“And this is the hacker,” Kusanagi announced. “Now play nice, Fushimi,” he added to the hacker.

Fushimi barely bothered to glance up through his glasses at Yata. He was frowning in concentration, though Yata could admit it looked kind of like he maybe always frowned, but he was also clicking around in the internal database of the FBI, which was downright—

“Amazing! You’re in their database?” Yata leaned in and that got a lot more attention as Fushimi looked up sharply at this new person in his space.

“I’m supposed to be.” Fushimi’s voice was dripping with a verbal eyeroll and disdain, like he was explaining to a two-year-old. “I’m the hacker.”

“Still amazing,” Yata said—and hot, he did not—and flopped in the chair next to Fushimi, drawing only alarmed consternation. “I’m Yata, the new hitter.”

“You hit people. Great.” Fushimi didn’t sound nearly as impressed with Yata as Yata was by Fushimi, but that was okay. They were going to be together for an entire heist, long enough to get to know him better.

“So did you make the watch?” He held up his wrist with the communicator Kusanagi had given him for the job.

Fushimi stared at him, a look that seemed to say, ‘What species are you?’ But he nodded, then turned back to his computer screen.

Yata watched, and yeah, watching Fushimi work was definitely amazing. And hot.

---

Fushimi reminded himself that Yata Misaki had a girl’s name (which he was altogether too embarrassed about, even if it did make for good teasing), never went away (even after it being suggested quite firmly—several times), couldn’t read a room, and was an idiot.

Yet somehow, he found himself enjoying the attention, however exasperated it left him and annoyed to be working in the van without the constant commentary from Yata on what he was doing instead of the absolutely inane commentary in everyone’s ears about anything but while on the job.

Then their grifter Shiro was made and Yata went to work with a ferocious growl that made Fushimi pause on the keys for a moment. He stared in the cameras as Yata swung and kicked and punched, leaping off of walls and rails, and Fushimi was just staring because Yata had a girl’s name, embarrassed way too easily, and was an idiot who never went away when you told him to, but he was also very, very good at hitting people and making Fushimi’s mouth go dry while he did it.

Then Yata practically slung a startled Shiro over his back and whipped out of there.

“Making more work for me, I see.” Fushimi clicked his tongue and went to work on the cameras.

---

The crew was supposed to disband, go its separate ways, never ever see each other again. “I’ve already forgotten your names,” Neko had declared. It was safer.

But there was Yata, fiddling with his skateboard, sheepishly red-faced, standing outside of Fushimi’s van (that he intended to dispose of later), as if he hadn’t had to do some stalking just to know where to find it. “So I was thinking…”

“You were,” Fushimi said skeptically. It wasn’t Yata’s strong suit.

But Yata just glared. “Shut up. I just… I feel like I can take on the world if it’s the two of us. We don’t have to never see each other again.” He shrugged.

Fushimi stared at him. It sparked something warm inside, and he found himself laughing softly. Somehow someone like Yata, who shouldn’t ever have been able to hit the nail on the head, had quite the knack for it all the same. “Maybe,” he said.

Yata lit up and it was the most beautiful thing Fushimi had ever seen. “Great! Um… So can I ride with you. I don’t have a car.”

Fushimi just opened the door and they fell into sync like they’d been doing it their whole lives.

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