Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

So, Debbie leaves. 

And Lou’s not exactly sure when she goes - has absolutely no idea where. One day Debbie is there, and the next she’s not. One day she’s sitting at the drawing board, staring at an electrical map and tapping her pen against her teeth, and then one day, her desk chair, with it’s rip right up the middle of the cheap padding, is spinning emptily. Like rainwater slipping through a storm drain, she glimmers out of existence, whorled up into a vacuum until the ground is painfully left behind. 

It’s certainly not the first time Debbie’s walked out - also not the first time she’s done it without saying goodbye - but it feels different. Darker. Stranger. More unexpected. Debbie’s a walking con - she’s a con within a con within a shady exterior. But Lou thought she had her figured out, had Debbie pressed firm, like a tack under her thumb. I understand you , we understand each other , that kind of bullshit. Partners in crime, isn’t that what they call it?

Maybe Lou should have seen it coming. The inevitableness of it all surrounds her. Their team pinched the necklace, but what does that mean? Debbie got her revenge, she got her 30 million, and she got to plan a dream heist. But Lou knows, (and because she knows, she curses herself for being so in the blind), that even those prizes won’t be enough. Nothing is ever enough - not for an Ocean.

Lou spends the first day bar hopping, trailing from one dusty joint to the next, expecting to find Debbie slouched over some greasy counter, waxing poetic to a waitress about wanting to live up to her father’s expectations… but she’s nowhere to be found. Lou calls Tammy, calls Nine-Ball, tells Constance, who for some reason is squatting in the loft to talk to her street urchin friends and see if they've heard anything. For god’s sake, she even calls Saul . The responses are nothing: no one has seen or heard anything, and Lou can’t really pinpoint exactly when Debbie left. The trail, if there ever was one, has gone cold. A piece of paper, blank white, not even the smudge of a fingerprint on its surface: Debbie is gone.

She spends the next three days drinking. Something about the inevitable doesn’t seem so poetic when you’re the one who gets ditched. Over a bottle of Grey Goose, Lou wonders what drew Debbie away. Is she scouting another con, or another heist, is she planning something bigger? Gagging on Blueberry Smirnoff brings her to list all the possible fortunes on the Eastern Seaboard… if she were Debbie, which would she hit? Tequila and lime remind Lou that they are supposed to be partners , they are supposed to work together, and if Debbie is working a job without her right-hand man at her side, some cosmic forces are desperately off-kilter. Jack Daniels and she ponders whether Debbie has replaced her. But with who? No two people work as well together as they do- Debbie never even has to speak for Lou to know what she was thinking, to read her like notes passed back and forth between schoolgirls - or so she thought. 

If Lou didn’t see this coming (and she should have seen this coming) maybe she and Debbie aren’t the team she thought they were after all.

Two more shots of Vodka, and she goes to check the safe, cursing the entire time at her callousness, her distrust, just to make sure her cut is still there. The diamonds sit gleaming. Lou exhales, not knowing if she’s relieved or disappointed. At least if Debbie had lifted her jewels, she might be easier to follow. 

Lou exhales again. The past couple of months she’d been trying to do yoga- to no avail. She can’t balance, the poses make her feet hurt, and her instructor always gives her the side eye every time she snorts at a namaste . She’s failing at yoga (probably because she treats it like anger management), failing at finding Debbie, failing at intuiting that there was something wrong in the first place - and now she knows she’ll fail at being team leader. Lou thinks she might cry. She breaks a glass instead.

The worst part is, she keeps expecting Debbie to waltz right back through the door, waving building plans or a secretive hard drive, or anything to explain her address. Got held up at the bank she might say. Or, Saul kidnapped me, made me stay for dinner - you ever try bratwurst?

Six broken glasses, and Lou is starting to think she might be wrong. Maybe Debbie isn’t running towards something, a new con, a better heist, a fortune you could buy a spaceship with, her father’s legacy... Prizes that would be worth walking out without a word, worth leaving.

No, maybe Debbie is running away .

One Year Later

“Can I borrow some money?”

Jerking at the wrench in her hand, Lou offers the only response she can muster: “Fuck off.”

“No seriously.” A scuffed pair of vans comes to rest by her head. Tucked into them are a pair of socks patterned with tiny smiling Obama faces. “I’m running low on -” a whistle - “You know.”

Lying flat on her back as she toggles with the engine of her old bike, Lou’s eyes flutter shut. “Thirty million isn’t enough?” They have this conversation almost every week, Constance is constantly out of cash. Lou has no idea what she spends her pocket money on, also no idea why she doesn’t just pick pockets to get pocket money. It’s a conundrum, one to which the petty thief has provided no answer. Surprisingly, she’s always upfront about being on the hunt for cash - she hasn’t tried to steal Lou’s watch once. 

Or maybe she has, and replaced it with a fake, and Lou hasn’t noticed. 

“I’m just going for a booster juice, you want me to slap down millions of dollars for a smoothie?”

Lou reaches into the pocket of her overalls. From her place underneath the bike, the smell of motor oil and grease is everywhere. She’s taken to keeping both bikes indoors, this one, and the gleaming new one which she took on the California trip. They sit side by side in the middle of the loft, almost like pets. Really, why would she keep them outside? The grimy New York air would cling to them like toxin. Pulling out a twenty, she offers it to the unseen girl. The vans shuffle forward. “Get a bank account for gods’ sake.”

“Nine Ball says any account is traceable.”

“Well then get her to make it untraceable.”

Constance tugs the folded bill from her grip. “Nah, then I’d have to go in and talk to the bank people - not really my vibe.”

Lou sighs, shifting until she can tinker with the suspensions. “What time will you be back, want me to order a pizza?”

“No thanks, mom.” From here she can see Constance’s face. Her hair is braided, tucked underneath a neon green toque, her new piercing (septum, courtesy of Nine Ball) glimmers in the window light. The “mom” slipped from her so easily, Lou almost wonders if it’s genuine. She never thought that a coworker would call her mom, and she never ever thought that she wouldn’t hate it. “Me and Amita might go to Giovanni’s.”

“Wow, top stuff. What happened to being low on cash?”

“Amita’s paying.” Constance passes her a grease rag without being asked, and Lou wipes down the wrench. “She’s been asking me lots of questions recently.”

“Really?”

“Wondering what’s next. When’s Debbie coming back.” They have this conversation every week too, almost as often as they have conversations about cash. Lou’s gotten used to having Constance around, but damn the girl can grate on her nerves. She wants to be alone, wants to take her bike as far and as fast as possible. Every night she dreams of the West coast, the roaring surf, the smell of the shore, the way the sand crumbles beneath her toes. Her alarm has started to sound screaming gulls overhead. The New York weather dampens her heart, and Lou’s not as young as she used to be - she’s starting to feel the rain in her bones. 

But she’s not Debbie. She’s not just going to up and leave.

“If I knew, don’t you think I would tell you?”

Constance shrugs. “I don’t know, you kind of seem like a secretive person - no offense, totally works for you, y’know, the whole intimidating thing - works perfectly actually, fits right with the leather pants, and the motorcycles. Wow, so cool - getting off track - anyways, if you had some information, that maybe the rest of us didn’t have, it wouldn’t be, y’know, shocking .”

She knows what Constance means. She’s heard those words thrown at her before, secretive, intimidating . They pair right up with the other one’s she used to hear all the time while Debbie was locked up: non-cooperative, loner . Lou never took offense - why should she? She’s done more alone than most people could ever do in a team of eight. Yet every time she heard them, something inside her wanted to snap back, I have a partner . Her partner was imprisoned, sure, but Lou always knew that they would work together again. Solo isn’t a dirty word, but it feels like one, especially when working with Debbie is so much better. Sometimes Lou wants to scream from the rooftops: I am important to Debbie Ocean! Like it matters, like it’s even true, anymore. 

There’s a thumping in her breastbone, like a fat Broadway performer is doing a tap routine on her ribcage. Lou swallows. She wants to be alone. She wants to be with people. She wants to figure out why she can’t figure out what she wants. It’s a fucking puzzle.

“You know I haven’t heard from her in over a year.”

“Oh.” Constance scrunches her nose. She’s flipping the bill through her fingers. Lou wonders when’s the last time she lifted something off a passerby - wonders if she could use some practice. Like all of them, Constance is thrumming with energy. It takes years to settle down after a big job - sometimes you just want to keep riding the high forever, picking off targets one by one - but there’s a risk to that. Just look what happened to Danny. “Do you think she’s still, y’know, with us? I mean she is getting up there,” she points a thumb towards the sky, “no disrespect, she looks great.”

Lou nearly laughs. “How old do you think Debbie is?”

The thief bites at the inside of her cheek, stuffing her hands in the pockets of her baggy maroon pants. “Forty-seven, no, sixty-eight. Wait, fifty-three.”

Bending her knees, Lou raises herself out from under the bike. She’s covered the cement floor in a grey tarp, and she’s careful to kick off her boots before she reaches the edge of it. “Close.”

“Which time?”

Dropping the wrench into a bucket by her feet, Lou doesn’t answer. Her overalls are covered in muck, and her hair is starting to fall out of its bandana. Across the loft, her other bike sits, a bundle of metal expectancy. She can practically feel the powerful engine humming between her legs. Dear God , Lou cracks her knuckles as Constance trails her to the kitchen, when’s the last time I’ve had a proper shag.

Her phone is waiting facedown on the granite island. Lou shucks off her overalls before she can reach them, leaving them in a crumpled heap by the barstools. She doesn’t want to say the place has gotten dirtier since Debbie left but… yeah, it’s a dump, and Constance’s collection of empty booster juice cups aren’t helping. The younger girl hops up onto the counter as Lou folds over her phone. Three missed calls, one from Alexis, one from Tammy, and one from an unknown number. Her yoga instructor has texted her: missed you at Yin today, talk soon? And an app reminds her to toss her recycling to the building’s collection bin before Thursday. 

“So do you want to come?”

Shooting Constance a quick glance, Lou swipes her fingers fast over the keyboard. Lesson, tomorrow at seven thirty? “Come where?”

“Giovanni’s.”

She moves to call Alexis back. It’s been a while since she’s stepped foot in her club. A bit too long, actually. If the loft is in shambles, she can’t even imagine what her operation looks like. The dial tone begins to sound, and suddenly the doorbell is ringing. 

“It’s open!” Constance hollers, before turning to raise an eyebrow at Lou. They weren’t expecting company.

“I thought you were going to Booster Juice.”

“For a snack,” says Constance as the door swings open.

Clad in an ankle length dress the colour of old pea-soup, and a top hat the size of a small fishing boat, in walks Rose Weil. Lou’s heart stutters in her chest. This is a surprise. 

The phone still pressed to her ear, Lou waves a greeting, unsure if Rose can see her through her green tinted sunglasses. “I didn’t know you were in New York.”

“The Bond Premiere,” Rose responds, unzipping her thigh-high boots as she does so, “I’m dressing Crystal Rose.”

“Huh.” Says Lou, at the same time Constance says: “Sounds like a stripper.”

The phone on voicemail, Lou waves Rose to a barstool, thumbing the redial button, and trying to ignore the way this sudden appearance is tugging on the bottom of her spine. Before she can ask Rose why she stopped by (not like she’s displeased by her visit - just confused), there’s a knock on the already open door. 

White teeth flashing, Amita pokes her head around with a wave. “Hi guys!” Following her, with a new white-knit beanie over her dreads, and an intricate new tattoo up her arm is Nine-Ball. 

Lou’s heart drops to her feet. 

“Lovely,” says Rose, placing her sunglasses on the counter and revealing darkly circled eyes. “Did you two know I was in town?” 

Amita takes a while with the straps of her fuschia stilettos, her handbag swinging back and forth as she wobbles. “We passed the red carpet on our way here, figured you must be there, but I guess-”

“I dropped everything of course.” Rose sniffs, as Constance, clearly as out-of-the-loop as Lou hops off the islands to help Amita with her shoes. 

Nine Ball trudges to a barstool, nodding at Lou. “Can I get a drink?” 

Her cellphone still pressed firmly to her ear, and a twinge of annoyance courses through her. Does she look like a bartender? Why won’t the damn girl just pick up? And as wonderful as it is to see everyone, what are they doing in her loft? “Sure.” Lou can barely manage to clear her throat, tearing open the fridge. “Heineken okay?”

“Hey Nine Ball,” Constance leads Amita to the kitchen table, it appears she rolled her ankle trying to take off her heels. “Are you ready for tonight?”

“Oh what,” says Lou, spinning the foggy bottle across the counter, “Nine Ball is coming to Giovanni’s too?”

The voicemail starts up again (“Hey, it’s Alexis…), as the four other women begin discussing gourmet pizza. Lou slams her thumb on the end button, considers throwing her phone across the room - this many unexpected people, as friendly as they are, feels like a bomb, slowly ticking towards an explosion. She tries to take a deep breath, yoga style. Rose tugs gently at her wrist. “Think I could grab a pint?”

“Is there margarita mix available?” Amita calls, lifting her foot gingerly onto the table. “And maybe some ice?”

Turning back to the fridge, Lou taps angrily at the call button again. Third time’s the charm, Alexis picks up right away.

“Lou?” Her voice rings through, clear as glass, as Lou begins scooping ice from the freezer into a plastic bag. 

“What the hell took you so long?” She can’t help but snap, Alexis was the one who called her in the first place, godammit.

“I know.” Lou transitions from scooping ice into a bag to scooping it into the blender. It’s slightly dusty at the bottom; it hasn't really been scrubbed since Constance decided to blend three flavours of Booster Juice together. The stain on the ceiling hasn’t been wiped away either. “Look, when are you coming back? The Pit Vipers are giving us trouble. Not to mention last night, Damian thought he booked Blood Red Vapour, turns out he booked Blood Red Diaper, but he had already wired the money, and they got all in his face asking for payment and -”

All of a sudden, her voice is cut off. Lou curses, halfway through pouring a bottle of margarita mix into the blender. Pulling the phone away from her ear she looks down. Incoming call.

“Lou?” Tammy’s voice is frazzled, and Lou feels a spark of pleasure over the thought of her disarray. It doesn’t take much to frazzle Tammy - yet at the same time, Tammy can remain unfrazzleable through some of the highest intensity jobs. It’s an art, really. 

“Tam, I was going to call you back in a bit.”

“Don’t hang up.” That demand is clear enough. “Did you get the call?”

“What call?” Asks Lou, and all of a sudden, all four other pairs of eyes in the room are fixed on her. 

“I’m driving in right now, about half an hour out.” Tammy pauses. “You didn’t get a call?”

Stirring in the soles of her feet, Lou’s heart picks up a rhythm. In about two seconds, her pulse is throbbing behind her ears like the bass beat of some club song. She’s strangling the neck of the margarita bottle. “I was working on my bike,” she turns to Constance, “did you?”

The pickpocket shrugs. “I broke my phone a week ago. Fell out of my pants when I was doing a kickflip. Plus I steal a new one every month."

Rose tips back her beer. “I’ll pretend I know what that means.”

“Wait.” Amita nudges Constance’s shin with her good foot. “How do you text me if you’ve always got a new phone?”

She fiddles with something in her pocket: the twenty dollar bill from earlier. “I memorized your number.”

Now Rose looks impressed. “All of our numbers?”

“I don’t understand.” Lou forces her attention back to her phone, fingers shaking. It’s almost embarrassing the amount of effort she has to exert to keep her voice from sounding strained. “Who called?”

There’s a beat where no one answers her, then a voice, sounding small, and startled, and a little smug, sounds from the door. “I did.”

Lou doesn’t have to turn around to know who’s speaking. She would recognize that voice anywhere.

Debbie’s back.

Chapter Text

The Good Old Days

The first time Lou and Debbie got caught, it was college. They were almost done their undergrad, and had been pulling little stunts here and there. Fake tickets to frat parties, freshman packages that didn’t lead anywhere, hacking into the school’s database to bump grades or add class credit for cash. If anything was certain, they weren’t on high demand. They were just starting out, they were fringe (grunge, actually, if Lou’s smudgy eyeliner and leather jacket collection could attest). The only students who hired them were stoners, procrastinators, and med-sci hopefuls, the ones with nothing else to lose. They sought bigger targets; they wanted the trust-fund kids, football scholarship holders, the TAs and profs - if they could get them.

Debbie used to walk around with her Walkman in the back pocket of her jeans. There was a summer when she applied liberal amounts of red lipstick to her sly mouth every day. It was a wonder her and Lou had become friends - they were so different. Her partner was always social, trying to increase interest in their little criminal empire, marketing them at clubs and parties, handing out free booze wherever it was prohibited. 

Lou was the same as she still is. She would sit back and watch.

Evenings were devoted to cons and poker nights, the mornings to homework. On weekends they worked big jobs if they could find them. Debbie had a bad shoplifting habit. Lou was constantly stealing gas for her bike. Exhaustion trailed them like a hungry hound, they survived off buckets of cafeteria coffee, and by the end of their undergrad, they practically ate cigarettes. 

Trying as hard as possible not to fail her business degree, Lou was always a letter grade below a scholarship opportunity. It didn’t help that Debbie was everything. She was the sun around which Lou orbited. She couldn’t memorize budget proposals for shit, but off the top of her head she could list Debbie’s top ten favourite bands, her favourite flavour of ice cream, the names of every boy or girl she’d dated, even her grade school mascots.

If there was one thing Debbie didn’t talk about, it was family - but that was okay. Lou didn’t talk about that either.

One weekend, a month before finals, Debbie stumbled on a job. This wasn’t just a backyard con; it was campuswide, and it was worth big money. She knew where the administration had locked up that year’s final exams. 

They marketed quick, stayed up three nights in a row jotting down doorway combinations and staff numbers. Following that, they trailed Frank, the old security guard, until they had his routine down to the minute. (Even years later, Lou still remembers it: Fourth floor, third floor, snack, second floor, first floor, cigarette, stairs, cigarette, elevators, thermos refill, basement, bathrooms). 

After all the planning had been sorted, they calculated the profit. Depending on the faculty, one test booklet could fetch upwards two-hundred. They tipped their mugs of coffee together in a sloppy cheers. Debbie was smiling so hard her nose crinkled up. Lou had never seen eyes such a rich and sparkling brown.

About halfway through the job, things went wrong. They avoided Frank up until the fourth floor, also managing to skirt past the cameras that watched the ends of the hall. The only building alarms were the ones attached to the ground-level doors - or so they had thought. As soon as Debbie had tried the handle to the administrative office, where the tests were waiting, locked in a filing cabinet, the entire floor lit up red. Fire-alarm lights went off, and a roaring alarm screamed overhead. Lou was cursing so hard she couldn’t even hear Debbie panicking - Frank would be on them any moment, the doors wouldn’t budge in the slightest - They fled, empty duffel bags flapping against their backs - Lou was livid . Of course they would be caught, and following that, there was no way not to get expelled. Four years of her lousy life wasted . Pounding down the stairs, they took a hard right at the end of the second floor hallway, and Debbie slid to a sudden halt in front of a payphone. 

“Watch for Frank!” She had commanded, and Lou, despite the nervous energy in her body twanging like the strings of a guitar, twisting her around until it felt like her bones were on the point of breaking… Lou obeyed. 

She kept one eye locked to the stairwell, her right hand clutched around a cheap can of pepper-spray Debbie had stolen from the campus department store. At the payphone, her partner dialled a number from memory, before shouting into it. “Hey, it’s me. I’m at 31st and Fraser on campus, and I need a Death Star One Now! Maybe make it a George Washington.”

“What?” Lou squawked, completely disoriented. 

“Follow me!” Had been Debbie’s only reply, and for the next half an hour, as the blare of the alarms became a nearly-pleasant background tune, they scrambled a heart-thumping cat and mouse through the building. Frank was their only adversary, but he was assisted by the cameras, and not to mention reinforcements might be arriving at any moment.

Finally, Debbie motioned Lou towards the ground level, and as they came sprinting out of the stairwell and into the lobby, her heart stopped. Feet stuttering along the floor, she made a grab for her partner’s arm. Outside the front window, red and blue lights flickered. Cops.

Debbie shook her off, still moving determinedly, as if she didn’t see the obvious felony they were about to be slapped with. Lou grabbed at her again, snatching at her bag, the sleeve of her jacket, she even contemplated tackling her - but then a shout sounded from behind them.

“Hey!” Frank stumbled through the doors of the stairwell, clutching at his chest (bless him), and well… Lou trusted Debbie. She trusted her with her life .

The moment they tumbled through the glass doors, a pair of arms scooped her up, and before she could even kick in response, handcuffs closed, cool metal, around her wrists. To her right, Debbie was doing the same, practically lifted up into the air with the attempt to shake her captor off. 

Lou was barely aware that Frank had reached them, and was speaking, her breathing was coming so harsh. She fought her body’s natural response. Shit shit shit shit . How could she have ended up in this mess? Arrested? Petty cons with Debbie were one thing, but this was definitely multiple charges, definitely a sentence that might end in prison time. A cool weight was settling over her, like someone was wrapping her in a frozen blanket, like she had swallowed an entire glacier at once. 

Too late she looked up to see that she had been tucked into the backseat of the cruiser before Frank could see her, same with Debbie. The officer who had placed the handcuffs on her wrists was standing with his back to the door, blocking them both from view. He nodded at whatever Frank seemed to be spewing, his arms crossed. As the old security guard turned back towards the building, pausing once to shake his fist at the cruiser, both cops slid inside.

“Cutting it kind of close,” said the driver, the one who had cuffed Debbie. 

“You don’t have to tell me,” said Debbie, rocking her hands forward into her lap, to shake off a pair of handcuffs... that weren’t even locked . “Uniforms fit, boys?”

“Snug as the glove of an eight-fingered giant.” The car pulled away from the curb, and the man in the passenger seat turned around. He had startlingly familiar eyes, and a thick black moustache. “Sorry about your cuffs.” He was searching in his pocket for something. “Security guard was pretty nosy so I had to make the arrest look real. Here’s the key.” Shuffling, he held out a tiny silver cylinder, and, when Lou sat frozen in response, gently lowered it onto her knee with a pat. Her jaw was probably sitting on the floor of the vehicle. 

“I don’t understand.”

His eyebrows flicked right up into his policeman’s cap. “British? Oh, I like that. Where’d you two meet?”

“More importantly,” the driver butted in, trying to catch Lou’s eye through the rearview mirror, “are you single?”

Debbie kicked the back of his seat. “You're not her type, Rusty.”

“I’m Danny.” The moustached man extended a hand, before seeing that she was still cuffed. “Deb, help her with that. This is Rusty. And I see you’re already pretty good friends with my kid sister.”

“Two years,” Debbie muttered, swiping the key off Lou’s knee, her fingertips leaving burning marks, “hardly an era.”

“Sloppy job you pulled tonight.”

Nudging Lou around slowly until she could reach her wrists, Debbie shrugged. “Hard to plan and study for a fifty-percent exam at the same time.”

Danny shuffled to face the road, pulling off his cap. “That’s why you don’t study. Put everything into the heist. I still don’t know why you’re at this school in the first place.”

It was clearly a speech Debbie had heard before; she rolled her eyes. Against the small of Lou’s back, her knuckles were leaving gentle paintstrokes. There was the tiniest sliver of skin, just above the waistband of her trousers, that Debbie kept bumping as she tried to angle the silver key in the lock. The whole of Lou’s spine was tingling. 

To shake off the tension, she started to speak. “Is anyone gonna tell me what a Death Star One is?”

It was Rusty who answered. He was wearing sunglasses. At night. Who wears sunglasses at night? “Ever seen Star Wars? They gotta board the first death star in disguise, right, pretend that the big hairy guy is their prisoner.”

“So in this case, you two are the big hairy guy.” Danny winked. There was a muffled tinkling noise, and Debbie pulled the handcuffs from Lou’s wrists. Like a winter chill, her back was suddenly cold from the departure of her fingers.

“And George Washington.” 

“Ah,” said Danny, as Debbie handed him the cuffs and settled back into her seat, arms crossed. “Now we didn’t think you guys would need that one, so you’ll forgive us if we didn’t prepare, but it involves a rather spectacular set of false teeth.”

It was one of the only times Lou and Debbie have been busted, also one of the only times Lou has actually seen Debbie ask for help.

Her friend likes to blame Claude Becker for leading her down a path to crime - that’s a lie. She was a criminal, born and raised, long before the South British prick came along. The one thing Becker did was lead her down a path to sloppy crime - the kind of crime that gets you arrested. 

Now, with Debbie standing in the door of their loft, for the first time in over a year , Lou can’t shake a feeling. It’s the same one she had, however many years ago, as they were jostled into the back of Danny’s stolen cruiser. Icy cold, in all her veins, in the tissue under her skin. 

Sloppy crime is the kind of crime that gets you killed.

A Series of Greetings

Her hair is shorter. That’s the first thing Lou notices. It swings just below Debbie’s shoulders, dark enough to rival midnight. There’s an old backpack slung over her arm, the strap worn and frayed, and a chrome plated suitcase at her feet. And clutched in her hand - oh Debbie - two Sephora bags. Of course she couldn’t resist a little shoplifting on her way over.

She’s also smiling. It’s a knowing smile, a proud smile, an Ocean smile. Lou thought she would give anything to see that smile again. Now she just wants it out of her fucking loft. 

The others rush over (sans Amita), depositing one hug after another. Slamming the bottle of margarita mix onto the counter, Lou buries her head in the fridge. 

What. The Fuck. 

Not only does she want to punch Debbie right in her perfect nose for leaving, the urge is twice as strong now that she’s waltzed back in, pretending like nothing is wrong. Lou breathes freezer-burn straight into her lungs, hoping the frigid air will cool off the blood that’s rising to her face. Her ears must be bright red by now. This isn’t like when Debbie came back from prison, this is different. Prison wasn’t a choice - sure, she chose to fall in love with Becker, and sure, she chose to commit a little fraud on the side for his pompous ass - but this time Debbie left . Lou resolves to stay in the kitchen. It’s taking every ounce of her willpower not to snatch up her things and start wheeling her bike towards the elevator.

Of course, Debbie’s also blocking her exit. 

By the time Lou closes the fridge, Debbie is locking the door behind her and rolling her suitcase towards the kitchen table. “A lipstick for you,” she says, dumping the Sephora bags on the table before reaching inside and pulling out a golden tube for Amita. As the girl takes it, Debbie deposits a quick kiss on her forehead. “Missed you, kiddo.”

At the counter, Lou crosses her arms. She’s not even going to give Debbie the satisfaction of a hug.

“An eyeshadow palette for Rose, facemask for Constance -” Constance practically leaps at her gift. “Pool table.” Debbie nods at Nine Ball. “I’m not sure if you’ve ever tried Fenty foundation, but I think you’ll like it.”

Spinning around, Debbie rifles through her bags. “So that just leaves an eyelash-curler for Tammy, last as always, and eyeliner for Lou.”

The loft goes suddenly quiet, everyone is watching as Debbie lifts a slender pencil from her plunder and extends it to her best friend. In the sudden stillness, Lou is able to recognize just how tired Debbie looks. Her smile is a little tight around the edges, fingertips just slightly shaking.

“No thanks.” Very cold, very direct. Lou congratulates herself on her brusqueness.

“Are you sure?” Debbie quirks one side of her mouth and then the other. “It’s your favourite colour, black.”

That’s the last straw. Lou slams her fist on the countertop and stalks off to her room.

God, idiot! Why did she go to her room? The front door was right there, open for escape, and she stomped right by it! Now if she wants out, she’ll have to trudge awkwardly past everyone gathered in the kitchen, maybe offer her regards as she goes for a good sulk. There’s no doubt: she’s trapped.

Cursing a storm that would make her grandmother proud, Lou slides open her window and lights a cigarette. Like the rest of the loft, her room is a right mess. Dirty clothes line every possible surface, her desk is covered in building plans and watered down booze, even her lampshade is sporting a pair of ratty underwear like a hat. Jesus, how did she get to this age and not learn how to fold laundry?

To occupy her hands (itching for another punch) she begins opening and closing drawers, and throwing as many things possible in her mercifully empty clothes basket. Her cigarette is burning up, and she lights another, contemplating pouring herself a glass of something.

Lou wonders what they’re all saying out there, without her. She just needs some time to cool off , seems like a very Amita point to make. Before she knows it, she’s conducting an entire conversation in her head, even giving Rose a little Irish accent as she imagines how they’re talking. She was never good at that: girl talk. She knows a lot of women like her that turn their nose up at the idea of gossip, considering it too catty, too inferior, too feminine . Lou doesn’t think like that - a positive side-effect of being raised by four women - girl talk intimidates the shit out of her. 

It was like that, even in college. She would stand at the wall, Debbie would do the talking. Occasionally Lou would laugh at a joke, and then overthink it, and suddenly she was sweating at the fact that she had maybe laughed wrong and now everyone hated her. When Debbie laughed at something she said, though, no feeling in the world could replace that.

Before long, Lou’s imaginary conversation turns into a fictional screaming rally with her best friend. Why didn’t you say anything ? is a popular talking point, also followed by: We’re supposed to work together , and the slightly more embarrassing, do you know how worried I’ve been?

It's getting dark, soon the city lights will overpower the setting sun. There’s a yellow billboard across from her window; at around 6 o'clock the light hits it in just the right spot to cast Lou’s room in complete shadow. As it shrouds her, it matches her mood completely. The noise of the traffic on the street is starting to lull her into a false sense of ease. She’s lived in big cities her entire life; it’s gotten to the point where she can’t sleep without her window open. Yet Lou’s also gotten to the age where going to bed at six in the evening seems like an all-too-real possibility. Gone are the days of her college all-nighters. She slams the window closed, puts out her cigarette.

Almost as soon as she does, there’s a knock on her door.

“Hey,” Constance sounds hesitant, her voice flutters like a leaf in a strong breeze. “Want anything?”

“Some peace and quiet might be good,” Lou says, instantly knocking a palm against her forehead for her rudeness. She’s not mad at Constance for god’s sake.

“No I mean,” a pause, “from Giovanni’s.”

“I’m not going to Giovanni’s.

“Giovanni’s does takeout.”

Unwittingly, that sparks Lou’s interest. “Giovanni’s does takeout?”

“A few of us will go and pick it up. Give me your order.”

“Hold on.” Lou has her favourite order written on a post-it somewhere. She scrambles through dirty laundry, hoisting a bucket of empty bottles off of her mattress and onto the floor as she spots it. “Medium Greek on flatbread with extra feta.” And before she can stop herself: “has Debbie ordered yet?”

“Uh, nah.”

“Get her a medium Maiale with extra sausage. And an Orangina, if they have them.”

As Constance begins to shuffle down the hallway, Lou stands, and unlocks her bedroom door. Throwing on an old hoodie, she follows the kid, debating the entire time whether she should apologize to the team for her temper tantrum. 

Nobody even looks at her when she answers, a strange feat for which Lou is entirely grateful. Nine Ball is waiting for Constance by the door, Amita is standing one-legged by the blender, Rose is on the phone, and Debbie is gone. Lou’s heart skips a beat. But no, her suitcase is lying face-up on the table, which means she must be unpacking her backpack somewhere. Something like triumph courses through Lou as she realizes Debbie must be discovering that their little pickpocket has taken over her room. 

“That was Daphne.” Rose puts down her phone. The case is decorated with the image of a stork carrying a single arm, while below him stands a woman in a lavish dress. It’s very Rose. “Said she can’t make it because she’s all the way in Sweden . Reminds me of a time - “

The doorbell rings for the second time that night, and like a phantom, suddenly Debbie has floated into the kitchen. “I’ll get that.” The hems of her pants need to be ironed. 

It swings open, and there stands Tammy, nearly crying. She throws her arms around Debbie, who catches her with an abrupt and wonderful laugh. The initial burst of excitement Lou receives as soon as she spotted Tammy’s immaculate curls, turns suddenly to leeches on her skin at the length of Tammy’s hug. Seriously, she can let go now. 

Instead the mom-of-two seems to squeeze her favourite con artist even tighter. Debbie has given up on hugging in favour of patting Tammy squarely on the head with the occasional: “there, there.”

After an embrace that seems like years, Tammy breaks away, wiping her eyes with a little curtsy at everyone else gathered.

Debbie opens her mouth, and they all bristle to attention, even Lou can’t help her suddenly rapt posture - she hopes her expression doesn’t betray how eager she actually is to hear Debbie’s story. But before their leader can speak, Constance cuts in, clearing her throat.

“Hey Tam Tam, now that you’re here, what do you want from Giovanni’s?”

“What?” Tammy blinks, not even bothering to drag her gaze away from Debbie. “What are you talking about?”

“Gio-van-i’s.” Constance spells out. “The pizza place on fourteenth?”

“Oh, I’m good thanks.”

Sensing the lull, Debbie opens her mouth again, but Constance continues. Lou is suddenly certain she’s not the only one who wants to punch something right now.

“It’ll be quick, we’re already going out. I know you want something.”

Tammy shifts uncomfortably. “No thank you, I ate in the car on my drive in.”

Then everyone starts talking at once.

“She said she doesn’t want anything, just shut up!” Amita implores.

“Are we going? Or are we waiting for some speech?” Nine Ball.

“I’m waiting for a speech that sounds like a pizza order, come on. What do you want?”

“Really, you drove into this city?” Rose is aghast. “Wherever did you park?”

To Rose: “That’s not important.” To Constance: “Like I said, I’m not hungry - “

“Constance, I told you she doesn’t want anything to eat -”

“Look, I know Giovanni, but even for me he can’t provide the perfect order. The longer we wait, the more pizzas will run out - “

“I can hardly imagine the cost. Do you drive a compact car?”

Lou has to put her two cents in, she calls over the crowd to Nine Ball: “Wait, you know Giovanni?”

Tammy is sniffling. “It’s a Subaru, and I-”

“I have a job.”

Like a record coming to a screeching halt, the conversation freezes. Debbie isn’t loud. She doesn’t have to be. She can command the room with barely a sentence, and in a voice barely above a whisper. 

Revelling in the attention she’s been waiting for, Debbie Ocean crosses her arms. “I have a job. So let's get these pizzas sorted out, and once everyone is back here, we’ll go over the logistics.” Like a royal decree has been issued, they all begin to move at once. Over the flurry of motion at the front door, Debbie catches Lou’s eye, and offers a tiny smile. 

Lou doesn’t return it.

Chapter Text

A Series of Questions

“Where were you?”

They’re arranged around the lofts sectional, the coffee table  littered with paper plates and pizza boxes. Scattered around Rose is a pile of cheap napkins; she’s busy trying to fold them into the shape of tiny dresses. Constance is helping Amita ice her ankle, and Nine Ball hunches over the laptop she never leaves home without. 

Lou claimed the armchair closest to the kitchen - as far away from Debbie as possible. She had thought about simply sitting at the bench by the front door, arms crossed like a brooding overseer, and a million miles away, but that would mean she would be cut out from the conversation. And as grudgingly as she wants to admit it, she wants to hear what Debbie has to say.

Debbie, like always, is seated in the middle. At first, she lifts a piece of pizza to her mouth instead of answering, cheese melting off of it in a greasy, delicious mess. But when it looks like no one else is going to jump into the discussion, she swallows, setting it down on the table.

“Europe.” Debbie smiles ruefully, obviously not intending to say more. Yet as they stare at her blankly, she sobers up. “Specifically Belgium.”

“When did you get back to the states?” This query comes from Rose, and Lou’s suddenly glad all the team is here, asking questions so she doesn’t have to. 

Debbie answers with her mouth full. It’s a bad habit she’s always had, and the sight of it now sets Lou’s heart tumbling in her chest. No way she is finding the woman who ditched her endearing. “Flew in to North Carolina on Saturday, New York on Tuesday.” She tips her head, and Lou finds that Debbie is once again searching to meet her eyes. “Had to make sure I wasn’t being followed.”

“Your electronic footprint is like, really clean,” Nine Ball breaks in, hardly bothering to raise her eyes from her screen. She’s trying to sound her usual disinterested self, but something in her voice betrays her. Lou leans forward.

Playing humble, Debbie reaches for another slice. She’s halfway through her pizza. “Why thank you.”

Nudging her elbow (why did they have to sit so close? ), Tammy gives her an understanding look. “Are you going to tell us about why you were in Belgium, or why you left without saying anything?”

It’s the moment Lou’s been waiting for, but now she’s not sure she wants to hear the answer. The rest of them perk up as well, Constance even stops slurping on her smoothie. For nearly a minute, Debbie evades talking by chewing as slowly as she possibly can. She’s avoiding the question, and she knows they know she’s avoiding it. Raising the napkin which is crumpled in her fist, she dabs one side of her mouth, and then the other. 

Lou’s theorizing, scenarios running behind her eyes like trains on a toy track, she can only guess that everyone else in the room is too. Maybe Debbie was kidnapped, maybe she has a secret Belgium family, maybe, God forbid , she was helping Claude Becker escape and hiding him in the European alps. 

“I went to Belgium to follow a tip.” Her quiet voice breaks whatever spell they were all under. “And as for not saying goodbye, I’m sorry - I didn’t mean to go this long without reaching out.” And now she’s fully looking at Lou, her dark eyes flicking back and forth, “I just got caught up in the work.”

Crossing her arms, Lou doesn’t break away. Debbie slowly draws her eyebrows together. One strand of hair has fallen loose from its place behind her ear.

There’s a flurry of movement on the other side of the couch, and Constance sheepishly passes Nine Ball her twenty dollar bill. “Sorry. I was betting on alien abduction.”

All of a sudden everyone except Lou and Debbie are moving, cash is being tossed from person to person. “Secret baby,” Amita offers, almost blushing, as she hands Rose a fifty.

“Excellent, loves. Well done.” Rose says, counting her winnings as Tammy pawns over two crisp hundred dollar notes for ‘Joined Cult’. She holds the bills out like a fan, “Now only Daphne owes me - a thousand bucks on ‘Drowned’.”

“Jesus,” says Lou, at the same time Debbie says: “That’s harsh.”

Rose looks affronted. “She bet drowned, not dead . Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

Despite the surge of fondness Lou feels for her team, managing to break the tension with a simple game, she can’t help but wonder why no one invited her to bet. They seem to hold her to a different expectation… It’s almost like they’ve been treating her (and Lou nearly gags at the thought) like she’s fragile . Debbie begins to unzip her suitcase, which is lying at her feet, and Lou bites at her lip. 

Not only is work a flimsy excuse for leaving the country without a word - the secretiveness of it all is ragging on her nerves. Why Belgium? What job had she been working there? And who had given her the tip?

When Lou had called Saul, he didn’t say a single thing about any job in Europe. And she’s certain he would have mentioned if any of Danny’s team gave Debbie a tip. Shifting in her armchair, Lou adjusts her pizza box from her lap to the floor. If she could have placed a bet, like Rose, she would have stacked her money on “work”. Debbie is an Ocean, after all; insatiable to the end. Lou doesn’t want to think about how much a tip in Belgium matters over her own feelings, doesn’t want to mull Debbie’s priorities in her mind until they sour. 

None of the rest of the team seems to mind as much as she does. They’ve almost laughed it off, classic Debbie . Fiddling with the strings of her hoodie, Lou has to remind herself that there wasn’t ever a concrete next time with these women. They were hired for one job, and that was it. Sure, like Constance, they might have hoped there would be more to come. And the hunger that follows a success wouldn’t have helped either. But with Lou, it’s different. She felt like it was guaranteed that her and Debbie would keep working together, keep on scamming and conning and planning heists until one of them either hot arrested (again), or bit the wrong end of a security guard’s bullet.

Skin suddenly crawling, Lou goes to stand. “Amita, do you want another margarita?”

“One moment,” Debbie holds up her hand before Amita can answer and Lou can move away. Their leader has managed to set the projector up on the coffee table, balancing it haphazardly among the empty boxes and bottles. As she plugs her laptop in, the image fritzes, and jumps out of focus. “Does anyone here speak French?”

A murmured chorus of “No’s” cascades around the room, the women shifting to look at one another. 

“Un poco,” Constance offers.

“Constance, that’s Spanish.” Says Tammy.

Debbie nods, spinning at a knob on the projector, until suddenly, the image shines clear as day. “That’s what I figured. But good thing I have a plan for that... because this is where our next target will be.”

Projected above the gathered crowd is one word: Paris.

Stage One

The sun has fully set, and despite the city lights that twinkle like fireflies in the air, it’s dark enough that Lou doesn’t have to pull the drapes over the windows. Debbie is in full business mode, pointing to the projected screen from her seat on the sectional, a notebook clutched in one hand. 

From her place on the armchair by the edge of the room, Lou can see her suitcase is littered with a multitude of other items: there’s a mesh bag of some kinds of electronics, a burlap sack she recognizes as Debbie’s quick disguise kit, and a collection of rolled pieces of paper, maps, building plans and electrical grids, most likely. Constance has flicked off the lights in the living room, and the dual screens of Nine Ball and Debbie’s laptops look ghostly bright. Everyone is married to the projector. It doesn’t take much to interest a conman. A pair of rhinestone glasses perched on the end of her nose, Rose is hunched over a notebook. Amita is chewing on her straw. 

Tapping through slides, Debbie outlines the operation.

It’s genius - of course it’s genius, because this is Debbie and she’s an Ocean. But Lou can’t help and feel a twinge of… something. She’s thrust into perspective as abruptly as if someone had tossed her, armchair and all, into the Hudson. This is what it must feel like to be the other members of the team: uninvolved in the planning, unfamiliar with the way Debbie’s mind works. Her toes are tapping in their socks, and suddenly her entire leg is jumping with restless energy. Taking everyone’s order, she raises herself to the kitchen to get some drinks. Better act as a bartender than sit like some hapless spectator.

“So,” Debbie is explaining, “Paris is known for its finery, and there are several high-value targets in France as a whole. We’re talking mountains of gold, and more luxury brands than you could list in a year.” Tammy is squinting at the screen, her cell phone buzzing from its place in her lap.

“Our target is a piece of art. The value is priceless, but from a reputable source I’ve gathered it can be sold for upwards of three billion dollars.” There’s a collective sharp inhale that shoots through the room. “Now I’m not exactly sure yet how that will be split, it all depends on the demands of the buyer, and of course how many people we need to complete the job. Nine Ball are you getting this?” She turns suddenly to the beanie-clad hacker, who gives a nod of affirmation, the light from her laptop making her dark eyes luminously huge. “Good, make sure you forward it to Daphne as soon as we’re done. As I was saying, the target is a piece of art, and as I’m sure you know, there are two famous art museums located within the city -”

“The Louvre!” Amita gasps, “I went walking through it with Frederick, but it’s heavily guarded, they almost wouldn’t let him inside because he was carrying a bottle of hand sanitizer .”

“No, not the Louvre,” Debbie smiles, “but close enough. We’re going to be pulling a painting from the Musee d’Orsay.” 

“Why did Frederick bring hand sanitizer on your date?” Constance whispers, and Amita shakes her off. 

“Listen close,” Debbie flips to an image of a painting, three shirtless men bent over a wooden floor, “because this is the target. The Floor Scrapers, painted in 1875 by a man named Gustave Caillebotte. Currently this painting has a permanent residence on the second floor, about 300m West of the main stairwell. It’s pinned to the wall, guarded by multiple security cameras and hair-width alarms. If anyone tries to steal or damage any painting, the museum operates by a system where emergency bars will crash down, gating that particular section. Our target sits amongst the big guns - the impressionists. He’s certainly not the most valuable painting there, but unlike the others, this painting will become vulnerable for a brief period of time within our window of opportunity - and that’s when we will advance.”

Dropping her pencil with a clatter, Rose pushes her glasses into her hair. “Deborah, you can’t be serious. This is one of the most famous art museums in the world -”

“We did the Met.” At that, Lou’s heart gives a turn. She’s halfway through shovelling ice into the blender, and she knows a thread of competition when she hears one. So this job isn’t just about the availability of the painting, or its apparent value - it’s also about Debbie trying to prove something. If they could do the Met, what’s one step up?

Rose seems to agree. “That was different,” she protests. “The exhibit was temporary -there was a hectic event for chrissakes.”

Tammy picks up, stopping her squint to turn to Debbie. Lou drops ice cubes into a glass, partially hoping that every clink will drown out what Tammy has to say. Asshole , she chides herself, when did she develop such animosity for Tammy? They’re friends, aren’t they?

“Will there be an event this time?”

“Of course.” Debbie is still smiling - hasn’t stopped since she started talking, really. “Rose will be hosting it.”

“I’ll - what?”

“In two months, the Musee d’Orsay will be hosting an exhibit of preserved fashion from the years 1399-1699. Rose will be hosting, because she will be building six reconstructions to exemplify the best fashions from each era.”

“Pardon me?” Rose’s glasses have slipped back down her nose, with her mouth open, she’s gaping like a goldfish in a bowl. “ Six ?”

Lou sets up seven glasses, side by side on the counter. Out of habit, she almost puts out an eighth, but Daphne’s not here to claim her customary Rosé.

“You’ll manage,” Debbie flicks to the next slide: a close-up of the exhibition proposal. “Tammy will help you.”

“But surely a designer has already been chosen?” 

At this, Debbie stiffens almost imperceptibly. It’s her guilty posture, the one she adopts when she knows she’s done something she shouldn’t have. “One has. It’s you - you should really check your email more often.” Before Rose can voice her shock, Debbie spills an apology, “I’m sorry, I took the liberty of signing you up back in June. I just didn’t want any element of this job to be left to chance. We might have lifted the Toussaint, but God knows, and Daphne can attest, we came too close to failure. The margin of error has to be that much lower for this heist. It has to be fucking nonexistent. So if that scares you, the door is to your right, and no hard feelings. Just know you’ll be missing out on one of the biggest thefts of this decade.”

There’s a pause, and no one stirs. Waging a silent conversation with Tammy, Rose picks up her pencil and sets her jaw. They all sit up a little straighter. Despite herself, there are chills trickling down the back of Lou’s neck. She tips one last ice cube into the glass at the end of the row. They’re all in.

“Let’s drink.” Lou eases the tension, carting her way to the sectional with a tray balanced on her arm. It’s an old wooden charcuterie board, one Debbie had bought for them actually, whenever they first moved in together, however many years ago. Now anyone who comes over will see how fancy we are, she had proclaimed, the night of some big party, as she adorned it with a cheap supermarket package of sausage, taking out the meat and arranging it until it looked like it had come straight from the butcher. Debbie was an expert at that, making people think she was worth more than she was. Following their undergrad, the trust fund kids couldn’t get enough of her. It only took their first big score for her to start tailoring her suits, and buying the best brand of cigarette. 

Lou understood; it’s all a part of a con - the con that is Debbie’s life. The more value others think you have, the more attractive you appear to someone with value. Debbie’s bagged a lot of her biggest clients and targets by posturing. Halfway to the coffee table, Lou suddenly wonders exactly what Debbie had to do to get this tip: the one that landed her in Belgium. 

Debbie’s a good liar (has to be, in her line of work), but Lou’s gotten used to the way she lies. Some parts true, some parts false: the story she had given on the couch hid elements of reality under fiction. Their team leader was tipped to Belgium, that’s for sure, but Lou would bet anything that there is more to the story than just work . 

There has to be. Maybe she’s clinging to this alternate explanation because without it, Debbie doesn’t give two shits about her. Lou has to believe there’s something else, otherwise her best friend really did walk away for a job, and on the ladder of Debbie’s life, Lou falls way below “Con Opportunity”.

Lowering the drinks makes Lou think of her bartending days, before the pair of them had left college. She got fired for trying to steal the tip jar, one of the last sloppy thefts she had ever pulled. Debbie’s eyes track her across the room, maybe she recognizes the tray she had once stolen.

Rum and coke for Nine Ball, a fresh strawberry margarita for Amita, and a steaming mug of espresso topped with two shots of Baileys for Rose. To Constance she gifts a hard Shirley Temple, and to Tammy a glass of sparkling white. After handing Debbie her martini (dry), and setting down her vodka (neat), Lou imparts one last gift, a twelve pack of Coronas piled right in the middle of the table. 

“Cheers.” Debbie announces, before Lou can make it back to her seat, and they all tip forwards, glasses clinking clumsily against each other - Nine Ball even sets down her laptop and scrambles out of her chair to knock her drink against Amita’s. Tammy leads a slightly off-kilter hip-hip-hooray. 

There’s no doubt, this heist will be the hardest any of them have ever pulled. 

Chapter Text

The Details

“To start, we need to focus on how we’re going to get into the country.” Click , a 747 is projected above the team. “Now, technically none of you have paroles to break, so we can do this the old fashioned way. However, if we want to limit our trace, that’s not looking like the best option. Airports are a good place to get caught, and, thanks to our last job, some of you have become known associates of me.”

Lou spins her finger around the neck of her bottle. It’s drawing close to midnight, and they’ve already overgone the layout of the museum, the surrounding area in Paris, and the different routes they’ll likely leave the museum by. Hypotheticals, to say the least. Debbie has also helpfully outlined the layout of a French prison cell, labelled with a special note: We do not want to end up here. It’s risky - they all know it’s risky - and although the money serves as an incentive, the drive not to get caught is the biggest motivator of all. 

There’s already been several breaks, and several drink refills. Rose is starting to nod off, and Amita slaps gently at her shoulder everytime her head tilts backwards. In the corner, Nine Ball is hastily typing on her laptop. She’s plugged into some of the strange electronic things Debbie had packed in her suitcase, and they flash different coloured lights which none of them know the meaning of. Since Debbie asked her to find out everything she could about the Musee d’Orsay security system, she hasn’t looked up once.

“When crime is international, it falls under the jurisdiction of - say it with me, ladies - INTERPOL. And if there’s anything we know, French INTERPOL is some of the worst .”

“Boo!” Constance tosses a handful of popcorn towards the screen, which is currently showing the profile of an officer with unruly eyebrows and a dark handlebar moustache. Jean-Luc Renard, the head of INTERPOL in Paris, sneers over the room. He has nearly a one-hundred percent success rate, a perfect arrest record, and is awarded as one of the best marksmen in the force. Reading his statistics, Tammy nearly chokes on her beer.

“Fortunately,” Debbie continues, leaning back against the couch, the picture of ease, “there’s one way we can fly in and out of the city without anyone knowing we’ve even stepped foot on Parisian soil.” She clicks through to the next slide, above them shines a Hawker 400 XP, a luxury private jet.

“Deb,” Tammy sits forwards, adjusting the sleeves of her blouse, “how are we gonna get a private jet? It will take weeks to buy, not to mention licensing, piloting, communicating with international airspace…”

“Luckily for us,” Debbie downs the rest of her second martini, “we already know someone who not only owns her own jet, but is licensed to fly it.”

Around the room, a common understanding unfolds. 

***

“I talked to Daphne when you guys were going over the museum security routines.” They’re standing on the corner of 18th Street, waiting in line at the 24 hour cafe. The sky overhead has broken into a persistent summer rainstorm, and the three of them are being pelted by sideways rain. Debbie has her nose tucked inside the collar of her trench coat, Constance is huddled underneath her hood, and Lou is trying her best to tough it out, the fat droplets soaking into the back of her head. “She says she’s in, she also says we can use her jet.”

It’s nearing two in the morning, and they have yet to really break into the nitty-gritty of Debbie’s plan. So far they’ve been planning around , like golfers setting balls on tees. Soon, Lou knows that Debbie will come through with a driver. 

When Constance and Lou offered to go for refreshments, Debbie jumped at the chance to go with them, and well, they couldn’t really say no . Plus Lou’s starting to admit that keeping her distance from Debbie doesn’t mean she has to stay physically distant. If this heist is going to need all hands on deck, well, Lou needs to be here, cooperating, helping plan. As uncomfortable as Debbie’s sudden return is making her feel, Lou knows that she, and the rest of the team, deserve the best shot possible at the target. And yeah, maybe it sounds arrogant - but they can’t do it without her. 

“Do you know what else she said?” Debbie asks, as they move forward in line. “She said she’d be okay with taking a decreased cut as well. More for the rest of us.”

Now that is unexpected. Lou wipes at the damp bangs which are starting to cling to her forehead. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“Well yeah,” Constance offers, hopping on the toes of her Vans. The puddle they’re standing in is starting to discolour all of their shoes. “Didn’t you hear what she made on her last movie, as director? She banked more than she got for the Toussaint, sixty mil.”

“Christ.” Lou says; Debbie shakes her head. 

***

“Daphne will fly us in to this airstrip, here.” Debbie circles the map on the projector. “She’ll leave to meet with security; it’s customary that someone will have to enter the aircraft and do a sweep for dangerous goods. The sweep needs to occur within 24 hours of landing. Also important, the plane cannot remain on the airstrip, so Daphne will have to taxi it to an empty lot - here -” another circle, “which is locked from the outside at night.”

A diagram of the plane appears on the wall. “During Daphne’s meeting with security, we will hide here, and here. As soon as she taxis it into the lot, we need to leave before the dangerous goods sweep, and before the gates are locked. That gives us a window of about two hours to leave the private airfield, and set ourselves up: here.” She circles a building on a map of downtown Paris. “This is an apartment owned by my good friend Saul Bloom, it will be our base of operations in Paris. That way we won’t have any credit cards flagged on hotel bookings”

“How will we get there?” Lou calls out from her armchair. “We can’t exactly walk.”

“We’re not going to walk.” Debbie taps her pen once, against her teeth, before flicking to the next slide. A van belonging to an electrical company. “Rose will fly in normally, whenever the museum wants her to arrive and help with planning. She’ll meet with a contact there, an extra member of our team, who will be the one to pick us up.”

“Who?” Amita asks, her head propped in her chin. She’s tired, they all are. 

“I’m not sure yet, we have a couple options, but her role will be very important. She’ll be our translator.”

***

They break around three in the morning; Nine Ball calls a taxi that will drop off her and Amita, and Rose generously offers Tammy the extra bed in her hotel suite. Soon it’s just Debbie, Lou, and Constance stacking empty cups and plates and beer bottles onto the kitchen counter. 

Standing at the sink and scrubbing at Constance’s Shirley Temple glass, Lou feels suddenly tight. Like someone has taken her muscles, and spun them around a Ferris Wheel. Emptying the dishwasher, her hair tucked behind her ears, Debbie looks completely at ease - as if it’s not her first night back in the loft, as if she’s been here the whole time. Inside, Lou’s resolve is flipping back and forth like a Weather Vane. Whatever conversation she and Debbie needs to have isn’t finished. It’s nowhere even close to being done. Lou still needs time to unpack and unravel Debbie’s story, to sort out the lies and hound at the truth.

If anything, she knows Debbie isn’t going to crack until the time is right, isn’t going to give up any more information than is absolutely necessary. And it’s driving Lou crazy . She wants to sulk again, she wants to demand answers, she wants to hug her best friend, because goddammit , she hasn’t touched her in over a year. 

Instead she stalls, the sponge dripping in her right hand, clears her throat. “So, you’re staying here tonight then.”

Debbie methodically sorts spoons into their cutlery drawer. “Uh, I was planning on it. But it looks like someone unloaded an entire Amazon warehouse in my bedroom.”

Lou drops the cup in their drying rack. Debbie Ocean, the woman with a plan. She wouldn’t be able to walk two steps without a To-Do list in one hand. 

“Oh, that’s mine.” Constance is trying to make a playing card house out of the pizza boxes. “I’ve been staying here, sorry.”

“Well that explains it,” Debbie moves to pat her hands on a dish towel, “I thought Tammy had been stealing from Zumiez again.” At the casual mention of Tammy’s name, Lou’s stomach clenches. “What happened to your apartment, Constance?” There’s a way that Debbie talks, the tone of her voice is always business-like, always professional, but underneath it is unmistakable kindness. Their team leader could be talking to them, the FBI, even the Queen of England, and her voice would always be the same. 

“I - well, I lent it to David Dobrik, for the weekend - you know him - we were gonna collaborate on something together - but then like, he wouldn’t leave.  Plus, having a big apartment, like, to yourself, is a real flex, but it’s also kind of a bummer because you never see anyone. So then I thought, hey, I know who has a spare room. Because, y’know, you ran away, or joined a cult, or whatever. But -” She’s backtracking now, and Lou can tell she’s nervous, the pizza boxes aren’t as balanced as they should be. “Not that there’s anything wrong with, y’know, leaving and not telling us where you were going… I can move my stuff out of your room if you want.”

Debbie’s smiling. “Hey, it’s okay, keep it. I’ll crash on the couch. It’s about time I started looking for my own place as well.”

Rinsing out the sink, Lou’s heart sinks like an anchor at sea. Before she can add a comment, or even a cheap remark about New York real estate, Debbie is facing her, head on. 

“Do you want to look over translators tomorrow?”

“It will have to be later, I have yoga in -” she checks her watch - “three and a half hours.”

Debbie’s eyes are twinkling, one side of her mouth twisted upwards. “You don’t do yoga,” and in catching Lou’s expression: “since when have you done yoga?”

The weight in Lou’s heart settles over the rest of her bones. “So what if I do? A lot has changed since you left, Deb.” And before anyone can say anything, she tosses the sponge into the sink with a spray of soap, and stomps to her room. 

Working

They slip back into their old routine. It’s easy - almost too easy, but the thrill of a new job has put Lou’s resentment on a back burner. They spend the nights brainstorming, scribbling on building plans and maps of the city, using Google Earth to visualize eyelines and virtual walk-throughs to prepare escape routes. If she tries hard enough, Lou can look over their endless notes, pictures, references, ideas ( get Tammy a wig? ), and pretend like nothing has changed - like nothing is wrong. She and Debbie are planning a heist, just like they always do -  and they’re together, just like they always are. 

The old routine also means that she and Debbie have been going on long coffee breaks (sans Constance), busy scrapping and rewriting elements of their plan, in time to discuss it with the team at night. While they’re gone, everyone else mills about, and works as hard as possible to tie up the operation before they embark. Rose is already finished two costumes. (Luckily they’re not meant to be accurate reconstructions, but instead, Rose’s own “interpretation”, as the leader of the exhibit had said when they called each other). And Nine Ball has tapped her way into the security camera network, though the alarm system remains untouchable (“I think I can stop one gate,” she says, as they bend over her laptop screen. 

Debbie pats her on the arm. “Don’t worry about that, for now.)

It’s the mornings that keep Lou from being completely comfortable in their familiar routine. She wakes before anyone else, and on her way out the door, her gym bag tucked under her arm, she passes Debbie, asleep on the couch. Moving her way through upward dog and downward dog, the image of Debbie, her arm bent below her head and her blanket tucked neatly over her shoulder, swims before Lou’s eyes. By the time she gets back, Debbie will be yawning in front of a pot of coffee, likely already bent over a drawing board, with her hair mussed together in the back. All morning she pads gingerly around the loft, feet soundless into a pair of slippers, politely groaning about her neck or her back. Really, she’s too old to be spending weeks sleeping on a couch. 

This morning, when Lou gets back, droplets of sweat plastered to her skin, as aided by the muggy air outside, everyone is crowded into their loft. Debbie, of course, is in the middle of it: standing behind the island and shovelling eggs onto everyone’s plate like she’s a lunch lady in a school cafeteria. Still donning a pair of flannel pajamas, Constance waves at her: “Scrambled or fried?”

“No thanks.” Lou drops her bag at the door, stalking towards the dreadfully empty coffee pot. “I ate after class.” A scone. She had split a scone with her yoga instructor Samia. They had wandered into a tiny cafe two doors down from Samia’s studio. Lou had been in a skeptical mood. She wasn’t sure if this was a date or not. She wasn’t sure if she wanted it to be a date. If Samia had asked her a week ago, before Debbie had walked back through the door, she might have been more enthusiastic. Or maybe she wouldn’t have been - it was a conundrum. Lou’s wavering feelings are starting to pick at her nerves. But there is nothing she can do about them. You can’t fist-fight your emotions. 

Tammy is at the counter, chopping fruit like she’s a professional chef. “I wanted to talk to you too,” she says, her voice unnecessarily hushed, as Lou draws close.

Turning back towards the stove, Debbie raises an eyebrow. First it’s directed at Lou, a clear: where have you been , and secondly, at Tammy: why are you whispering .

“The week we’re in Paris, I looked at the museum directory. Our painting isn’t going to be displayed.”

Debbie nods. “That’s the plan.”

Dropping her knife, Tammy stares. “ That’s the plan?”

Lou is similarly confused, she and Debbie haven’t talked through this aspect of the job yet - the actual grabbing of the painting, and if it’s not even going to be on the wall, then…

“I was going to go over it today.” Debbie is chewing at the inside of her mouth. Ah , suddenly Lou understands. Her hesitation isn’t in her strategy itself, but the way she needs to relay it to the rest of the team. That’s the problem with Debbie, she thinks so fast, and covers so many details, that sometimes it’s impossible to keep up. The struggle is never planning the job, instead, it’s getting everyone else to follow it, exactly the way she sees it in her head. Their leader looks up. “Tam, can you cover the stove for a bit? Or get Amita to help you. We’re just going to duck to the store - I forgot how much everyone eats .”

Lou doesn’t even have to ask to know who the unnamed “we” is. She follows Debbie out the door.

*** 

“I found a translator.” 

They’re standing in the baking aisle. Lou is holding the basket as Debbie ponders over two different boxes of pancake mix. 

“Really?”

Without looking, Debbie passes Lou her phone. It’s open to the Facebook profile of a girl around half their age. “Gertie LaFleur. Lived in Paris her whole life, speaks English fluently, she’s worked two jobs with Marc Champlain.”

“Uh huh,” says Lou, still scrolling. Gertie looks exactly like the kind of artsy girl who would hire her and Debbie in college: black dyed hair, hundreds of piercings, a bar through her eyebrow, and a tattoo of a sword running all the way up her chest. Lou can place her immediately: stoner . “What’s her incentive?”

“Little bit of an anarchist, hates the government,” says Debbie, finally choosing a brand and tossing two boxes into their basket. “Also her sister has been locked up for nearly a year, she got caught working a job with Henry Big. Gertie wants a stab back at INTERPOL.” They start to move towards the check-out line, Debbie grabbing a jug of orange juice, before she pauses. “Someone’s waving at you.”

Following the line of Debbie’s pointed gaze, Lou turns around to see Samia, standing by the produce section. “No one’s waving at me.”

“Yes she is, right there.”

“I don’t see anyone.” Not wanting to raise her hand, Lou tries to wave back at Samia with her eyes. 

“Who is that?”

Knowing that Debbie isn’t going to let it rest, Lou finally gives up, and waves. “I said it’s no one.”

Like wind on a warm day, she can feel Debbie stiffen behind her. “Right. I left. So why should I get to know.”

Fleeting satisfaction is outweighed by unmeaning guilt, and Lou instantly feels bad. “Deb -”

Her friend tugs the basket from her with two hands. It’s hot today, and her hair is pulled into a ponytail that swings as she moves. “I’ll take this and pay. See you at the loft.”

For a second, Lou almost does as she says. But before she can think, she’s chasing after Debbie. It’s second nature, and just another part of slipping back into their old routine. Debbie leads, Lou follows. She weaves through lines of people with baskets and carts, nearly knocking into an old woman with an armful of papayas, before she catches up. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem?” Debbie hisses. She’s already placing her groceries on the belt. At the registry, the cashier offers Lou a tight-lipped smile, clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t get to have a problem. Not even if my best friend has been treating me like shit since I got back. Oh no, because it’s my fault -”

“It is your fault,” argues Lou, shoving their groceries into a reusable bag. “I have a right to be fucking pissed and you know it.”

“God Lou,” Debbie huffs, snatching her receipt without looking, “could you just not be so fucking pissed all the time .” 

They’re stalking out of the store and down the street. Every couple of steps, Debbie pulls ahead, and then Lou hurries to catch up with her, and then she’ll pull ahead and Debbie will do the same. By the time they’re a block away from the store, they’re practically jogging. Despite the sun beating down from overhead, Lou feels a kind of nauseous chill. She knows it’s because they’re right on the cusp of a real argument. One that will end in actual answers , one that will mean either progress, or another disappearance. But goddammit, they don’t have time . The date of their operation is looming like a thundercloud on the horizon - it will be here all too fast, and they still have too much to do. The team can’t handle a blow-out - they’re all on edge as is. Lou hates to admit, because she wants it so bad that it feels like someone has tied a rope around her stomach and is pulling her towards it, but a fight would just be selfish. She changes the subject. “Why did you bring me with you? Is it about what Tammy said?”

Her friend slows, chewing her thumbnail. “We’re getting into the details now. And if the team doesn’t have faith we can pull this part off, we’re screwed.” 

“The part where we actually lift the painting, you mean?”

Nodding, Debbie pulls to a stop outside their building. “It’s not going to be easy. And if they don’t like what they hear, then I don’t know what to do.”

“Nothing ever is with you,” Lou counters, fishing for her key, “and if they don’t like it, we can’t force this job. You know that.”

“I know.” Debbie shoulders the bag of groceries as they step inside. “This phase means we need to add someone else to the team.”

Lou pauses in her tracks. The translator already means their cut is down - one more person will only lower it further. “Who?” She calls out.

Already at the elevator, Debbie turns around. She’s smiling, it’s an anticipatory smile, a know-it-all smile. Here is a woman who has it all figured out. “A painter.”

Chapter Text

The Nitty Gritty

Once there is a breakfast plate - piled with eggs, pancakes, and a variety of fresh fruit - balanced precariously on everyone’s laps, Debbie starts to speak. 

“I have trouble voicing my plans because I want everyone to have the same faith in them that I do - and I know that’s not something I can control. I like to know every outcome, I don’t like situations that don’t have an absolute result.” They all make sympathetic noises, Tammy reaching her hand towards Debbie like she wants to pat her on the knee. As Debbie looks towards the toes of her slippers, and back up, Lou can’t help but wonder how Debbie anticipated her own return. There’s no doubt at least a month of planning would have gone into it, no doubt she had a contingency for every reaction it might cause. What outcome did she foresee with Lou? Did she expect what she got? 

“That being said,” her voice is stronger now, and she scans the room with warm intensity, “no more secrets.” With that, she looks unwaveringly at Lou. “Whatever I know, you know. We’ll build this operation together - after all, it is our job.” Eyes soft, Debbie almost smiles. “Complete transparency.”

It’s an outright lie, and Lou knows it. 

Nevertheless, everyone nods along, completely in Debbie’s spell. Tammy has her mouth open, a perfect ‘O’ of compassionate understanding. Lou’s breakfast churns in her stomach. 

Taking note of the silence, Debbie grimaces around her glass of orange juice, before continuing. The projector is back on, though it’s hard to see in the bright morning light. Finally, the details of the plan begin to spill out.

“Here’s how it’s going to go. Rose’s show will give us unlimited access to the main floor, as well as serve as a distraction to the public. On the second day of her exhibition, Constance and Amita will enter the Museum via the main entrance. Constance will lift an access card off of a security guard. The card will give us free reign through the entire museum’s archives, as well as it’s restoration wing, located here .” Debbie circles a long hallway on the building's blueprints, sectioned off from the rest of the museum. Already, Constance is nearly hopping out of her seat at the prospect of pickpocketing. Picking at her cuticles, Amita meets Debbie’s direction with a weak smile. 

“The pair of them will use the card to enter this hallway. As Constance uses this device-” She lifts a small black box out of her pocket - “to send the virtual electronic signature of the card back to Nine Ball, who will then produce copies of it to give to the rest of us, Amita will plant an electronic tripwire at the end of the hallway. The purpose of the tripwire is to alert us to incoming security.”

“Wait,” Nine Ball shifts around her laptop, “why are we focusing on this wing? I thought the painting would be on display?”

Squaring her shoulders, Debbie clicks to the next slide. “Like I said when we first started planning this job, we have a unique opportunity to lift this painting. And that’s because on the third day of Rose’s show, the day of our heist, it will be removed from the wall by a team of security, and brought back into this wing for restoration.”

The room crackles, it’s as though everyone wants to start asking questions, to murmur to one another, to clap their hands in surprise - but they’re stuck, frozen under Debbie’s enchantment. Lou, just like everyone else, wants - no, needs to hear what happens next. 

“When the painting is brought back to this room, a renowned classical art restorator will be coming with a team of assistants to work on it. Her name is Maxine Dupont.” And with that, Debbie clicks to the next slide, and the team finally erupts into a gasp.

“Tammy!” Rose exclaims, looking horrified, and the others echo her sentiment.

Maxine Dupont, world-renowned restorator, projected on the wall, shares an absolutely uncanny resemblance to Tammy. Her hair is red, and she sports a pair of horn rimmed glasses, but other than that the pair of them could be sisters. 

“I’m guessing that will be me?” Tammy asks, bringing up one hand to her perfect blonde curls. 

Bolstered by their energy, Debbie pushes on. “Tammy will be taking the place of Madame Dupont. In order to enter the museum, and be granted access to the painting, she’ll need to have both the real Maxine’s identification, and her special-access card. Only the restorators have these cards, so the only way we'll be able to lift it is on the day of.

“Over the week, Nine Ball will set up a vast communications network, she’ll also gain access to the CCTV cameras located in key locations. One of these is the street outside Maxine’s house. On the day of the heist, Constance and Amita will create a traffic diversion, blocking Maxine in and stopping her from coming into work. During the confusion, Constance will lift her credentials and hand them off to Lou driving past.”

Lou stiffens at the sudden mention of her name. At the front of the room, Debbie’s eyes flicker uncertainly to hers before fixing themselves on Tammy. Ignoring the sudden clenching in her chest, Lou tries to give the best show of attentiveness. 

“Lou will be driving this vehicle,” it’s the same van they’ll drive to Saul’s apartment, “inside will be Tammy as well as the painter. Once they get to the museum, they’ll present themselves to the staff. I mentioned before that Nine Ball will set up a communications network between all of us. The translator will be working by her side, ensuring easy communication between us and everyone at the museum. She’ll also supply Tammy with her lines-”

“How?” Tammy is scribbling furiously in a pink notebook.

“With this.” Debbie lifts a tiny earpiece from her pocket. Each one of us will have one. Programmed by Nine Ball of course.” She nods, and then addresses their tech expert directly. “I mentioned before that you won’t be able to stop their security system, or if you do, there’s no way to hack it without being traced. But if you can gain access to the security cameras in the museum it will give us an advantage. One that will be even bigger if you can create a blind spot outside the restoration room.”

Adjusting her beanie, Nine Ball offers the smallest flicker of acknowledgement. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“On the floor will be me and Rose, keeping watch over security; with Dupont will be Amita and Constance; in Saul’s apartment will be Nine Ball and Gertie; and in the restoration room will be Tammy, Lou, and our painter.”

“Who?” 

Debbie clicks to the next slide, on it is a smiling, round-faced woman with familiarly dark eyebrows. Before Debbie can even speak, unease settles over Lou’s stomach like she’s just taken a shot of poison. “This is Barbara Becker. You might recognize the last name, and yes, she is Claude Becker’s sister.”

“Deb,” Lou says, and she can’t contain how horrified she sounds, “what are you doing?”

“Barbara’s an incredible painter - she’s imitated classics before, well enough that I’ve been able to sell them.”

“I don’t care how good she is.” Lou leans forward, well aware that everyone else is following their exchange like it’s a tennis match, heads swivelling back and forth. “You’re crazy if you think we can trust her.”

“I know she’s never worked ground on a con before, but neither had half of these ladies before we brought them in on the last one-”

“It’s not about experience. What makes you think she won’t give us up to INTERPOL as soon as we’re in Paris? You framed her brother Deb. I don’t care if you were friends before, I don’t care if you trusted her. She’s going to want revenge .”

“Barb hated Claude.” Debbie says coldly, “They may have worked together but they weren’t friends, they were hardly even siblings. I know she can imitate this painting well enough that we can replace it and it won’t be discovered until the next restoration, which won’t occur for three years . That’s three years clearance if we pull this off!”

“So get another painter.” If there was a wall nearby, Lou might punch it in frustration. God , Debbie and her insufferable urge to put herself at risk, to toe the line between professional and personal. She was going to get the rest of them killed - or more likely: she was going to get herself killed. Stupid, self-sacrificing, bleeding-heart, master-planning - 

“I owe Barbara.” Debbie asserts. Lou can tell she wants to stomp her foot. “I put Claude in prison, and he was her main source of income. Claude organized the jobs, and Claude hosted her at his gallery. I didn’t stay in touch after prison and that’s my fault. Look I know Barb. She’ll work this job quietly, she’ll want the profit as much as any of us. Her brother set me up, I set up her brother- it’s over. Trust me. Trust me Lou.”

And it’s the sound of her name that does it. It’s disarming, like someone pouring a bucket of ice water over her head. Coming from Debbie, the sound of her name makes her want to jump on her motorcycle, scream into the void, hang one-handed from the Eiffel Tower. Lou flops back into her seat - when had she even stood up? Her fists are still half clenched, and she crosses them over her chest. Her heart is thumping from their almost-argument. And she knows that’s because once again Debbie and her are on a precipice. What would happen if Lou kept pushing? Would Debbie concede? Open up? Explain her whole damn disappearance? Or would she pack her bags, cancel the heist, and be on a flight out of New York in the morning. Even as they tumble through a tenuous back and forth, the rest of the team watching them like anxious rabbits, Lou can’t stop the tiny voice in the back of her head that whispers at least Debbie came back at all . 

“Well I think she looks lovely.” Rose breaks the tension, nudging her glasses up her nose. “When will she start painting?” 

“She’s already started,” Debbie says, and the tension grows over Lou’s spine. “She’ll be finished the day before we fly. And when we get her into the restoration room, all she’ll do are  a few side by side touch-ups, switch the frames, and then we’re set.”

“How do we get out?” Amita asks, tapping one finger against the side of her orange juice glass. “I know me and Constance will be okay, but-”

“Tammy will leave by the front door, we don’t want to implicate Maxine, so it’s important she gets out of there fast. Lou and Barb will take the painting out the back to the truck, leaving the fake in its place. I’ll have a day pass, so I’ll exit the front door, and Rose will wrap up her show for the night and meet us at Saul’s.”

“And Saul’s is where I’ll take the painting?” Lou asks, watching as Debbie flicks through slides that show their exit strategy. 

“You’ll take the painting straight to the buyers,” Debbie confirms. “They’ve agreed to meet us in Paris.”

Whistling under her breath, Constance catches Lou’s eye. “Three billion dollars.”

Flipping off the projector, Debbie finally breaks into a smile. “Easy, right?”

One More Thing

They break around lunch: Constance and Tammy volunteer to pick up Vietnamese take-out, Nine Ball runs back to her apartment to grab some extra modems and a wireless booster, Rose nods off on the couch (“Poor thing,” Amita had said, tucking the blanket over her shoulders, “she stayed up all night working on a waistcoat).

Despite their argument, and despite the fact that Claude Becker (evil gremlin of a man) is somehow still going to be involved in this job, there’s a buzzing in the lining of Lou’s gut, and it takes a minute to recognize what it is. She’s excited . It feels like the puzzle pieces of the last year are falling into place. Adrenaline and anticipation mix in her bloodstream. It feels so good just to be working a job again - not to mention a job with Debbie. 

Soon there are only three of them: Lou stacking plates in the dishwasher, Debbie scrawling over the blueprints, and Amita loitering by the island, passing her glass back from hand to hand.

“Debbie,” she starts suddenly, before looking like she immediately regrets it, “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Hm?” Debbie hums, barely lifting her head from her plans. 

“It’s just - I get how you need everyone for this job to work, Constance for the cards, Nine Ball for the cameras, Tammy to impersonate Maxine, Rose for the show… Even the translator and the painter.”

“Gertie and Barbara,” Debbie supplies, “get used to their names - we’ll all be working as a team.”

“That's just the thing.” Her glass makes a vibrating sound as it spins over the countertop. The rhythm matches that of a metronome, and Lou could almost fall asleep herself. Rose is starting to look enviably comfortable. “I know why you picked me for the Met, I was the jewelry expert. But there aren’t any jewels at the Musée, just paintings.”

Her attention piqued, Debbie finally raises up, dropping her pencil to look Amita in the face. “What’s your point?”

“My point is, I’m useless here. I don’t add any value to the team.”

“Woah kid-” says Lou, at the same time Debbie says: “that’s not true.” 

She’s quiet, quiet enough that they can all tell immediately she isn’t lying. Lou catches the glass from Amita before she can slide it again; and before she can protest, Debbie starts talking. 

“Amita, just because you don’t have an area of focus here doesn’t mean your role isn’t valuable. You have a part in this job just like everyone else. And yes, last time I picked you because you knew your jewels, but this time I still picked you, even without them.”

“Why?” Asks Amita, and without the glass to fiddle with, her hand curls limply on the countertop. Lou recognizes her anxiety - she’s been feeling it more, recently: the stomach-eating worry that Debbie won’t need her, that Debbie doesn’t find her important. 

“Because we trust you.” Debbie says simply. And when Amita’s eyes flicker uncertainly to Lou, she can only nod to confirm. As much as she was skeptical of their ragtag little team at first, she wouldn’t want to work a job with anyone else. Maybe that’s why Debbie’s spontaneous new additions, while necessary, have needled at her nerves so much.

“It’s only two more people,” Lou says, maybe more to herself than to Amita. The younger woman offers a brief smile, which is quickly cut off by a rather large shuffling sound from Debbie’s direction. Their leader is currently scrounging on the floor - it appears that she dropped her pencil, and it’s buried somewhere underneath rolls of blueprints and scraps of street maps. After another minute of shuffling, Lou finally addresses the bottoms of Debbie’s slippers: all that can be seen under their mess of plans. “Need help?”

“Got it.” Her hand emerges from the rubble, pencil in grip. “And that’s not quite true, Lou.”

“What?”

Dusting off her pants, Debbie stands. “There’s still one more person this team is missing - and I was hoping you could help me look for them.”

Lou pinches her brow. “Who?”

By the time Debbie finishes checking her pencil for damage, and answers, Amita is already tapping her fingernails against the counter. “A hitter.”