Istanbul is lovely all year long, but it is best in the fall.

The temperature is perfect, and the leaves are just starting to change colors. The waters of the Bosphorus are churning, and a deep blue. The Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque rise icily above the city, and the parks are filled with laughing couples and children.

It's even more glorious at night; with the cool wind blowing off the water and in to the streets, the lights reflecting off every surface of the ancient city. You can almost feel the power, the secrets, the mystery radiating from the cobblestones streets and the open air markets that are busy all day.

But on that particular night, Bobby Bishop was not in Istanbul to take in the city. As he saunters in to the Istanbul Modern Museum of Art, and adjusts his bow tie, he is reminded of his purpose; to steal a particularly valuable Picasso. And the gala celebrating the completion of the new Dali exhibit was the perfect cover.

An easy job, he thinks. Get in, get out, catch the next train out of Istanbul. In fact, he's already half way towards the hall with the Picasso, champagne flute in hand, when he hears the heels, and more importantly, the voice.

"Yes, it's gorgeous. The use of perspective is exemplary." The voice says, and he freezes, let the ice run down his back and even though the owner of the voice is at least twenty feet away, it's like they're right next to him. Steps are moving towards him; they pause, turn to look at the artwork behind him.

Keep calm Keep calm Keep calm.

"I never knew you were a fan of Dali." He turns easily, placing a hand on the back of her waste.

"I'm not particularly a fan of post-Impressionism." She swallows hard. "But I have to know about all kinds of art. I didn't know you were a proponent, either."

He says nothing, and changes the subject.

"It is surprising that the Interpol liaison to the European Union is here. Especially since Turkey isn't part of the European Union. Congratulations, by the way."

"Thank you. And I'm here with Interpol, actually. Apparently my replacement is...less than satisfactory." She smirks over the top of her champagne, and he looks back to the painting in front of them.

A man walks up to them; brushes a hand against her bare arm and leans in to smile and whisper something in her ear. She grins back, replies, and when she turns to look back at Bobby Bishop, he's gone.

The job is simple. Security is not a challenge, and the Picasso is easily rolled up and placed in the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket. He's ten feet outside of the Museum, ready to walk the five minutes to the train station, when a voice sounds from the door.

"Where do you think you're going?" She hisses, and the light from the gala behind her is illuminating her gorgeous deep purple ball gown, her shiny hair swept to the side, her flawless ivory shoulders and neck.

"Ms. Bennett, you really should get back to the party." He says coldly, turning around to face her and her tense stance and blazing eyes.

"Not with you walking away with that priceless Picasso, Mr. Bishop. Paintings do not do well rolled up and stuffed in jackets, need I remind you." She takes two dangerous steps closer to him, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I think you are going to let me walk away." He smirks, stepping down the street.

"I'll scream. It's a party full of cops, for god's sake." She informs him, grabbing his arm and reaching into his jacket. "Now give that to me!"

He catches her wrist, pulling her flush against his chest. "Someone's grabby." He chuckles darkly, and she glares up at him.

"You've got some nerve, you know." She smiles meanly. "Trying to steal a Picasso at a gala full of art crimes detectives. I knew you were up to something the moment I saw you here."

"You won't turn me in." He chuckles, keeping his grip on her wrist.

"You're oddly confident for someone who's been caught red handed."

"You would have already handcuffed me if you were going to." He points out, and she's silent. "Now go back inside and back to your ball, Ms. Bennett." He releases her arm, pushing her away gently.

He makes it twenty yards before he can hear the clip-clap of stilettos on the cobblestone streets behind him.

"If you think I'm just going to let you walk away with a Picasso in your pocket, you are a fool." She's struggling to keep up with his long stride.

"I thought we've already been over this." He sighs in frustration, but keeps walking with her trotting besides him. "You should go back to your party."

"No, I'm not going back to that bloody party until you give me that Picasso." She says through her teeth, and they've been arguing so much that he hasn't even realized they're standing in front of the train station; the whistle is blowing, signaling that the train is about to leave.

"This is where I bid you adieu, I'm afraid." He smirks, and he has one foot in the train when hands are on his back, pushing him into the train.

"I'm not letting you out of my sight." She leans in closer to him. "I will not be held responsible for the theft of a ten million dollar painting."

"Get off the train!" He orders, but just as the words leave his mouth, the doors slam shut, and the wheels are already in motion.

"Too late now." She smirks. "Where's this train going, anyway?"

"Paris. Nonstop." He says dully. The heist has certainly gone awry, and now here he was, stuck on a nonstop train for the next week with Amelia Bennett. "Now, what you're going to do about a room, I don't know. Goodnight, Ms. Bennett."

"I thought I made myself very clear that I was not going to let that painting out of my sight." She replies as she follows him down the aisle. He turns sharply, raising a questioning eyebrow.

"Meaning?"

"I'll just have to share with you." He bursts into laughter.

"You're joking."

"It gives me no pleasure, Mr. Bishop, but I have no choice." They stop in front of compartment 221, and to the right, the big windows show the twinkling lights of Istanbul fading in the distance.

He opens the door to the room, and it's small, but spacious; two twin beds that can fold into seats, a small bathroom with a shower, a closet. She notices bags already on one of the beds; he obviously knew he was going to be here. There is a window opposite the two beds; massive, so that when the beds were in seat-form, you could look out at the countryside passing by.

"I'm not going to be able to shake you, am I?" He says lazily, sitting on the bed with the bags.

"No." She glances around. "I'll have to acquire clothes tomorrow." He shrugs as she sinks on to her bed. "Well, aren't you going to turn around?"

"Why?" He says, shrugging off his jacket and undoing his tie.

"So I can get changed." She rolls her eyes. He shoots her a smirk, but turns around anyway, closing the shade over the window.

He's finished shedding his clothes when he calls back to her.

"Wait, what on earth are you-?" He turns to look at her, and it cut off by the fact that she's stepping out of her ball gown, leaving her in a black and forest green bra and frilly panties.

"Hasn't your mother told you it's not polite to stare?" She chides, shaking out her hair. "I can borrow your tooth brush and everything, right?"

"Well, that's awfully forward." He smirks, and she glares at him before striding to the bathroom and slamming the door shut. He slowly climbs in to bed, wrapping the sheets around him, trying to ignore the fact that Amelia Bennett was standing in the bathroom in lingerie, using his toothbrush.

"Don't even think about running." She flicks off the lights as she exits, climbing into her bed. They're set up so that they form an L shape, their heads right next to each other. He tries to sleep, but he finds he can't; not with her lying next to him.

He turns, his body facing the window. He watches her quietly as the sound of her breathing slows, the rise and fall of the blankets steady. And as soon as he's certain she's asleep, he allows himself to finally relax, and slip in to sleep.

He places a hand on her shoulder to wake her up. Her skin is soft and warm, and for a split second - really, just a fleeting moment - he is tempted to fall in to bed next to her. She looks like an angel when she's asleep, her dark hair flared out all around her, her face is all soft and not at all serious like it normally is. And she's all curled up on her side and snuggled into the blankets and he would say it was adorable if she wasn't hunting him and his newly acquired Picasso.

"If you did something with that Picasso, I will know." She mumbles, turning on to her back and blinking the sleep out of her eyes to look up with him.

"I don't doubt it." He smirks. "I have a present for you." He shrugs the bag off of his shoulder, and opens it, revealing stacks of women's clothes. "I went out earlier, during the first breakfast service, and acquired these from a wealthy woman who I think is about your size."

"And she gave them to you willingly?" She raises an eyebrow, sitting up slowly and reaching for the bag.

"Yes. Jeans, tops, panties." He smiles. "You know, I'm rather convincing."

"Why do I not find that surprising." She rolls her eyes. "But thank you."

She rolls lazily out of bed, and fuck, he forgot she was just wearing lingerie. Somehow, in the daylight, it makes it so much more real; her long pale legs and arms, and then she bends over to grab the bag and his eyes go right to her butt and he makes a little choked sound of pain. My god, he hates her.

And really, fuck his life at the moment because he's stuck on a five-day train ride, non stop, with a stolen Picasso and Amelia Bennett and her nice ass.

She emerges from the bathroom in a dark green sweater and tight jeans.

"Have you eaten?" She inquires as they leave the cabin, sunlight streaming through the windows and shining on the wooden fixtures.

"No." He replies as they move towards the dining car. "And remember, act natural."

"So don't scream that you're an art thief?"

"Exactly." He murmurs as they enter the dining car, which is busy for breakfast service. It's filled with the wealthy European elite, and he can hear at least five languages being spoken. They sink into plush seats across from each other at an empty table by the window. They both watch the sharp, dark hills of Eastern Europe roll by, and he let's out a long breath, and is trying to think of something to make this less uncomfortable.

"Kat says you're friends?" He swallows, and her dark eyes move from the scenery to him.

"In a way."

"She says you helped you catch that man who was trying to con Hale."

"She and Hale are friends of Nick's." She says simply.

"Your son?" He remembers the dark haired boy who looks like her, and for a split second wonders if she's married. His eyes catch her hands, and they're bare; lacking rings. He's more relieved than he should be.

She nods slightly. "We move around so much. These are the first good friends he has had in a long time. And besides, Kat helps me, and I...turn a blind eye to her more obvious exploits." He raises an amused eyebrow. "Mind you, Kat is a child, and you...most certainly are not."

"Finally, someone who speaks English!" A voice booms, and Amelia tears her steely gaze to the couple who has approached their table. Mid fifties, early sixties, Bobby estimates. Wealthy, but tacky. Loud. American. Southern. Texas, he guesses. "All these foreigners, speakin' their French and their Russian." The man grabs a chair from an empty table, and drags in next to theirs so he can sit. Amelia's eyes lock with Bobby's for a quick second in sheer horror. "I'm Abbott Claiborne, and this is my wife, Rosebud."

"A pleasure." Amelia chokes, and he can see her trying not to laugh.

"Bobby Bishop." He slowly sticks out his hand, which Abbott grasps too heartily, too strongly. "And this is my..." He glances at Amelia for a split second. No rings, so there go the marriage and engagement options. "Girlfriend, Amelia."

"Well, don't you two make a fine couple." Rosebud swoons, and Amelia's face remains emotionless.

"Well, you're gonna have to excuse us." Abbott drawls, clapping his arm hard against Bobby's back. "I have a game of poker with a nice fella from Turkmenistan, or Kazakstan. One of the 'stan's. We'll be seein' ya."

As they depart, Amelia's eyes return to his.

"So we're a couple now?"

"I'm sorry, should I have introduced us as Bobby Bishop, international art thief and Amelia Bennett, Interpol liaison to the European Union? Besides, we needed a cover anyway." He slips his hand into hers, interlacing their fingers tightly. She looks at him questioningly, but he shifts forward to whisper to her and to anyone else, it would look like a sweet and even romantic gesture. "You never know who's watching."

"True." She replies, and the way she's looking at him - he swears that she can hear the way his heart is thudding in his chest. This obviously wasn't a smart idea, being so close to her. "So, sweetheart," She leans back in her chair, giving him a happy, lazy smile, and damn, she's a good actress. "What looks good on the menu?"

He encounters the Claibornes again the following night. Nine o'clock cocktail party, meant for rich snooty couples to mingle with other rich snooty couples.

"So, what line of business are you in, son?" Abbott asks, downing his bourbon in one shot.

"Art collecting." He informs him, adjusting his black tie slightly and taking a sip of his martini.

"I've never been much into art myself." He shrugs, and I have no doubt runs through Bobby's mind. "How long have you and the English girl been together?"

"Two years." He replies, and Abbott chuckles.

"Well, you're a lucky man, Bobby Bishop. She's a keeper." He notices that Abbott's eyes are focused over his shoulder, and he turns to see Amelia strutting towards him with a smile, dressed in a short, black, and most importantly, tight cocktail dress, her dark hair swishing behind her.

And really, he must be dreaming when she walks right into his arms, looping an arm of her own around him and pressing her lips to his cheek, close to his lips.

"Abbott! Rosebud!" She smiles brightly, and thank god she speaks because he's frozen. And all night, she charms the Claibornes easily, makes them laugh and blush, all with her hand resting on his back and an occasional grin at him. And really, if she wasn't a cop she would be an excellent thief.

And finally the Claibornes depart at one in the morning. The party is thinning out, and the only people who are left are older men smoking cigars while their Austrian mistresses sip cosmos in the corner.

"How did I do, darling?" She leans against him. He's resting against the bar, and his hands move to rest on her waist, for he's since somewhat recovered from her lips brushing against his skin.

"You were enchanting." He smirks slightly, and she smiles in return - and there it is; she's so close to him he's frozen again and he can't breathe.

"Did you doubt me?" She glances up at him under dark eyelashes.

"Not for a second." He whispers. "Now come on, it's late. We should be heading to bed."

"I agree." She squeezes his arm gently as they move across the train car, and the moment they exit the car, to his surprise, is still wrapped around him. "You never know who's watching." She whispers, and her lips just brush over his ear and he really doesn't know how much longer he can take this.

"Aren't those the Claibornes?" She inquires as they stop in front of their cabin.

"I thought their room was on the opposite side of the train." He says slowly, watching as the couple knocks and shuffles around a cabin.

"Me too." She murmurs, taking two steps closer to them.

"Can you hear what they're saying?" He asks. She listens closely.

"They're speaking in Italian." She says in surprise, and he leans closer to her and them.

"From Sicily, by the sound of their voices." He replies.

"So they're not from Texas after all." She looks at him with a knowing, excited smile that makes him smile, too.

He read in her file once that she spent a year living in Rome with Interpol, and no doubt she knows from following him that he speaks Italian, too. They listen to their angry, frustrated whispers for a while until they hear one word and their eyes lock: diamonds. More after that: lock, safe, millions of dollars, night before Paris.

"They're jewel thieves." He says in disbelief. "Going to steal diamonds from some unsuspecting passenger before we arrive in Paris." He shakes his head in exasperation. "And I thought this trip couldn't get any stranger."

"They're coming this way!" She whispers urgently as footsteps sound down the hall, growing louder. He looks briefly at the door - it would take too long to unlock and get inside. It would seem suspicious if they were just standing there talking.

So he sighs, knowing he will regret this, and presses his whole form against her, his lips against her jaw, lets his hands grab at her form through her dress and it feels like his whole body is being consumed in flames, being this close to her.

"What are you doing?" She hisses, eyes focusing on the ceiling.

"Just go with it." He replies against her skin. There's a moment of still silence as his mouth moves to her pale, porcelain neck and then a leg is wrapped around him, her hips grinding wantonly against his, hands tangling in his hair, and a soft, delicious moan escapes her lips.

And this is precisely the reason he didn't kiss her on the lips. He would not have been able to handle the feeling of their lips locked; her taste, her groaning his name into his mouth, and for it not to be real. (He doesn't know why this pains him so much).

"Oh, ha ha." A voice sounds from behind him, and he leaps off of her in pretend shock. "Didn't see you there."

"We're sorry." Amelia blushes slightly. "We thought we were alone."

"It's quiet alright." Rosebud smiles. "We should be leaving you to your...business." Abbott gives them a knowing grin, and the couple links arms as they walk down the hall. "Goodnight!" Rosebud calls back to them before they disappear from sight.

"Good Texas accent for Italians." Amelia says a moment later, as Bobby turns back to her. Looking back at her, he wishes he had held her closer, let his lips suck harder to leave heavenly bruises along the column of her neck, enough for those moans to be real. "We are going to do something, aren't we?"

"Of course." He nods, and that night he can't sleep once again. Part of him, as they got changed, wanted to tell her that sleeping in the same bed would be more believable, but strangely enough, he doesn't think she would go for that.

He can not stop thinking about her. He doesn't know why, and he knows it is totally irrational, for she, though technically a glorified bureaucrat, is still a cop. And after him and the Picasso. Oddly enough, he hasn't even thought about the painting in ages. But though she is a cop, she hasn't arrested his daughter and her friends. She is obviously ambitious, and the way she fought him for the Picasso; and how easily she was able to slip into a disguise as his doting girlfriend.

He turns over, away from her and focuses instead on how the hell he's going to stop two Italian jewel thieves disguised as Texas billionaires.

"Do you know whose room this is?" Amelia asks him the next morning as they stand outside the cabin the Claibornes had been outside of the night before.

"No." He says, eyeing the lock. "The Claibornes are at breakfast, though, so they won't be showing up any time soon."

"Well, what about the room's occupant? How do we know they're at breakfast?" She responds, folding her arms over her chest. Before he can reply, the doorknob is turning, and he's turning her and pushing her against the window, and to anyone walking by, it would look like a couple admiring the view. Lights steps move behind them.

"Excuse me?" They turn to see an elderly woman, just under five feet tall, looking up at them nervously. She's a mass of white hair and wrinkles, and immediately, his heart pangs; even he didn't steal from old women. "Do you know which way the dining car is?"

"Two cars to the right." Amelia smiles gently. "In fact, we're headed that way, too. We'll walk with you."

"Oh, thank you so much." She grins, and shuffles slowly along with them. "I have most of my meals in my room, you see, but today they seem to have forgotten."

"That's quiet all right." Bobby replies, and over her head his eyes meet Amelia's, and they nod almost simultaneously - they won't let the Claibornes rob this old woman. "I'm Bobby, and this is Amelia."

"Well, aren't you two too cute." She chuckles slightly, and Amelia grins. "I'm Florence. My husband and I booked this trip way in advanced, you know - it's hard to get tickets. He passed away last month. I didn't particularly want to come, but I thought I should. He wanted to all of his life."

"I'm so sorry." Amelia says softly as they reach the door. "I hope you're enjoying yourself."

"It's nice to meet some friends." She smiles up at them as Bobby holds the door open, and to their surprise, coming through are the Claibornes.

"Amelia, Bobby!" Rosebud grins.

"You're looking...refreshed." Abbott hints, but Bobby just stares at him.

"This is Florence, our new friend." Amelia says. "Florence, these are the Claibornes."

"A pleasure." Abbott says slowly, and he can see the panic filling his eyes.

"It's nice to meet you." Florence nods in return with a small grin.

"Well, we must get going." Rosebud takes her husband's arm. "We'll see you later, yes?" They walk down the hall, and Amelia turns to face Florence.

"Would you care to join us for breakfast, Florence?"

"Oh, I would hate to inconvenience you." She says shyly.

"Really, it's no trouble." Bobby replies.

"If you insist." Florence moves into the dining room, and as he goes to follow her, Amelia's lips are on his ear.

"We aren't going to tell her anything, are we?"

"No." He answers. "We tell her nothing."

"So, the Picasso." She says over dinner the night before the supposed heist attempt. She has glanced up from her menu, and is now looking at him.

"What about the Picasso?"

"Well, we haven't talked about it in a while. We've had more pressing matters, but I wanted you to know I haven't forgotten about it." She leans forward slightly with a smirk.

"I suspected as much." He sighs.

"I want that painting." She informs him lowly.

"I know."

"I won't let you escape."

"I know."

He doesn't know if he wants to escape, either.

"Are you okay?" He asks later that night, watching her pace back and forth across their cabin in front of him.

"Nervous." She admits, crossing her arms over herself tensely. He chuckles slightly. "Is it always this nerve wracking before these types of things?"

"I suppose. But I'm used to it." He shrugs, but it doesn't seem to do anything to calm her down.

"Well, what if something goes wrong?" She inquires. "I can't exactly suddenly reveal I'm with Interpol."

"It will be fine." He says more slowly, but a tad more stern. She shoots him a questioning look, still worried. He honestly doesn't know what to do because she looks so anxious and he isn't used to dealing with those who aren't professional thieves. But she looks so scared and worked up and he hates it. "Come here." He catches her hand gently, linking her fingers in his and dragging her closer to him. "It'll be fine, I promise. Just try to relax."

She doesn't look particularly convinced, so he lets out a long breath, moves to flick off the lights, and pulls her down next to him.

"I'm here, and you know what you're doing. We'll be fine." He whispers, and he can't believe he's actually laying in a twin bed next to Amelia Bennett; her soft skin is pressed firmly against his, and there's quick burst of heat running in his veins but it subsides into a comfortable warmth - an easiness that makes him happy and tired.

Admittedly, his thoughts in the last few days about Amelia Bennett have been less than proper; he can't stop thinking about pinning her to one of those little beds and fucking her until she's screaming his name, and their days would be spent watching the scenery while laying wrapped in the sheets like a James Bond movie. But the thing is, now, and more frequently now, is that she just wants to sleep with her, in the most innocent sense of the word; bury his face in her hair and fall asleep to the sound of her breathing every night. And he wants to cuddle, hold her in his arms and do everything with her so he can see her smile, hear her laugh every single day.

His stomach flips in nausea because he realizes how screwed he is; because she's a cop and he's a thief and there's a stolen Picasso between them and despite temporarily being on the same side, it will never last.

Nevertheless, here he is, in a bed next to Amelia Bennett. She's turned on her side so she can look up at him.

"We'll be fine." She repeats, calming herself with a small smile. He traitorously lets his hand move to squeeze her arm.

"We'll be fine." He repeats once again, and his hand doesn't drop; instead, he lets it wind around her back and draw her closer to him, her face now buried in his chest and her legs tangled with his. She smells familiar; like Paris and rain and most importantly home. His eyes begin to droop.

"Bobby?" He opens his eyes, to see her glancing up at him and his heart stops because it looks like she's about to say something.

"Yeah?" She pauses, but then justs wraps her arms around his torso, clinging to him.

"Nevermind. Let's just go to sleep."

The next evening, after they spent the day going over plans, they get ready in the bathroom next to each other.

"Ready?" He inquires, and she gives him a brilliant smile as he puts on her lip gloss. Last night as not been mentioned, but it was easy and natural disentangling themselves from each other and his heart pangs because how easy it would be to do this every day. He wants to do this every day and it's so irrational and so stupid and honestly he should just get away from her now.

"Ready." She replies. He looks back in the mirror, adjusting his bow tie, trying to focus on the task at hand.

"Showtime."

"Rosebud, Abbott." Bobby grins easily at the cocktail party that evening. The whole train is in attendance, since they arrive in Paris the follow morning. Amelia's arm is naturally linked in his as they approach the Italian jewel thieves.

"There's our friends." Abbott says as he sees them, raising his hand which contains a whiskey glass in recognition. "Shame that the trip's almost over."

"Where are you two headed after we reach Paris?" Rosebud inquires quietly.

"Maybe we'll stay in Paris for awhile." Amelia shrugs, glancing towards Bobby. "The Jardin du Luxembourg is lovely this time of year. What about you?"

"We're headed to Italy." For a split second, they both freeze.

"How nice." Bobby coughs, letting Amelia go to grab champagne and speak to Florence, who was up until then standing by herself in the corner. And roughly two hours later, at eleven o'clock sharp, they both notice the Claiborne's slip away from the party. Bobby nods towards Amelia, who inclines her head in turn.

He exits the car, the cacophony fading, and suddenly he can hear his heart thudding in his ears, his footsteps too loud as he walks slowly down the hall. Florence's door is slightly ajar, and when he opens it, he's surprised to find it empty.

He makes it three steps inside before everything turns black.

Amelia nervously glances towards the door for the fifth time in the last half an hour. He should have been back by now.

"Will you excuse me?" She turns politely to Florence, deciding to take matters into her own hands. "Bobby mentioned he wasn't feeling well."

"Go right ahead dear." Florence smiles nicely. Amelia smile slightly before excusing herself, leaving the party and heading down the silent hall. There, her breathing and her heels seem so much louder. And god, she isn't a secret agent or a thief or anything of the sort - and while she may be a cop, she certainly wasn't the kind to burst into buildings with a gun. Still, at least Interpol offered some self-defense training.

She pushes the door of Florence's room, which is oddly ajar, open.

"Bobby?" She knits her eyebrows in confusion at seeing Bobby tied with his hands behind him to the couch. Before he can even open his mouth to warn her, she's being grabbed from behind.

"LET GO OF ME!" She screams, but the door shuts with a thud, silencing any attempt for outside help. Whoever is holding her is practically throwing her against Bobby. Her kicks are absolutely useless as her hands become bound with Bobby's.

"Look who we have here." Rosebud steps out of the corner, all traces of that ridiculous accent gone.

"Not exactly the doting couple we thought." Abbott replies, stepping away from binding Amelia.

"We won't let you steal from a sweet old woman." Amelia says through her teeth, straining at the fetters around her wrists.

"Feisty, aren't we." Rosebud sneers, before turning to her husband. "Grab the jewels. These two won't be discovered until we reach Paris, and by then we'll be long gone." Bobby watches silently as the Claibornes easily break into the safe, fill a large bag with copious amounts of diamonds, sapphires, and rubies, and with a laugh towards them, exit the car, locking them in.

"Well, this is a bust." Amelia says after a moment, leaning against his back. "What happened?"

"They knew we were coming, and knocked me out." He drawls. "Why'd you come after me? You were safer at the party."

"You still hadn't returned; I wasn't going to let you die."

"But you would've gotten the Picasso." He smirks, and she does her best to nudge him.

"Shut up about the Picasso for a quick moment, and let's get out of here." She hisses. Her fingers move against his behind her, tugging at the bindings holding them together.

"Any luck?"

"Almost. Luckily, these are jewel thieves, and not particularly adept at knot-tying." She says slowly, and the binds fall to the floor. "Let me see your wrists."

"We don't have time for this." He murmurs, but stands up and holds out his wrists anyway. She yanks the towards her, and winces for him when she sees how red and cut up they are. "I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?" She asks, eyes flicking up to meet his in concern. He manages a nod, despite how much his wrists sting.

"They'll be back at the party now. They can't evade us. And we have surprise on our hands." She nods, and they both start quietly towards the door. He glances towards her; notes the determination and hints of excitement on her face, and once again thinks of how natural a thief she would be - how natural this whole thing is. Visions of her and him running around empty museums and galleries flash through his mind, and even though he loves being a thief, no one likes to be a thief alone, without a partner. "Thank you." He whispers, and she smiles.

"Let's go catch some thieves." She grins, before slowly opening the door and tip-toeing down the hall. She peers into the dining car when they reach the end of the hall. "They're near the opposite end. They'll try to run. Think you can chase them down?"

He nods, glances towards her. "Ready?"

"Ready. Good luck." Her lips brush gently against his cheek, sparking fire across his skin. It's all the confidence he needs as he bursts into the party. He can see the Claibornes, the shock on their faces, and how Abbott slowly moves towards the door on the opposite end. He launches towards them immediately, bursting through the throng of party-goers, and tackling Abbott to the floor, who was halfway from the exit.

"What's going on?" Rosebud cries, putting on a wonderful act of concern and fear. The rest of the guests are in absolute shock, couples curling closer together.

"You should really learn how to tie knots better." Amelia hisses. "Bobby, are you alright?"

"Super." He coughs for the floor, successfully keeping Abbott down.

"Can someone fetch security, please?" She glances around, and after a few seconds, a nervous looking man rushes out of the room. "My name is Amelia Bennett, and I'm with Interpol. Both of you are hereby under arrest."

"Amelia, what's going on?" Florence steps from the crowd uneasily, looking like she is about to faint.

"They were planning on stealing thousands of dollars worth of jewels from you." She leans down deftly and hands Florence the bag of precious stones.

It takes two hours for everything to be sorted out; for security to come and cart the Claibornes away, for everyone to stop asking questions, for Florence to stop thanking them and stop wondering if they really are a couple (The answer is a stern no).

"Good work, Detective Bennett." He smirks as the party mostly clears, glasses and half-filled plates of food scattered across the room.

"Likewise, Mr. Bishop." She grins in turn, and she looks tired but satisfied. "I can't believe you do this all the time; it's exhausting."

He chuckles lowly, before taking her hands in his and dragging her closer to him.

"One dance." He asks her, and she notices someone has forgotten to turn the music off; something low and jazzy and oddly sexy.

"Fine. Just one." She agrees, and lets him place a hand on her waist, lets him lock the other in hers. Her hand immediately goes to rest on his shoulder, and her face is nuzzled right in to his neck. The smell of her pomegranate (how ironic - the forbidden fruit) shampoo fills his nose. All of her soft curves are pressed against him, and he's filled with that easy comfort again; he lets his eyes close slowly.

"We were pretty good partners after all." He whispers softly.

"Mmhmm." She hums tiredly against his skin, and he sighs.

Yet again that sick feeling fills him, that feeling of this could be something but it never could be because what happens after this little adventure? They just go back to their every day lives, go back to being a cop and a thief, their natural habitats.

He holds her tightly in his arms for a few long minutes more, and that night, when she is fast asleep, he packs in the silence. He is the first one off the train when it pulls in to Paris as dawn breaks, while she still sleeps.

He takes the Picasso with him.

Eight weeks after the arrest of the Claibornes, Bobby Bishop finds himself taking the elevator to the fourth floor of the European Union's headquarters. It's just past six, but he figures the person he's looking for works late. The halls of the fourth floor are modern, and dark except for the warm lights on the desks he passes by. He reaches the office at the end of the hall; an empty desk is situated outside of it, obviously for an assistant. Just beyond is the office, the door ajar.

And there she is, squinting in the semi darkness at her computer screen, and typing quickly away. She looks gorgeous, as always, but exhausted. He watches her run a hand through her hair slowly, completely oblivious to him outside. He finally approaches the door, and knocks gently on it, causing her to look up in surprise.

"Nice job, leaving me on the train. You could have at least stayed for breakfast." She smirks slightly, but it doesn't hide her bitterness.

"My apologies." He enters - the office is massive. There are big panels of one way glass letting her look out at her assistant and the desks beyond, but not letting them see in. One wall is made out of massive windows, offering gorgeous views of the park beyond. It's chic, and the only truly personal touches he can see, besides prints of her favorite pieces of art on the walls, are a few pictures of her son.

"What brings you to Brussels?" She wonders, shutting off her computer and looking up at him.

Now, he could have come up with a number of answers, since he loves Brussels; the chocolate, the Grand Place, the winding streets of ancient buildings, the art.

"You." He whispers honestly. The look in her eyes soften as she stands slowly, and moves around her desk to sit on it.

"Me?" She gulps.

"You." He reiterates, stepping closer to her. "I have a gift for you."

"A gift?" She raises an eyebrow coyly, letting him finally come to rest in front of her.

"A gift." He reaches into his jacket, and pulls out a rolled up object; something like a poster.

"Is that what I think it is?" She glances up at him under dark eyelashes. She makes a grab for it, but he pulls it back just in time.

"Ah ah ah, not so fast." He laughs. "There's one condition."

"Anything." She breathes, her soft breath washing over his face. The smile slips off of his face, and he easily leans his forehead against hers, rests a hand on the side of her face and tugs his fingers through her hair. "Bobby?"

Being this close to her is nerve-wracking, but he has been dreaming about this for weeks. His heart is thudding loudly in his chest. "Come with me."

"Where?" She's staring at his lips, and one of her arms moves around his torso.

"Anywhere. Everywhere." He says. "I need a partner. And the whole thing with the Claibornes..." He shakes his head a little in disbelief. "I could see the excitement and determination in your eyes. I've be a thief most of my life, and for the most part, it's been lonely. And I've never minded that, until I was stuck on that ridiculous train ride with you to Paris. We made a good team, and it was...so natural being with you, planning with you." Her eyes have moved from his lips to his eyes, and he can't read her expression. "Originally, I hated your perseverance - you just wouldn't give up. You were chasing me constantly, but now I realize...that's something I want, something I need."

"You want me to run away with you, become a thief." She clarifies, glancing down for a second.

"I know that you hate being a bureaucrat. You love art, Amelia; you should be out in the field. You should be with me."

"Bobby, I...don't know. Of course, weeks ago I would have said you were crazy." She laughs humorlessly. "You want me to give up my entire life to be with you. All I know how to do is be a cop - I don't know how to steal things. And just for a Picasso?"

"I will do anything to convince you." He rests the painting on the desk, and moves his other hand so he's cupping her face.

"Anything?"

"Anything."

"Kiss me." She breathes against his skin, and his heart explodes. Her eyes have closed, waiting for him. He has imagined this for ages but now that the moment has arrived, he's frozen. He finally, after a long moment, presses his lips against hers. Her lips are soft, and when his tongue pushes into her mouth, he notices she tastes like peppermint and apples - fresh and addicting. That feeling fills him again - complete and utter easiness that creeps through his whole body, from his toes to his head.

That easiness is soon replaced with fire surging through his veins; he needs to be closer to her, like he's parched and she's the only water for miles. His hands move to clench her hair and drag her hips against his. Her legs hug his waist, but it's still not close enough. A muffled groan escapes her lips.

"I've been waiting for this for ages." She gasps as their lips break apart, because at some point oxygen became necessary. He peppers kisses over her face, her jaw, her gorgeous neck and collar bone.

"I need you, Amelia. I need your stability and rationality. And I need you. Your smile and your laughter and I need to wake up next to you every day and I had no idea what I was missing." Yes, it's a serious comment, but it needs to be said because it's true. She doesn't respond right away. "And you crave the adventure, I know it. I know we can be happy."

"I can't." She says finally, not about to meet his eyes, and his breath catches, his lungs squeeze around his heart, and he can feel all of that confidence cracking. "I want to be with you, but I can't give up everything I've ever known. I would be diving in blind. And Nick - he needs stability for once in his life, and we've finally found it here."

"I know. I...understand. It was too much to ask." He gulps, taking a long step away from her.

"Do you really?" Her face is blank, questioning.

"Yes." He nods cooly. "It still hurts."

"Stay here, in Brussels with me, then." She proposes.

"Being a thief is a mobile life." He replies, and she nods curtly. The silence is pressing on him, and though it's heavy it's also sharp; like all senses are sharper now. "You can keep the Picasso."

"Keep it. It's nothing without you." She shrugs. "We can keep in touch, though, can't we?"

"Call me if you need me." He says as he steps backwards.

"Likewise." Amelia replies seriously, and everything stings so much that he can't even feel anything anymore as he turns to leave, halfway to the door - but did he really think he could so easily convince her to give up everything she's worked for, for him? "Bobby?" He turns slowly, and she's still perches on top of her desk, skirt ridding higher up her thighs as she crosses her legs.

And the smirk on her lips and the slight raise of her eyebrow are enough to say, Where do you think you're going?

"You think that after that train ride, with all those touches and the cuddling, and now that kiss, that you were going to leave without saying goodbye?" She wonders coyly.

A grin spreads across his lips, and he slams the door shut with a thud before lunging towards her.