."
But he doesn't relent. "No, like… this really isn't like you. You take your job way too seriously to just let me go and clock out early. You're not some second-rate doughnut-muncher! That's the whole reason I…!"
He trails off. And that perceptive little gleam returns.
"…The whole reason I'm interested in you. And value your opinion. And would tell you very personal facts about myself."
There's a strange reversal of roles as he sizes her up, trying to deduce her crime. A part of her finds it almost thrilling.
"You only show leniency if I do something big. Like kill an unkillable metal bird-monster. But all we've done is talk, which would mean," he says, his words slowing down, "that maybe something I've said tonight… resonated."
"I don't know what you mean," says Carmelita calmly, while internally she is gripping herself the hardest she can ever remember.
Sly nods. "If you say so. I'm not going to pry, or make any assumptions. After all…" Finally, that smirk returns. Carmelita never thought she'd be relieved to see it, but right now, it's as welcome as the sunrise. "…it's your head. If you don't know, who does?"
He says it like a joke, but all she can do is nod. At this point, she's just waiting for him to leave. She needs to get a head-start on regretting this decision, before she considers… anything else.
The door clicks open softly. Night air trickles in. But Sly lingers a moment more. "Oh, and Carmelita?"
After a subtle breath, she turns to face him. And - silently nimble as ever - he crosses the space between them and steals a kiss.
She freezes, at first. But it's not some clumsy lunge. He knows exactly what he's doing. Just like Russia. Better, even.
Carmelita finds herself returning it, this time. Not just awestruck, but a willing accomplice. Putting this official police vehicle to delightfully incorrect use.
When he finally pulls away - after using all ten seconds of his head start - he grins. "Thank you. For the best present I'll get this year."
Wordless, she just nods. Better than growling some breathless, paper-thin threat. And much better than her other instinct; asking if he would maybe possibly stay just a little longer…
But the usual ending arrives, all too suddenly. That grin and those eyes disappear from view. Once he's out of range of her car's lights, she can't see him at all. Melting into the darkness like always.
It's a familiar sight. Carmelita tries to take comfort in it, after a very unfamiliar discussion.
For a while, she just sits in her car. Sure enough, a wave of guilt hits her. Her reasoning seems so flimsy now that he's gone. She can't show lenience like that again. She struggles to choose between accepting a rightful punishment (and the resulting damage to her spotless record) or rolling out the all-too-easy white lie. Cooper got out of his cuffs, and he disappeared. Wasn't the first time, wouldn't be the last.
She tries to focus on that as she returns to the road. But something else is sitting heavily in the back of her mind. Huge and looming and requiring active effort to avoid. It's unprofessional to be thinking about something else, but she knows it won't leave her. The best thing for her work - for her - might be to face it down and figure it out.
When she finally gets home after her shift, Carmelita boots up her personal computer. She's nervous, uncharacteristically so, and thankful she can turn to an unfeeling machine. After all, she tells herself, it's probably nothing. No-one needs to hear the question.
Of course, that doesn't explain why her fingers are so slow to hit the keys.
B… I… S… E…
Their talks remain all too infrequent. Jokes and threats shouted rooftop to rooftop.
But by Sly's next birthday, Carmelita has a piece of news better suited to their quieter conversations. It may not change their dynamic, but… it's something she could share.