A/N: I'm so sorry about how long it's been guys! These versions of A&A were just a lot more stubborn than I'd expected. I'm not sure where they're going to go from here, and I'm still working through a couple plot directions, but I'll try to get an update as soon as possible. Please let me know what y'all think; hopefully it'll help me sort out where I'm going with them! As always, thanks for reading; you guys are awesome.

"Life changes in the instant. The ordinary instant."

―Joan Didion

Ally's training click into gear as she pulls into the winding courtyard of Starr's mansion. She notes the number of guards, checking for the tell-tale bulge of concealed weapons and the ready stance of professional-grade killers. She doesn't even notice herself tapping out the tallies until Austin's eyes dart amusedly to her hands at the wheel.

"Nervous twitch, Dawson? That's adorable."

She's itching to slap the smirk off his face; this boy has the uncanny ability to wreck her composure, but she refuses to let him see it. Ally shifts the car smoothly into park before turning to Austin with an expression of long-suffering patience.

"Can you give me the exact number of entrances and exits to the building?"

Austin blinks at the question and Ally tilts her head.

"What about the height and weight of each of the security personnel?" Austin just blinks. Ally continues. "Here's an easy one. How are we going to bypass the alarm system?"

"Well-" Austin looks mildly chastened as Ally cuts him off.

"Until you can answer those questions, you can just sit there, look pretty, and remember why I'm here."

A flash of chagrin flits across Austin's face for the briefest of moments before his expression relaxes into an easy grin.

"You think I'm pretty, Ally D? I'm flattered."

Ally wrinkles her nose at him. "Hopeless." She mutters under her breath as she steps out of the car, handing the keys to a uniformed valet. Austin shuts his door and offers his arm with a wink as she walks past him, towards the gala's entrance.

"Shall we?" He says as she reluctantly winds her fingers around the crook of his elbow. "Don't look so glum, Dawson. This is supposed to be fun."

The look he shoots her is equal parts determined and mischievous, and Ally softens; for all his ego and bluster, Austin Moon isn't terrible to have on a mission. A frisson of excitement sparks its way up her spine as her mind quiets and she settles into the role of Ally Dawson, songwriter.

"Onward ho, Mr. Moon."

Austin has a notorious disdain for guns and Ally doesn't need them, so they breeze past security with ease. Austin tilts his head almost imperceptibly to a well-dressed group to their left and Ally straightens minutely, catching the tail end of the conversation. Evidently, Jimmy Starr has yet to make an appearance this evening and the natives are getting restless. She recognizes the practiced nonchalance of young Hollywood, and identifies two of the group as the stars of LA's latest cinematic blockbuster. They're too young, bored, and new to the trade to be of use to Starr, but Ally files away their conversation for later use. She and Austin walk through the doors of the ballroom and he whistles under his breath.

"We're not in Kansas anymore."

The room is alight with glittering gowns and gilded chandeliers, champagne fountains and hundreds of dangling string lights. There's a string quartet across the floor, tables of hors d'oevres lining the walls and waiters gliding through the crowds of guests with choreographed grace. Just as Ally turns to reply to Austin, there's a minute shift in the air. A murmur travels through the guests as they turn towards the door, where the Starrs have finally made their entrance. Kira Starr, while impeccably dressed, looks slightly harried as she smiles tightly at the guests around her. Her father, in contrast, looks the picture of the benign sovereign as he seamlessly charms his guests. Ally is sure that behind the warm grin and hearty handshake, Starr is calculating the monetary value of every interaction he'll have tonight. She turns to Austin and he shoots her a conspiratorial wink.

"Showtime."

"Break a leg, Moon."

She watches as Austin stops briefly to greet a group of women, laughing a little as one of them trips when he grins at her.

"Been there." She murmurs sympathetically, scanning the rest of the ballroom. She pauses suddenly, blinking as she processes her own words.

Oh boy.

An hour later, Ally's made herself comfortable at the open bar. She's not drinking tonight, but it's the best place to pretend to be engaged while keeping an eye on the ballroom floor. She's caught on to the pattern in the guards' rotations by now, while keeping an eye on her partner and their target. Ally takes a sip of water to disguise her expression as her eyes glide over the milling guests, searching for a distinctive head of blond hair. She's loathe to admit it, but Austin Moon is very good at what he does. A wink here, a grin there, and he's effortlessly charmed his way through the crowd of people surrounding Jimmy Starr. Starr seems to be telling a dramatic story to his enraptured audience and as Jimmy lifts his arm, Ally sees Austin make the lift. Austin gracefully extricates himself from the conversation before swiftly crossing the ballroom and disappearing through the double doors with the slightest of nods in her direction. Ally waits her requisite ten minutes before stepping lightly from her bar stool and winding her way through the crowd with a lazy, feline grace that she only ever finds when she's on the job. Smiling sweetly at the guards in the hallway, she steps into the women's restroom and checks all the stalls. Satisfied that she's alone, Ally unscrews the vent above the sink before hoisting herself into the air ducts. She orients herself for a second, before heading down the duct that she knows will take her to Starr's private wing. In a matter of minutes, she's lowering herself from the ceiling, dropping silently onto the balls of her feet. She hears a low whistle and whips around. She's clicking her knives out of their holsters just she sees the blond down the hall, hands tucked into his pockets, chuckling. She straightens and clicks the knives back into place.

"Nice of you to wait, Moon." She says wryly, hip-checking Austin to get to the door behind him. He lets her through with an exaggerated bow.

"I live to please, Dawson." He deadpans as she crouches next to the lock.

"Mhm. And I'm a monkey's uncle."

"Just break down the wall." Austin's leaning against the wall, amused, as Ally studies the door with a concentrated scowl. She takes two bobby pins from her hair and begins to fiddle with the lock and Austin crosses his arms to settle further into poised nonchalance.

"It's not going to work, Dawson." He's alert for guards, but the hallway's deserted, and in the back of his mind Austin notes absently that a few tendrils have escaped from the twisted bun at the nape of Ally's neck. He reaches out to push them behind her ear, catching himself in time to pull his hand back just as she turns.

"You're such a pessimist."

"It's an easy solution. Just break down the wall."

She snorts. "While we're at it, why don't we grab a megaphone and just announce to Starr that we're here? This is why you need me, Moon. Subtlety is definitely not your strong suit." She breathes in sharply as the lock clicks. Swinging the door open, Ally turns around with a barely hidden smile. "After you, Mr. Fists of Fury."

"That is a terrible nickname." Austin tugs on a tendril of hair as he walks past her. "And my way would have worked too. It had flair."

"Flair is just a euphemism for unprofessional conduct." Ally says primly, sliding the door shut behind them. She turns straight into Austin's chest and lightly presses a hand against his shoulder. "Whoa buddy."

"I think a little unprofessional conduct keeps things interesting." His voice is low as he leans in, boxing her against the door.

"Okay Casanova. Put your rear in gear and find the safe." She slides deftly under his arm, ruffling his hair as she moves towards the desk in the center of the room.

He stares dumbfoundedly at her retreating back. "Did you just use the phrase 'put your rear in gear'? Are you eighty years old?" He shakes his head as he walks towards the safe. "Talk about unprofessional conduct."

"It is a common expression. People love fun rhymes. Rhymes are the spice of life." Ally says indignantly, standing up from the drawer she had been rummaging through. "You're just upset because nothing rhymes with Austin."

"Plenty of things rhyme with Austin. Lost in. Tossed in. Cost in."

"Those are all two words. That totally doesn't count."

"What are you, the final word on all rhyming everywhere?" Austin whistles as he runs a hand over the frame of a Warhol. "This is an incredible fake."

"I'm not the final word on rhyming everywhere. Just your rhymes. Because you abuse rhyming privileges as an artist." Ally says primly, then tilts her head in the direction of the painting. "Also, Starr can definitely afford the real thing. Which gets a girl thinking. What's he doing with a fake?"

"You know you're not really a songwriter and I'm not a singer, right? Rhyming's not exactly a big part of my career." Austin says absently, still focused on the Warhol painting. There's more space between the frame and the wall than the canvas requires, and he lifts the piece to confirm a theory. Sure enough, embedded in the wall is a small door with a state-of-the-art lock. "All these corrupt billionaires are so predictable." He taps his fingers against the frame of the painting. "They could at least make it a little interesting for us. This thing is going to take me five minutes, tops."

Ally's voice is full of amusement as she replies. "A thief who only wants the hard jobs. Who woulda thunk it."

"Don't hate the player. Hate the game." Austin shrugs, spinning the lock with his ear to the door. It tumbles into place and he grins in satisfaction. "And so it goes. Just four more to go, Ally D. You can't tell me it wouldn't be more fun if this were harder."

"Don't call me that. Did you just quote Vonnegut?" Ally asks, as she uploads Dez's software onto Starr's desktop. The bug does its work and in a matter of seconds, she's past the firewalls and well on her way to downloading the entirety of his hard drive. She lets the tech do its work, leaning against the desk to look fully at Austin, who is concentrating on the safe with a focus she hasn't seen from him the entire job.

"Hey, I know my way around the literary classics."

"A well-read art thief. You really are cultivating that whole international man of mystery thing, aren't you? Don't tell me you order your martinis shaken, not stirred."

The door to the safe swings open with a soft click and Austin folds the files inside and tucks them into the false soles of his shoes before replacing the papers with mock-ups. He closes the door and hangs the Warhol back up, tilting the frame back to its original position. He turns to Ally, dusting his hands off.

"Beat you." He says brightly. "And as to your question, I prefer scotch. Straight."

The computer beeps just as Ally opens her mouth to respond. Her fingers glide across the keyboard as she taps out a brief code, detaching the silver drive from the computer.

"You're incorrigible." She wrinkles her nose at him as they step out of the office and head back towards the ballroom. "It wasn't a race."

"Don't be a sore loser, Dawson." He says tugging on a loose curl of her hair. "Turn that frown upside down."

She bats his hand away as they approach the corner that'll take them out of Starr's private wing and back to the main hall. "Now I know why you work alone. Behind all that brooding intimidation, you're basically a six-year-old."

"Hey, I'll have you know that first graders are wise bey-" He looks at Ally indignantly as she covers his mouth with her hand.

"Shh. Footsteps." She hisses, pulling him back from the corner. His breath is warm against her palm and she flushes a little as she pulls her hand back quickly, flexing her fingers. "Sorry." She whispers.

The footsteps grow louder and Austin curses softly. "We were almost home free." He sighs, before turning to her. "Trust me?"

She tilts her head. "Why?"

"Because we're going to act out the biggest cliche in the business." He murmurs, mussing his own hair before twining a hand through hers. He wraps an arm around her waist and she grabs his shoulders to steady herself.

"I thought you hated clic-" A few things stop her from finishing her response. Two guard turning the corner, for one; a loud "Hey!" for the other. But mostly, it's because she's suddenly wrapped in cologne and mint and silk, Austin's thumb against her left cheekbone, and a heady, featherlight kiss. Austin tastes like mint and scotch and Ally sinks into his chest for the briefest of seconds, before he whispers something and she remembers that they've got an audience: a stage, characters to play. They both straighten as an angry voice breaks the last of Ally's daze.

"What are you two doing here?"