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“Tate Modern,” suggested Danny.
Rusty groaned and pulled a pillow over his head. “I think you should take up smoking again.”
“What?”
Usually, when Danny said, “What?”, it meant he didn’t want to understand, not that he was actually confused. Rusty kept the pillow where it was until Danny kicked his ankle.
“What?” he repeated.
“When you smoke afterwards,” explained Rusty, with immense patience, “I get five fucking minutes of peace to enjoy my orgasm, not an immediate list of which cultural institutions you’d most like to be arrested breaking into next.”
“We could definitely take the Tate Modern,” said Danny, with endorphin-fuelled conviction.
“If Roman can’t find a way around the facial recognition, nobody can.”
“So we–”
“No fake facial hair.”
“Surely the system can’t–”
“I’m not thinking about the system. If I have to see you in that godawful beard one more time, you can say goodbye to your chances of getting laid again anytime this year.”
The threat did its job. Rusty got a whole three minutes of silence in which to catalog his aches, which were numerous and pleasant. Then–
“The Fitzhanger Gallery.”
Rusty opened his mouth to explain why stealing from the Fitzhanger Gallery, a poorly guarded temple of Post-Impressionism with an overcrowded and understaffed gala show scheduled for the next month, would be a bad idea – and came up dry. This was the problem with Danny’s pillow talk: nine times out of ten it made Rusty want to throttle him, and the tenth time it was literally worth a billion dollars.
“So,” said Danny, grinning like he knew exactly what was going through Rusty’s head. “Saul. The Malloys. Anyone else we need?”
“Shut up and let me think,” said Rusty mildly.
“If we could–”
Rusty leaned over and kissed him until he stopped trying to talk. “I said shut up and let me think.”
Danny rolled his eyes, then flipped them both over and started making his way down Rusty’s body with intent.
“By all means,” he said when Rusty threw him a vaguely scandalized look, “keep thinking.”
“Linus,” said Rusty, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand as Danny’s tongue trailed over his hip. “Fitzhanger’s staff are obsessively loyal. We can’t buy them off, so we’ll need someone to steal the keys instead.”
“Mm,” agreed Danny, mouth otherwise occupied.
“Livingston. Their security’s not going to be good, but we’ll still need someone to – shit – handle the cameras.”
“Sure.”
“And maybe – ah – another distraction, which means– fuck, Danny, stop, I can’t–”
“Oh,” said Danny, face the very picture of innocence, “now you want to focus on the heist?”
“Why do I put up with you?” asked Rusty, just as Danny did something with his tongue that made it abundantly clear why Rusty put up with him. “Fuck, okay, Frank, we’ll need Frank for the distraction, God, Danny, c’mon–”
“So,” said Danny a little while later, “about Fitzhanger–”
Rusty groaned and pulled a pillow over his head.