Chapter Text
John was in the middle of a very awkward position when Roger Taylor barged into the vault and into John’s life.
His hands were firmly planted on the black-and-white checkered floor, supporting most of his weight with his arms as he lifts his legs above the ground, carefully avoiding the red laser beams crisscrossing the room at random angles. He froze as he spotted a blond man standing at the entrance of the room.
After committing his first crime at the age of twelve, John Richard Deacon had only been caught three times.
The first time, it was because of a security camera hidden away at the corner of a convenience store, which John hadn’t noticed because he had been desperate to fill his stomach with food that didn’t come from the floor or garbage cans. John had been thirteen at the time, and had not been careful enough, but ever since then, he had learned a few tricks that could render any security camera useless. It had started with learning to find the blind spots in certain areas, and had evolved into him learning to loop security footages.
The second time, he had been betrayed by the gang he once thought of as his family. At the age of fifteen, John had switched from being a cat-burglar to becoming a car thief. He had joined a local gang of car thieves, mostly made up of ruffians over the age of twenty, so being the youngest and weakest among the group, he was often pushed around and made fun of. But that didn’t matter to him. What mattered was that they provided him with a place where he could learn, and accepted him as the homeless runaway that he was, without making a huge fuss about it.
The workshop where they worked for hours every day had become the closest thing John had to a home—a familiar place where he’s accepted as he was, like the house where he lived in back when his parents were alive and the world seemed like a magical place—and George Parker’s gang had been one huge family to him, even with the frequent scuffles amongst the members.
The workshop was raided one day, although most of the gang had long since been gone by then; all but for two members who had not been warned about the raid as the others had been. One of the members they had left in the dark about it had been a man called Fagin, a sickly, thin old man who tends to mumble and talk to himself, which had him pegged as the creep of the town, and the other had been John. Fifteen-year-old John Deacon learns to trust no one but himself that day.
The third time was life-changing, although it wasn’t anywhere nearly as traumatic. John had broken into a huge mansion at the end of Livingstone Street, and had almost managed to get away with some jewellery when an old woman appeared before him, so suddenly and without the slightest of sound. She was small and frail, her wild, greying hair a stark contrast to her dark skin, and she had been dressed in an oversized black shirt. If it wasn’t because of her harmless-looking appearance, in his panic John would’ve considered smashing her head in with the trophy on the shelf beside him.
But her warm smile had thrown him off. It was kind and gentle, and it reminded John of his own mother more than he liked to admit. Her steps were slow and shaky, but unnaturally silent as she closed the distance between them and took his hand into her dark, wrinkly ones. That was the day John became the apprentice of the legendary thief, Thema Scott. John didn’t know what he did to deserve such luck (but if he had to guess, he would’ve said that it was the time he jumped into a river to save a littre of kittens tied up in an old yellowed sack when he was eleven) but it’s unthinkable that John would be lucky enough to get caught by a thief instead of a cop for the second time. Or is it?
Maybe it’s lucky enough that as John froze in panic, eyes wide and jaws firmly clenched, the blond man who had caught him in the middle of making his way through the laser did not seem to respond right away. He stood at the doorway, clear blue eyes wide and mouth slightly agape as he stared at John in what seemed like a mix of surprise and awe.
When his arms began to shake, signaling him that he had been in the same position for far too long, John resumed his acrobatic movements through the spaces between the lasers, as if he hadn’t just been caught. The elevator that will ensure his escape stood across from him, behind the pedestal where the intricately-designed, trophy-sized sculpture from the 17th century was placed, protected by bulletproof glass and two lines of red lasers circling it like two planets orbiting its sun.
The sculpture was shaped like a man crawling on his hands and knees, face morphed into an expression of despair. John had never been big on art and never really understood how some people could stand and look at paintings in appreciation for hours (despite having stolen countless works of art from places like Musee du Louvre and the Art Institute of Chicago) but he hated this particular artwork because it gave off a very creepy vibe. Poids de la Misère, they call it, and from what John found out whilst doing research on it, the miniature sculpture was the last work of Lucien Allard before the artist ended his own life.
If he could just take the statue fast enough and make a break for his life, he wouldn’t need to spend the rest of his life in prison. He can’t get caught now, not whilst he was carrying the hope and expectation of history's most-wanted thief.
He chanced a breath of relief once he reached the end of the laser grid, but did not waste any time before taking a circular plate-sized device out of his small backpack. Puss, as he liked to call it, rested cold and heavy in the palms of his hand. It was a laser glass-cutter which he had designed and built himself, over the course of almost nine months (it’s like his baby in some ways) and Thema had been really proud of him for creating it. He pushed the silver button at its center and watched as it whirred into life, two blue circles lighting up as a signal that it’s ready for use.
“Hey, um, are you going to steal that?” A soft, raspy voice broke through the silence as John eyed the two lasers moving rapidly to circle the glass box protecting Poids de la Misère, trying to find the right moment to connect the adhesive side of Puss to the surface of the glass. (John’s mind should really have helped him by coming up with ideas of how to get rid of the threat standing across the room, separated from John and his proud invention by the laser grid in the middle of the vault, but all it supplied him with was the thought about how cute the said-threat sounded with his slight accent.)
John probably should have ignored him and carried on with his task, but instead, he turns around to face the man on the other side of the room. He can’t focus on stealing Poids de la Misère if someone was blatantly watching him from behind—at least that’s what John told himself as he finally had a proper look upon the blond man.
He looked young, probably almost as young as John was, and was wearing a black shirt with intricate, black floral design, with the first few buttons left unfastened. Tight leather pants hugged his legs, and his sparkly pink converses stood out against the black and white of the checkered floor. He wasn’t dressed like someone who would be inside Martin Chance’s company vault at 3 o’ clock in the morning.
John shrugged in response to his question, maintaining a neutral expression.
“No, I’m just gonna look at it and put it back,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his tone, thick and viscous as honey. The blond man’s clear blue eyes seemed to light up in amusement, the corners of his lips tugged upwards into a small smile as he chuckled. (Thema told him that his sense of humour is comparable to a rotting banana, but if anything good came out of this night at all, it’s the fact that John knows now that his mentor must have been wrong.)
John’s unhelpful mind supplied him with unwanted thoughts of how cute the blond looked, with his huge eyes and cherubic features.
“Well, I came here to steal it too, so I can’t let you have it, mate,” the other man said with an easy smile. For a moment, John wondered if he was also being sarcastic—his tone seemed serious, despite how happily he had said it, and his blue eyes looked at John unblinkingly as the words slipped from his mouth.
John frowns in doubt and confusion as he noted, “You’re not dressed like a thief.”
“I’m dressed like a fashionable thief,” he replied, not missing a beat, and it earned him a small smile from John. John shook his head, turning around to face the miniature sculpture. He really shouldn’t be looking so comfortable with a self-proclaimed thief in the room, wanting the same object that he did.
“Well, I came first so it’s mine,” John said as he steadies Puss in his hands again, aiming for a split second break when the lasers surrounding the glass box move behind it. When the opportunity finally arose, John placed the circular device on one side of the glass box, before immediately removing his hands, just in time for the laser beams to come circling the front of it again.
Puss was soundless as it slowly cut a circle through the protective glass, taking a mere twenty seconds before the blue lights turned green, telling John that the cutting process had already been finished. John was about to retrieve the glass-cutting device when the shrill sound of an alarm pierces through the air, nearly making his heart jump out of his ribcage in surprise. The alarms within his head went off at the exact same time, driving him insane with the amount of anxiety that shot through his veins at the sudden stimulation.
John whirled around quicker than the laser beams circling the little crestfallen man on the pedestal, and felt blood drain from his face as the blond man crossed the room without a care in the world about the laser beams surrounding him.
“Are you crazy? What the hell are you doing?!” John asked, heart pumping blood to his face in a mixture of anger and horror. The guy must be an absolute moron. That must be it. He was starting to appear less cute in John’s eyes, even if just a bit. Which is good, he supposed.
It took the blond a total of five seconds to jog towards where John was standing before the pedestal. “It’s like I told you, I can’t let you have this,” he explained, hands reaching out to remove Puss from the glass. John swatted his hand away, and the blond gasped as he cradled it in his other hand, glaring at John as if it was the most offensive thing in the world. John ignored him, mind more worried about the approaching footsteps coming from outside the vault.
The ringing sound of the alarm, combined with the marching of the guards quickly approaching them was overwhelming, especially given how quiet it had been up until the point where the idiot claiming to be a thief decided to trip the alarms. John’s heartbeat was thunderous in his ears, and it matched the rhythm of the heavy footfalls which were rapidly growing louder as seconds passed.
As fast as he could, he retrieved Puss and took the miniature sculpture that had already caused him so much trouble, ignoring the laser beams moving around it. It felt so weird and unnatural, sending a tingling sensation where his skin met the laser beams. After spending years upon years working on avoiding those damning laser beams, all of a sudden, it didn’t matter anymore.
A gunshot echoed through the air, and John instinctively ducks behind the pedestal.
A bead of cold sweat trickled down the slope of John’s jawline as cowered behind the metallic structure, holding the sad little man close to his chest as if he could protect him from the oncoming gunfight if he’d just give it enough love. This was not his scene—he was a thief, quiet and quick to run. He was never meant for confrontations.
A few men were shouting, but in his state, John could barely hear them over the harsh thumping of his own heart, let alone over the ever-present alarm that became a background noise to the chaos happening in the room. John didn’t realize he had been instinctively holding his breath until his lungs burned with the need for oxygen.
He breathed in deeply as he tried to slow down his breathing and control his heartbeat. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the beach where he had his last family vacation at the age of seven. He forced himself to picture the smile on his mother’s face as she watched her children frolicking in the sun—it was blurry and vague, his mother was lacking all the details that defined her in his mind’s eye. But it did make the center of his chest warm with affection and fondness, despite the adrenaline that was rushing in his veins.
Once he was sure he was no longer at the brink of a panic attack, John opened his eyes. He chanced a peek from behind the pedestal, trying to keep his breathing steady. His vision was half-covered by the metallic structure of the pedestal, but from his angle behind it, he could see three men laying strewn across the black-and-white floor. They were dressed in identical black suits, and even though John couldn’t see very clearly from where he was hiding, he thought that two of them were holding guns which were lying useless in their hands.
It took John a while to notice that he was being talked to. “I’ll take care of these guys, so don’t you dare leave!” The thin and raspy tone of voice was familiar, and it was no mistake for him to assume it was the blond’s. Those words felt like a slap to him, waking him from a deep slumber. John felt like the switches in his brains were flipped on again.
He had his target item, and now all he had to do was leave safely, and he could collapse into his bed and sleep off his exhaustion once he made it. Despite the words shouted at him earlier, John stood up before making a break towards the elevator. The gunshots had stopped for a while, so he didn’t look back when he forced the elevator door open and jumped to cling on one of the metal bars at the far end of the elevator shaft. If he looked down, he would’ve seen the elevator room motionless a few feet below, but he wasted no time in climbing his way up.
He’s back in his element again. It felt so relieving to be able to do something he’s very good at again after being in such an unfamiliar situation. He heard the blond’s voice call after him, but did not stop climbing.
John was about ten feet away from the exit when he heard a mechanical whirring echo beneath him. He did not stop despite being taken aback by it, as he had been in this situation before. He knew he could climb to the exit before the elevator car reached him. He spread his legs to balance between the two opposite walls of the elevator shaft and forced the elevator door open with his hands.
In his haste, he did not fail to notice that the elevator car was moving extremely slow, especially for an elevator that led towards a vault room. He did not waste more time thinking about it though. Once his feet were firmly planted on the ground again, he ran towards the edge of the rooftop.
The night air was dense and cold, and a canvas of darkness stretched over his head, with only the moon as a source of light that illuminated his surroundings with a sense of clarity. There was nothing but the cold mouse-gray floor underneath him and the elevator within his sight.
John was in the middle of fastening the straps around his waist when the elevator finally came to a stop with a soft ding. He had already secured the one end of the thick black rope around the stone railing at the edge of the building, and the other to the harness he’s tightening around himself, so all that was left was to jump.
He froze, however, when that voice spoke to him again. “Wait, please!” He shouted from across the building. From the sound of the footsteps approaching him, the blond thief must have been alone. John didn’t know what possessed him to behave so irrationally, but John turned to face the other man. Maybe he just wanted a good look at the face of this crazy son of a gun for one last time.
The blond man looked the slightest bit out of breath when he reached John, and his long blond hair reflected the moonlight, giving off a nearly reddish colour in the darkness. “Hey, thanks for waiting. Can I have the thing?” He asked, looking at John with huge blue eyes sparkling from the moonlight.
“No,” John deadpanned, standing at the edge of the building, ready to jump at a moment’s notice. For some reason though, he didn’t. Instead, he stood there under the night sky, as if waiting for something to happen. For something that will change his life and turn his world around.
The blond man tried to close the distance between them, inching closer step by step cautiously as if John was a wild animal. He stopped when John took one step closer to the ledge. “Please?” He begged, as if asking nicely would change the mind of a seasoned criminal. John levelled him with his most blank stare, one that could make even his mentor uncomfortable.
If it worked on him, he didn’t show it. “I’m not really a bad guy, you see,” he said after a moment of silence. He looked relaxed for someone without the upper hand over the situation, his shoulders lax and his features calm. “As you probably know, Martin Chance is an asshole who steals from people who have nothing. Me and my friends, we were going to steal the statue to help his victims recover,” he added, his face more serious than it had ever been tonight.
John couldn’t help but snort at that. To the blond’s credit, his facial expression did not change, and he continued to look at John with the serious expression that did not belong on a face that should be smiling at any given moment. “You really expected me to believe that?” John asked, raising an incredulous eyebrow.
“Well,” the blond started, looking sheepish as he scratched the back of his head, “I know how stupid it sounds alright. But it’s true, I promise.” Those pair of clear blue orbs looked into John’s green ones steadily, reflecting determination and earnestness. His lips were pressed into a thin line as he pleaded through his gaze.
John did not think he’s telling the truth, of course. But he does feel that the man before him was not lying. Maybe John’s heart and soul wasn’t as dead and pitch black as he had initially thought, because he found himself wanting to believe, for the first time since a very long time.
John tried his best not to overthink his decision as he reached into his backpack to retrieve the miniature statue. A look of surprise flashed upon the blond’s features for a moment, before his expression melted away into one of joy. It was a look that suited him best, his eyes gleaming with mirth and his lips tugged into a soft smile.
“Seriously?” He asked, sounding as astonished as John was at his own decision. “You don’t want anything in return?” John did not even consider the offer as he threw the statue carelessly to the other man, who caught it effortlessly.
John had decided upon stealing Poids de la Misère simply for the sake of stealing something, a little practice just so he wouldn’t get all rusty. He didn’t care about the art or history behind the sculpture, and he might as well just steal from a bank if it had been money that he was after. That’s why, even though it was millions of dollars that he’d just let slip from his fingers, it did not feel as if he lost anything. Just his time and energy, maybe, but if he was honest with himself, he felt alive tonight more than he had any other nights.
The unpredictability of the theft tonight, coupled with the tingling sensation of doing something stupid for once in his life, made him feel like a different person. A welcome change.
He turned around to finally jump and disappear into the night when the blond spoke again, “Wait, what’s your name?”. The streetlights below shone like the stars in the sky, and the cars that filled the roads seemed like ants crawling back to their nest from where John was standing. A few stray brown strands that had escaped from John’s bun whipped against his face as the cold night breeze passed him.
If John was going to act stupid tonight, he might as well see through it until the end. “John Richard Deacon,” he answered, uttering his full name just because.
A gasp of surprise escaped the blond man, but John did not turn around to see his shocked expression. Deacon was the man wanted in nine countries for theft, the man who trusts no one but himself, and would not hesitate in resorting to the most despicable of crimes if the moment should call for it. The person who had just given up the sculpture wasn’t Deacon—he’s nineteen-year-old John who yearns to believe again.
“The Deacon?” The other man asked, sounding at awe. A mixture of pride and guilt whirled in his chest. John was seconds away from jumping when the blond spoke again, “I’m Roger. Thanks for letting me have this.” John did not reply this time, jumping down the building instead. He could feel Roger’s eyes burning on him as he felt his body relax at the pull of gravity.
"What do you mean you gave it away?" Thema asked, pinning him under a disapproving gaze. Her dark-coloured eyes were narrowed in disbelief, and the corners of her lips were turned downwards in a frown. Even with how harmless she looked—the lines that were etched on her face weren't unkind, they made her appear more affectionate and more wise, and the ways she stood in the middle of John's kitchen with her steaming mug of coffee, with her back slightly hunched, making her appear smaller than she was—she still managed to make him wince at what looked like his stupidity.
"Well, it's not like I really needed it anyway. The diamonds from last week is more than enough to last me an entire lifetime," John mumbled, now ashamed of his actions, as he poured himself a cup of the coffee that his mentor had generously made for both of them.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Thema leaning against the kitchen counter with her arms crossed. "You do realize you're acting out of character right, dear?" She asked, her voice soft and kind even with the small hint of accusation in her tone. John scoffed, realizing that there was no getting out of this conversation without a thorough explanation of why he, the great apprentice of the legendary thief Thema Scott, had simply given away a million-dollar sculpture to the first person who asked.
He turned to face his mentor again, only to be met with an unwavering stare. "I don't know why I did it, okay?" John started, voice heavy with frustration. "This guy just came and nearly got me caught, and then asked for the sculpture, saying that he's going to sell it to help the poor or whatever," he had mumbled out the last part, now realizing how stupid it all sounded, and hoping that Thema's hearing had worsened enough that she didn't hear it.
She gave a hum, although it was unclear if she heard the part about the thief claiming to be a modern-day Robin Hood (and John accepting it without a question like the fool that he was). A moment of silence stretched between them, but it was not uncomfortable. Both of them had moved from the kitchen into the living room where the television was droning quietly in the background, filling the silence.
John had thought that Thema had dozed off on the other side of the sofa when she spoke again, "What does he look like, this guy?". John shifted in his seat to face the old woman better, and briefly considered changing the subject, as he would like for both of them to forget his stupid mistake as soon as possible, but ended up deciding against it. Thema is a woman with a lot of connections, and it wouldn't be weird if she'd heard about Roger, as she knew a lot of people from the underworld.
John wouldn't be opposed to finding out who the blond thief really was, as that would mean that it's possible to know if he was lying about giving to the victims of Martin Chance. "He said his name's Roger. Blond with blue eyes, around my height and seems about my age. Wore some pair of ridiculous sparkly pink shoes. Pretty cute too," John described, replaying the scene at the rooftop within his head.
It had been a huge mistake, apparently.
"Pretty cute?" Thema perked up from where she was seated across from him on the sofa, a smirk stretching her lips and her brown eyes lit up with amusement. John mentally kicked himself. He hadn't meant it in any way, it's just that objectively Roger is quite cute, with his huge doe eyes and soft smiles, and anyone with eyes could see that.
John groaned as he buried his face in his palms, definitely not ready for this conversation or the teasing it will surely entail. "I don't mean it like that. It's an objective observation, and I'm not having another one of those 'You should find love while you're young, John' talks," he turned his face away from her, crossing his arms above his chest and huffing like a petulant child.
Thema will turn literally any conversation into one about John's love life. In all honesty, John didn't think he could handle being a criminal whilst being in a relationship—he had always imagined getting married, settling down in a quiet place, having at least five children and working a (legal) nine-to-five job to support his family, much like his parents did. He didn't think that bringing an innocent man or woman into his life would work well for either of them, given that he's wanted in a lot of countries and the FBI had been working their asses off to catch him.
His mentor seemed to think otherwise. Love prevails, she always said. She had gotten married at the young age of twenty-two with the love of her life, Lavender Woodland, who had also been involved in theft and robbery even before they met. John had seen photographs of both of them during their younger days, and even in pictures they seemed like a match made in heaven. (Although he'll never be able to see the Thema who basically adopted him when he was fifteen, and the young Thema in the photos, with her hair dark, long and curly, and her eyes shone brightly against her smooth dark skin, as the same person.)
"I was about your age when I first met her," she said, a wistful smile on her face. Her eyes seemed distant, and glazed with a layer of sadness, as they always were whenever she talked about Lavender. She had died too young. At the age of thirty-five, Lavender had been shot to death by a well-known assassin, right in front of the old woman. John's willingness to win the argument dissipated into nothingness as Thema smiled, although it was bittersweet.
"Alright, alright. I'll keep an open mind okay?" John said eventually, reaching out to place his hand atop her thin, wrinkled one. She smiled brightly, although the hint of sadness lingered in her brown orbs. They had drifted into another comfortable silence after that, and they ended up watching the cheesy comedy show until about three in the morning before Thema left. John had offered to send her home, but the old woman had refused, saying that she's not that old yet to be babied by him.
The next day, John was cutting up some onions to make some fried rice when he heard her voice come out of nowhere. Several years ago, John would've jumped out of his skin at the sudden appearance as, being a master of theft, Thema had the habit of making the least sound possible.
"I've got some information for you, dear," the elderly lady had said from somewhere behind him, and even without looking back, he could practically hear the smirk gracing her lips as she said that. John spared a glance at her as he went to check if the oil was properly heated, and saw that she was sitting with her arms folded over the dining table, leaning over with an expression of excitement on her face.
He distractedly responded with an inquiring hum as he threw the onions into the pan, taking a step back as the hot oil hissed in defense. "I talked to some of my sources to find this Roger of yours, but there are just so many criminals under that name. And we don't even know his last name either," she began. John turned to her, his interest piqued slightly at how this was going.
"I didn't get anywhere with that, but I did find out that there is a group of con-artists who claim to steal to help the poor against the rich and powerful." Thema had gotten up in order to busy herself by helping John crack some eggs into a red bowl, probably just to build up the suspense. John had been quite frustrated as he watched her drag the conversation by beating the eggs with a whisk, "And?".
The old thief smiled proudly as she pushed the bowl of eggs away to face him, "And one of them goes by Roger Meddows." John had involuntarily widened his eyes at that, his mouth going quite slack because of the surprise, before he realized it and tried to school his features again. To his dismay, his shock did not go unnoticed as Thema giggled merrily at his reaction. (At least he hadn't been holding any plates he could possibly drop.)
John rolled his eyes at her antics, although in the way that you would to someone you're fond for. "It seems that the group calls themselves Queen, and their cover is a small restaurant in Kensington," she continued, producing a crumpled up piece of paper from the pocket of her floral dress. John took the folded paper albeit hesitantly, opening it to see the address of a place called Taste of Rhye in cursive writing.
He raised an eyebrow at her, but shoved the piece of paper in his pocket anyway, already deciding to pay it a visit—just to check if Roger was lying about giving to Martin Chance's victims, and nothing more. "And what do you expect me to do with it?" He asked regardless. The old woman gave him a knowing look as she walked over to where the onions were slowly browning in the pan, "Just check if they're the real deal. I'm curious too—my source said that they're good". John knew there was an ulterior motive to it, but decided not to mention it.