It was a warm night when Jimmy set out from the police station with a cup of coffee, some case files, and no late-night plans save for a date with his bed, and now he’s here, chasing down the same thief for what feels like an eternity. The wind smacks against his face with ice-cold fingers as he pants into the chilly air of the night, legs burning. The thief looks back, playful brown eyes bright in the city-light, and throws a wink and a laugh over his shoulder.

“What’s wrong, detective? Getting tired already? Aw, it must be so hard being old!” The thief throws back his head and laughs into the night sky at his own remark, and Jimmy grinds his teeth together even as his lungs wheeze into his throat. 

“You’ll never get your precious case files back if you run like that,” the thief yells back again, laughter ringing in the air. 

Jimmy clenches his fists, thinks, Oh, that kid is going to get it when I catch him, and keeps running.

Really all Jimmy had wanted was some milk. It’d been a long day at the office, he had even more case files to take home from a really messed up serial murder happening halfway across the city, and he knew he had to pick up some milk if he wanted to eat cereal at home. (Yes, he eats cereal at night, no, he can’t cook.) 

He’d been in the dairy aisle, eyeing the cheapest milk carton in the store, when a young man had pulled up next to him, wearing a black cap pulled low on his head and a black hoodie that obscured most of his features. Jimmy had been instantly suspicious, but it had been 11pm in the middle of a Walmart and he’d foolishly chalked it up to those weird teenage fashion trends and ignored it. 

And then the boy had grinned that demonic little smirk of his, looked up with mischievous brown eyes, grabbed the precious case files in his hands and the milk carton Jimmy had finally decided to buy, stuck his tongue out, and ran off into the night. Jimmy had stood there for a moment, dumbfounded, not sure whether to be offended by the fact that the perpetrator was now drinking his milk while racing down the sidewalk or panic over the fact that said thief was racing down the sidewalk with extremely sensitive case files inhand. Away from him. With important case files.

And so, he’d started running, in his wrinkled suit and beat-up slacks, and now here he is, still running, nowhere closer to his files (or his milk) than he had been at the start.

“Hey!” he manages to spit out between gasps at the vague outline of the thief’s back against the city lights. They’re passing by what looks like a mostly abandoned lot, the grass growing over the concrete and against a beat-up chain link fence, and it’s all that Jimmy can do not to slip on the mud gathering between the cracked ground. He’s lagging behind. If he doesn’t figure out a way to stop the thief soon, he’s going to lose him. “Stop!” he yells  as he forces himself to keep moving, regretting all the times he’d turned down offers to go to the gym. 

For some reason, however, the thief finally slows his pace, turning around in a light jog to look back at him before coming to a halt. Jimmy falters, a little startled, but then his legs wobble and he lets himself collapse onto his hands and knees, staring down at the rugged gravel beneath his palms as he gasps. 

The sound of his own harsh breath is loud against the pounding of his heart in his ears, but he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to hastily pull his composure back together. His muscles tremble, but he manages to pull himself to his feet, straightening painfully to stare at the thief. Despite Jimmy’s own clear exhaustion, the other seems unruffled, breathing substantially more calmly than him. The kid’s back is half-turned, as if ready to make another escape, and Jimmy is hit with the sudden thought that if the kid decides to run off, he won’t be able to catch up to him again. It’s a slight blow to his pride, but instinctively, he knows that it’s the truth and that something needs to give and it needs to give now.

“Okay,” he pants, somewhat to fill the silence and somewhat to calm himself. “Okay, um, look, kid.” 

The thief looks back at him with serious eyes, and Jimmy casts around his mind for what he knows about teenagers. He knows that they’re absolute brats and apparently like stealing case files. He also now knows that apparently they have unlimited stamina. He knows that they’re incredibly and utterly annoying, and he knows that they can never eat enough food.

Food, Jimmy thinks, casting a calculating gaze over the thin form of the thief. I can work with that. 

“Okay, look, you’re tired, I’m tired, and honestly at this point I think I’m going to pass out.” 

The thief looks back at him without a word. An uncomfortable feeling grows in Jimmy’s stomach the longer the silence goes on, pawing at the back of his mouth. “So how about, uh, we forget about all this for a moment and we go for some dinner, yeah?” 

The silence drags on, and something about the thief’s almost unblinking gaze unsettles Jimmy. The uncomfortable feeling rises, and Jimmy finds himself breaking his gaze first, staring at an ugly stain on the fence and shuffling his feet. A headache pulses against his skull, and he groans internally. Ugh, he thinks, longing for his house and cup of scalding hot coffee, not for the first time. Are all kids this demonic?

A snort pulls him out of his thoughts, and he lifts his head to find the thief looking back at him, expression endlessly amused. 

“You want to buy me dinner?” the thief asks him in clarification, lips twitching as if trying to bite back a smile. Jimmy’s already bruised pride takes another painful hit. He’s always been an atheist, but he finds himself praying to whatever god might be out there for sanity.

He sighs and—because really what other option did he have—replies, “Yes. That—I did say that, yes.” The kid seems to find this to be peak comedy because he bursts into laughter, hands wrapped around his stomach as he curls in on himself, crinkling the case files that he is still holding. Maybe at the start of their chase, this might have simply annoyed Jimmy, but now he is just so done with it all. 

He’s so tired. He just wants some coffee, please and thank you.

“Okay, then,” the thief finally says after what feels like a lifetime. The city lights glow behind him, and his brown eyes gleam almost gold as he looks back at Jimmy, his form undeniably young in ways that Jimmy hadn’t been able to see before. His all-black attire hides any other details about him from Jimmy’s eyes, but the amusement written into the soft curve of his face against the lights of the city is undeniable. He frowns. 

Jimmy sits back, groaning as his muscles creak. The cup of coffee in his hands smells like heaven and drinking it scalding hot out of the container feels almost like a religious experience. He sighs, finally content, and sits back, observing the thief over the rim of his cup.

The restaurant that they are in is dingy and run-down, lights dimmed in the nighttime. The vinyl seats that they’re sitting on are suspiciously sticky. The thief in front of him is scarfing down the greasiest burger that Jimmy has ever seen like it is the last steak left in the world. Jimmy raises his brows. 

The thief’s head is lowered, still hiding his face from view, but from the smooth outline of his cheeks and some stubbornly growing stubble, he can tell that the thief is even younger than he’d initially assumed; maybe somewhere from late middle school to high school in age. 

The thief shoves a large piece of meat into his mouth, and Jimmy grimaces, eyeing the case files still tucked under one arm and wondering if it would be possible to grab them and run without the thief taking them back. 

Finally finished with his meal (in record time) the thief leans back, face still hidden under the cap pulled low on his head. Then, he grabs the case files with his greasy hands. Jimmy grimaces even more, disgusted, but watches warily as the kid opens the files, flipping through them curiously.

“Hm,” the kid hums, shadowed eyes peering up at Jimmy appraisingly. “So you’re a detective, huh?” he says, eyes running over him judgmentally. Jimmy feels a rush of irritation run through him, but grits his teeth against any words that spring to his mind. There’s an awkward silence as the kid keeps flipping through the pages almost lazily, skimming over the precious and confidential information stored within them.

Suddenly, he pauses, eyebrows raising as he peers closer at something in the files, and Jimmy frowns, fingers tightening around his cup. 

“Hey,” the thief starts, sounding a bit surprised. “I know this guy.” 

Jimmy stares for a moment before the words register in his mind. Then, he leaps to his feet, coffee forgotten as he stretches across the table. He’d been stuck on this case for weeks now and this—this could be an important clue.

“Who?!” he demands, hands pulling at the files and craning his head to see. “Who do you recognize? From where? How? What does he do? Has he done anything suspicious in the past month?” The questions spill out of his mouth as the thief reels back in shock, letting Jimmy catch sight of one of the suspects.

Elijah Roberts, if Jimmy recalls correctly, had been one of the people with a clear motive; if the victim had been killed, Elijah, as the victim’s nephew, would inherit most of the property seeing as how the victim had had no children. However, he’d had an irrefutable alibi on the day of the murder. He’d apparently been on call with a business associate of his, and the call-logs had all checked out with both Elijah and the associate’s statements.

Jimmy had reluctantly let the man go after questioning, having had no clues or evidence to prove otherwise, and the case had been cold for weeks now. But with this, Jimmy could possibly find another clue—something that might determine the end of this case altogether.

“Uh,” the thief stutters, looking astounded and like he doesn’t know what to do for the first time since they’d met. “Well, uh, I remember that my friend told me about him. She told me that he wanted to buy some cyanide.” 

Jimmy leans back, exhilarated. The victim’s cause of death had been determined to be exposure to aerial cyanide poisoning, and a small gas container had been found in the bedroom of the victim, where he’d been asleep. There had been no fingerprints, tags, or any traceable IDs on the container—meaning that the cyanide had to have been bought with underground means, and also that it was not trackable. The cameras had all been erased, and there had been no witnesses, due to the victim living alone out in a mansion in the woods. The maids had all been asleep or in the kitchen on the other side of the house and claimed to have heard nothing. The butler who had found the body had not seen anything suspicious or out of the ordinary, and all windows and doors to the mansion had all been locked as they should have been; a classic case of a locked room murder with no clues at all to go on. On all accounts, it had been a perfect crime.

But this was incriminating evidence. Elijah Roberts had bought a can of cyanide just days before the murder had taken place in a back alley deal with a young criminal. Jimmy isn’t quite sure how Elijah had managed to fake the phone records or if the ‘business associate’ had also been involved in the crime, but if Jimmy could expand on this clue, then maybe he could find some concrete evidence that could get Elijah found guilty in court.

“You’re sure?” Jimmy asks the thief, leaning in close across the dirty restaurant table. “You’re absolutely certain that your friend sold this man a can of cyanide one month ago?” 

The thief leans back even more, looking nervous.

“Well. Yes,” the thief says, eyes flicking over Jimmy as his face absolutely lights up. Then, something mischievous sparks in the kid’s eyes, and he pushes Jimmy back into his seat. Looking positively smug, he looks leisurely down at the files once more.

“And, well, this man…Elijah, is it? He’s well known for smuggling things to India. I might know where he hides a lot of his things…” The thief trails off, narrowing his eyes at Jimmy over the files, and Jimmy leans closer, desperate. This could be the thing that would finally close this unsolvable case and get him promoted. This could be the case that would kickstart his detective career.

“Well?” Jimmy demands when the thief trails off, staying quiet. “Where is it?” 

The thief stares at him, looking very amused.

“Hm…I don’t know…” he drawls, flicking the files shut. “I might just be convinced to show you…” 

Jimmy leans even closer, holding his breath.

“If you pay me 500 dollars, that is!” the thief says, grinning across the table at him. 

“Do you think this is some kind of joke?” Jimmy yells, hurrying out of the restaurant doors as they jingle above him. “Somebody was murdered on this case! If you know something—anything​​—then you need to tell me so that I can get justice!” Jimmy stumbles after the thief out into the dimly lit parking lot. The air is cool, a breeze tickling his skin. The thief pauses under a lamppost in front of him and turns around. His face is shadowed in the darkness.

“And I told you,” the thief says, rolling his eyes, “I’ll help! Just pay me for it.” The thief cocks his hip to one side, tossing the case files casually from one hand to another. Jimmy groans, frustration coiling in his throat. He rubs his temples, considering the thief in front of him.

The kid is young, and yet he’s on the streets, stealing from people and demanding money at every turn. Most likely he is involved in shady business, doing drugs, living on the streets as some kind of gangster. Perhaps a runaway or an orphan. Jimmy has seen many delinquent cases like this, causing countless problems for the police force, and he isn’t about to give away his hard-earned money for some brat to buy more drugs in a dingy alleyway. 

He’s here for justice (and a promotion, but mostly justice), but he’s stuck with some teenaged thief demanding half his paycheck. On the one hand, he really needs to get this case properly closed, considering that he hasn’t been…the best detective around in his career. On the other, he’s not exactly excited to drink stale coffee for dinner for weeks after paying 500 dollars to some shady kid on the street.

It was a lose-lose situation.

But, Jimmy considers, if he plays his cards right, he can walk away tonight with two arrests and one closed case. He would feel guilty about the kid, of course, but he’s clearly involved in some shady business and juvenile detention might do him well.

“Okay,” Jimmy concedes, throwing his hands up. “Deal, but you’re gonna have to show me this place first.” The thief looks back at him suspiciously, and Jimmy tries to smile innocently. The expression feels a little awkward, but the thief eventually looks away, shrugging, and Jimmy lets out a sigh of relief. He has no intention of paying 500 dollars, of course, but hopefully this plan of his will work out.

“Fine,” the thief says, still eyeing him warily. “But you’d better not be lying. Follow me.” And with that, the thief turns, setting off down the street, and Jimmy hurries to follow.

The hideout doesn’t look very impressive. In fact, it is the exact opposite of it. They end up by the harbor next to a long line of old storage houses, the iron walls rusting as they face the open sea breeze. Jimmy hadn’t thought that those movie scenarios where the heroes would chase down the villain to some remote storage house were true, but here they are, in front another storage house—albeit a much more pathetic-looking storage house than those in any true crime movies, but a storage house nonetheless.

Why is it always a storage house, Jimmy thinks, a little exasperated. 

They end up hiding behind a wall of tires, crouching behind the deflating rubber and peeking around at the seemingly abandoned warehouse. Jimmy wrinkles his nose a little at the scent of decade-old trash, but the thief just narrows his eyes at the inconspicuous building just out of their view.

“What now?” the thief whispers, looking back at him almost nervously. Jimmy frowns, eyeing the teen’s gangly limbs and skinny frame. Jimmy may not be the most experienced of police officers, but he’d been through his police academy training. He’s long since been an adult who can protect himself just fine. But thief or no thief, it’s glaringly obvious that the kid in front of him is just that: a kid.

“Now,” Jimmy says quietly, raising an eyebrow. “Now you give me those case files, go home, and let the adults take care of it, capiche?” For a moment, the thief just stares at him, dark eyes dumbfounded under the shade of his cap. Then he goes stiff, his expression twisting into coiled anger. His fists tighten around the case files still in his hands.

“I never took you for one to go back on your word, detective,” he spits, voice no louder than a hiss against the crash of the waves against the platform. The thief throws him a vicious glare, and before Jimmy can even comprehend what he’s doing glances around quickly and proceeds to chuck the very important case files into the ocean.

Jimmy blinks.

Blinks again, and watches as the case files sink into the water, disappearing somewhere into the murky depths.

“You,” he whispers, horrified. “What have you done!” It comes out as a strangled shriek, just barely audible over the salty wind that tears through his hair. He shuffles forwards from behind the tires and stares mournfully into the seawater, as if staring at it could magically bring the case files back.

The thief looks back at him unapologetically, glaring petulantly down at him.

“I have photographic memory. I can just retype them word for word, but that means that you need my help. I’m not leaving.” He sneers with all the arrogance of a teenage boy unaware of the dangers of the world. Jimmy can’t let this child help him. He is young and naive and looks like he barely knows how to throw a punch right, much less handle himself amidst gunfire should anything go wrong. Jimmy has watched countless children die. He does not want to be responsible for one.

He sighs, closing his eyes and rubbing the bridge of his nose, exasperated. His knees have been aching ever since his run earlier, he’s running on coffee fumes and no sleep, and he’s crouching behind some smelly tires in front of a suspicious warehouse, his case files becoming fish food in the ocean.

“Go home, kid,” he starts to say, opening his eyes, before he realizes that the kid isn’t next to him anymore. Eyebrows furrowing, he turns his head to try to find him, confused.

For a moment, all he can do is stare.

The kid is somehow pressed up against the wall of the warehouse, lithe body hidden in shadow. How he had gotten there in the few seconds Jimmy had closed his eyes and without him noticing is beyond him. Terror runs through his veins as he stares, wide-eyed. Surely, there had to be some security? What if the kid got hurt?

Get back here right now, he mouths at the thief, gesturing violently with his hands to get his point across. The thief ignores him, craning his head to listen to something, before he’s waving his hands at Jimmy. Come here.

Jimmy glares, heart pounding, but he can’t exactly leave that idiotic kid over there by himself. Hissing curses under his breath, he glances sharply left and right before he darts out into the moonlight. His footsteps sound far too loud on the concrete, echoing in his ears, and it feels like years before he manages to make it to the wall of the warehouse, in the shade next to the thief. 

“Don’t you dare do that again.” The thief just grins smugly up at him. That little—!

The kid presses a finger to his lips. “Sh.” Then, he nimbly makes his way down the wall of the warehouse. Jimmy blinks a little in awe at the speed and confidence with which he moves, entirely silent save for the slight tap of his heel every so often. He follows, infinitely clumsier, and feels a little embarrassed. They reach a point halfway across the length of the warehouse when the thief stops.

The thief looks back at him. One guard, he mouths, slowly and clearly even under the shadow of his cap. How do you know this? Jimmy wants to ask, but the kid is already turning away, head tilting up to look up the high walls of the warehouse. About halfway up the wall, at second-story height, is a small window, below which sits a small ledge.

The kid glances at him again, sweeping up and down as if judging his build. Jimmy shifts unconsciously. The thief seems to come to a decision because he holds out a hand.

Rope, the thief demands. Perplexed, Jimmy hands over his standard police rope. 

The kid tucks the rope gently into his belt, and then, before Jimmy can even realize what he’s doing, backs up as much as he can while still staying in the shadow of the warehouse and then takes a running leap at the wall. In a series of complex, painful to his back just to watch, and incomprehensible moves, the thief is halfway up the wall, balancing precariously on the ledge just under the window. Somehow, the thief moves fluidly, almost like his bones are made of liquid, and manages not to make a single sound larger than the slow lap of the ocean against the shore while climbing up. Like a…monkey or something.

The thief moves comfortably on the ledge, twisting until his back faces the wall, careful to stay out of sight from the window, and then ties one half of the rope to a nearby pipe stuck to the wall and throws down the rest of the rope. Jimmy stares at the rope in front of him, then back up at the thief, looking down expectantly. Jimmy’s glad that the kid doesn’t expect him to do that parkour stuff he’d done to get all the way up there, but Jimmy is 30 years old, spends all day sitting on a chair in his police cubicle staring at case files, and has not worked out since he graduated from his police academy. Still, this is the only way, and, sighing, Jimmy slowly reaches out to wrap the rope around his arms.

It takes what feels like forever, but eventually Jimmy manages to heave himself onto the ledge, trying not to breathe too loudly into the suffocating silence. The thief already has two rusty hairpins out and is fiddling gently with the lock on the window. It amazes Jimmy a little how quiet the thief manages to get, and he frowns.

The way the thief moves, it’s clear that he’s very experienced, if not talented, for his age. He’s clearly been doing this all his life—if his practiced, confident movements are any indicator. Teenagers his age should not be seven feet above the ground picking the locks on shady warehouse windows. Teenagers his age should not be stealing random files from random people at Walmart at 11PM. Teenagers his age should not be that skinny.

Jimmy’s lips pinch slowly. Something inside of his chest hurts at all of the implications to that; and there are plenty. He’s seen thousands of cases. Thousands of children, thousands of circumstances that those children should not have been forced to go through—and yet.

And yet.

The lock clicks, and the thief inches the window open with a practiced precision, gently peeking through before seemingly deeming it safe and swinging it open. Movie logic determines that the hinges of the window should creak, but somehow, the thief manages to keep that movement silent as well.

Shame curls in Jimmy’s gut because sometimes assumptions are the deadliest thing a person can make, especially a detective. 

The thief moves to slip into the warehouse, but Jimmy sticks his hand out in front of him, stopping him gently. He points to himself, expression serious. Me first.

The kid’s lips pinch, but he shuffles back carefully on the ledge, letting Jimmy swing his legs over the ledge of the window and onto the catwalk inside. He takes care to make sure that his shoes don’t make a noise on the metal of the catwalk, slowly slipping his gun from its holster and clicking its safety off. He peers down, watching the thief slip in soundlessly and click the window closed again behind him. 

Below them, the warehouse is full of various stolen goods. Jimmy can barely stop the gasp from escaping his lips as he observes the priceless items gathered and packaged in boxes. He would never have thought that the series of thefts from various museums across the years and this murder crime had the same suspect behind it, but when his eyes sweep over expensive centuries-old jade vases from the Qing Dynasty gathered next to ancient Egyptian figures, he slowly starts to realize exactly how big this has gotten.

His eyes sharpen, and he slowly scans the boxes for any evidence. As the thief had said, there only seems to be a single guard near the door of the warehouse, smoking a cigarette. Most likely, Elijah had become tacit after a month of no suspicion, and he had thought that having less guards would make the storehouse more inconspicuous and harder to trace back to him. It’s smart thinking, truly, seeing as how nobody would have ever come to this warehouse out in the middle of nowhere anyways, and it helps him see just exactly how this cunning criminal had managed to get away with so many heists and even a murder.

Still, now that they’re here in the warehouse, they have the advantage. Speaking of that, Jimmy eyes the thief, turning to him seriously. 

The lighting within the warehouse is poor, only streaming in from the window. It makes the thief’s face even harder to read, and Jimmy sighs, reaching out to make sure that the thief knows how serious he is.

You stay back, he mouths, trying to keep eye contact. The thief looks indignant, eyebrows furrowing in anger, but Jimmy leans forwards, adamant. The sunlight streaming in through the window hits the side of his cheek when he leans in, and he catches a bit of the thief’s face below his cap—cheeks round, soft brown eyes with long lashes, painfully young. 

No, he mouths firmly, interrupting whatever spiel the thief had been about to speak. He squeezes the kid and watches him huff silently beneath his hand. You are clearly capable. Thank you for getting me up here. The thief’s eyes widen imperceptibly at his words, and he goes still.

But you’re still a child. I can’t let you go any deeper into a clearly dangerous situation. The thief blinks, slowly, staring at him as if he’s never seen him before. I need you to stay here, and I need you to stay as safe as possible until I tell you that it is safe to come out.

There’s a beat of silence as the thief just stares back at him, still in shock. Jimmy just raises a brow, refusing to look away from the kid’s eyes until he nods his consent. A few pieces of dust float around them. Finally, looking conflicted, he nods his head, slowly, then faster. Ok.

Jimmy nods as well, once, fast, before he turns, eyes darting around the single guard below him and trying to figure out what method would be best to subdue him. He can see a clear bulge in the man’s back pocket, meaning that he most likely has a gun. Ideally, Jimmy could shoot him non-fatally, leap down, and incapacitate him before he can draw his gun, but things always get messy with a gun fight, and this time Jimmy happens to have a literal child waiting on the catwalk beside him. He would very much like to refrain from traumatizing this kid by dying in front of him. Not cool.

For a moment, he debates what he should do, going through a few ideas (most of which would probably break his back) and scrapping them immediately. Next to him, the thief inches forwards to assess the situation as well, eyes wide and curious. Exasperated, Jimmy opens his mouth again, but the thief speaks before he can.

“I can throw this over there.” He holds a rock in his hand, gesturing slightly towards the opposite corner of the warehouse. “When you give me a signal. You can sneak up behind him while he’s distracted and knock him out.” 

Jimmy opens his mouth. Closes it.

That…that is actually a good idea. Simple, maybe overly so, but in theory, it’s the best one that he’s had so far. He eyes the thief for a moment, and the kid blinks back at him, eyes round and large like an overgrown puppy. A worryingly thin overgrown puppy who can do parkour like Spiderman, walk like a ghost, and steal case files in Walmarts at 11PM.

Finally, unable to think of a better option, Jimmy grumbles under his breath and nods, turning to move carefully across the catwalk to the ladder in shadow at the other end of the warehouse. He makes it down without issue and ends up hiding behind a giant Buddha statue. He can just barely see the dark outline of the thief in the corner of the catwalk.

To hell with it, he thinks, and then grips his gun tighter, throwing up a thumbs-up sign in the general direction of the thief’s shadow. To his surprise, the plan works like a charm. The kid throws the rock and it hits the opposite wall of the warehouse with a small bang. The guard frowns, and, still not suspicious, wanders his way closer to Jimmy without a second thought. When his back is turned, Jimmy leaps out and smacks the butt of his gun into his neck.

For a moment, adrenaline rushes through him as the man teeters, and Jimmy belatedly shifts his grip on his gun, ready to fight. Then, the man drops like a sack of rocks, head crashing painfully to the floor. Frowning, he removes the guy’s jacket and the gun that is in fact tucked into his belt. He pats him down for any other weapons and finding none, handcuffs him then ties him to one of the boxes.

It’s only then that he relaxes, sighing as he looks up at the thief’s shadow on the catwalk. He finds the kid already peering down at him, round brown eyes gleaming in the darkness of the warehouse. The low lightning makes him look even younger, and Jimmy sighs again, cupping his hands by his mouth.

“You can come down now!” The thief responds by jumping down from the catwalk like an actual cat, landing on his feet next to him with a light thump and somehow managing not to break his knees in the process. Dang, Jimmy misses when he was young.

It doesn’t take much longer after that to find the stolen will of the victim alongside a driver’s license with Elijah’s name written in bold letters on it, seemingly left out of a misplaced sense of superiority and security. And with that irrefutable evidence, it really doesn’t take much time at all to call up his coworkers and get Elijah and the rest of his henchmen arrested.

As Jimmy finishes giving his statement (leaving out as many unimportant details about the thief as possible—oh his case files? oh he…he dropped them in the ocean trying to get evidence!) he finds the thief sitting on the dirty ground behind the stack of tires, looking a little lost. He looks up at the sound of Jimmy’s footsteps, wary, before he relaxes slightly at the familiar sight of Jimmy’s worn shoes.

“Hey,” Jimmy greets cheerfully, crouching down to join him. His bones creak in protest and he groans, dead tired. They sit in a strangely companionable silence for a bit, just listening to the chatter and commotion of the police behind the wall of tires, the cars washing red and blue light over their heads to highlight everything purple. The sea murmurs calmingly and the same small breeze from earlier when they’d climbed the wall to the window brushes Jimmy’s cheeks when he leans back to close his eyes.

“What’s your name, kid?” he finally asks when he opens them again, unable to stem his curiosity. The thief leans back to glare at him warily, lips pinching into a suspicious frown. 

“I won’t report you,” he hums, purposefully looking away. “I mean, you helped me arrest a crazy big smuggling and murder suspect in one fell swoop.” He shrugs, glancing at the kid from the corner of his eye. The kid turns to look at him regardingly. His eyes are wide, and without his cap pulled so low on his face, the moonlight highlights every pimple on his face and the thin pallor of his cheeks. The expression on his face is so serious that when he pouts like a child, it takes Jimmy by surprise. 

“It’s Ash. Ash Lobo.” 

Jimmy grins.

“Well then, Ash Lobo, how about we go for some dinner, yeah?” He scratches his face sheepishly. “…For real this time.”