Archive of Our Own

You were planning a heist. Again. The last time you were part of a heist it landed you in prison, which is where you were now. The box that you and Mark worked so hard to steal landed itself on top of the Warden's desk like an ornate paperweight. And you were going to steal it back.

Here was your plan: 1. Charm the guards and get them to trust you enough to give you a job. 2. Rise in the ranks until you're able to secure a cleaning job in the Warden's office. And 3. Steal the box back from under the Warden's nose and get the hell out of prison before you got caught (Mark could save himself, probably). You already got the first step down. Other than Mr. Murder-Slaughter, most of the guards seemed to like you, some of them maybe a little too much. Step 2 was also complete after you were hired in quick succession from kitchen worker, laundry aide, and finally to a cleaner. You didn't think you were that charismatic; it was almost as if you were in one of those otome games and you were the protagonist. But hey, you were a step closer to your goal and step 3 was finally in motion.

You were issued (more like aggressively thrown in your face) the standard uniform of the room cleaning industry: a pinafore. Apparently all the cleaning people of the prison wore it, regardless of gender, class, or creed. It wasn't uncommon to see brawny 7 foot tall men in dress smocks having Febreze spray bottle duels while "cleaning". The number of prisoners sent to the infirmary because of these battles was astounding.

You don the pinafore in your cell, wishing there was a full length mirror to see how it looked. It feels a bit small, the layered skirt barely covering your ass and the fabric constricting your torso. The French maid dress was difficult to shimmy into, but it wasn't tight enough to cause discomfort. You strongly regret not wearing long pants under it because your exposed legs were cold.

You do a little half spin, admiring the floof of the skirt ruffling around your legs. You debate on asking for a larger one that would at least cover your chilly legs a bit more. But then again, you weren't planning on staying long after you secured the box back. You attempt to do a pirouette and the room starts spinning around you.

"'Ay Y/N! What's that?"

You abruptly stop twirling to face the direction of the voice, trying not to fall over from dizziness. It takes a second or two before your vison focuses enough to see Yancy standing in the doorway with an unreadable expression on his face. You awkwardly jazz hands to negate the terrible execution of your spin (you didn't want to offend the dancer) and signaled a thumbs up or down to ask Yancy his opinion on your uniform.

Yancy looks askance, his expression carefully neutral. "Youse... youse look like a real doll. But why the getup?"

You hold up a feather duster and a canister of Febreze sarcastic look. Yancy's arms unconsciously cross in front of his chest and his brows knit in suspicion. "Why'd you want a job for?"

You mime the outline of a rectangular box, roughly the same dimensions of the one you were trying to steal back. Yancy was your friend and you didn't want to lie to him. Not too much anyway. You still didn't have the heart to tell him the second part of step 3 and your plans to leave. Yancy smirks a bit, a knowing glint in his eyes.

"Y'know, you could've asked me to get it for youse. I know this place like the back of my hand, 'specially the Warden's office. You didn' have to go through all this work if youse didn' want to".

You bury your head in your hands at your stupidity. You were so busy planning (as Heist Mark taught you) that you completely forgot about your most useful asset and friend that was Yancy. He hums sympathetically at your reaction. "'Youse still gonna do the job?"

You nod solemnly. You already promised some of the officers you'd be there and they were really excited for you, singing praises about your work ethic. Not only that, but some of the other inmate cleaning people seemed especially eager to Febreze battle You: the infamous fight-starter that won against a famous "tuff" guy like Yancy.

You check your watch: it was almost time for your first day. You smooth out the front of your skirt, hoping it looks presentable. Now that you could rely on Yancy, there was no need to rush into stealing the box back. You still needed time to figure out how to break out of prison after all.

You watch curiously as Yancy sticks his arm under the mattress of the top bunk. He pulls out a thin palm sized bundle of cloth tightly tied together with string. There's a handle sticking out of one end, making you realize it's a handmade shiv, the cloth creating a makeshift sheath.

"I'm sure youse know what this is. I was gonna give it to you for your birthday, but I didn' wanna wait." Yancy pauses, placing it in your hand. He looks you directly in the eye, more serious and somber than you've ever seen him. "If anybody tries anythin' on youse, shiv 'em. Capishe?"

You take the weapon with a mock pout. You were more than able to take care of yourself. But it must have taken a long time for Yancy to make and he looked genuinely worried. You nod affirmatively to reassure him. Your socks weren't long enough to hide it and your apron pockets weren't deep enough to store the contraband object without it sticking out. You end up stuffing the weapon down the front of your shirt, hoping that it won't slide out or possibly stab you. Thankfully it works. You smooth out the front, making sure the weapon wasn't visible under the fabric of your dress.

You look up at Yancy. He stares blankly in your direction as if in a trance, a drop of blood leaking from his nose. You tap his shoulder gently in concern, wondering whether or not it was safe to snap him out of whatever state he's in. Yancy typically wasn't one to dissociate like that and the sudden nose bleed didn't seem healthy. Yancy jumps back, startled. His eyes blink at you blearily as he returns to reality.

"Oh. Sorry Y/N," he mumbles distractedly. He doesn't seem to notice the blood dripping onto his upper lip. You point to your nose and then to his face with a frantic expression. He raises an eyebrow and touches the space under his nose and looks at the crimson liquid on his fingertips.

"Shit," he mutters as an aside, wiping his face macho-ly on the back of his hand. "Are you okay? Did I scare youse?"

You gesture fervently at him. He should be more worried about his own health instead of your emotional wellbeing. You grab a handful of tissues and shoved them into Yancy's unwilling hands.

"Y/N, I'm fine. Don' worry 'bout me," he asserts, but takes the tissues anyways. Yancy pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, stuffing the extra wad of tissue into his pockets. He smiles at you fondly. "What would I do without youse?"

You can't tell if he's joking with you or not and assume the former. You point to him and make a slicing motion across your neck, desperately hoping Yancy would get the right message. Without me you'd be dead.

Yancy half laughs, but you could tell he was slightly uncomfortable. Something seemed to be bothering him ever since you first started talking and you were sure it was more important than your outfit. He takes a deep breath as if readying himself for what he wants to say.

"Youse still want your box, yea?" You nod affirmatively. Yancy averts his gaze to the floor, seeming to avoid something. "After youse get it... what're you gonna do? Are you gonna leave? 'Cause if that's really what you want, I'll break you outta here. Trust me, I won't like it, but I'll help youse with whatever you want: anything. Just tell me."

You're taken aback at how transparent you were about your not-so-secret-anymore plan. You feel the heavy feeling of guilt constricting your heart. You didn't mean to hurt Yancy and make him feel abandoned and lied to. You think about it. Did you really want to leave? Once you were out of prison you'd still be wanted and on the run. You would have to lay low without Mark, who was still in a full body cast in the infirmary. There wasn't much out there for you anymore. You would be alone. And if it meant having to leave Yancy...

You shake your head "no" vehemently and grab one of Yancy's hands in your own. You couldn't leave him. You just want to take the box back and maybe give it to Mark to hold onto. After everything you and Mark had gone through, the two of you should at least get the prize you both rightfully took (stolen, more like).

Yancy smiles broadly, a weight lifting off his chest as he unconsciously sighs in relief. He presses his lips to the knuckles of your hands in a dainty smooch.

"Thanks for staying, Y/N. Youse's a real sweetheart."

You squeeze his hand sincerely as an apology and give him a mock curtsey as a dramatic "you're welcome". Yancy laughs, genuinely this time. You smile.

You let go of his hand to glance at your watch. You were already late but you were ready to use Yancy's medical emergency as an excuse. You prepare to leave for the second time when he stops you again.

"At least let me walk you there!" he whines. You forcefully reply in the negative and lightly push him towards the bed, motioning for him to sit on the bottom bunk as if you were telling a puppy to "stay".

Yancy's consideration for you was one of his endearing traits, but with blood dripping from his nose and the high probability of him glaring at anyone that looked in your general direction, it looked like he'd been in a fight. You definitely didn't want the Warden to get suspicious and lock Yancy in solitary again.

Yancy relents, sitting on the edge of your bed with an annoyed grumble. "This job- how many days a week is it?"

You hold up 5 fingers.

"Ah, I see. I'm gonna need more 'a those tissues," he replies cryptically. You raise an eyebrow but don't press further. You're already late after all.

Before leaving you cheekily blow him a kiss from the door. Yancy smiles and blows one back with added flair. You "catch" it in front of you and press a smooch to your closed fist. You silently laugh at his bemused expression and run out of the cell in a flutter of skirts.

The crumpled tissues in his hand are almost saturated with red. Yancy sighs. At this rate, he'd die of blood loss before the week is over. He lays a palm over his heart, feeling the racing thump in his chest. He smiles without realizing it. At least he'd die happy.