So, here it is, the final chapter of this. Sorry that it took so long - I think possibly I may have some deep-seated psychological problem with actually finishing stories. Either that or I just suck.

It had been nearly two weeks and Livingston still had no idea what to do. Everything he was thinking seemed so impossible. Because if Rusty had broken into O'Brien's house, then maybe he'd broken into other places. He would have to have; you don't just randomly decide that maybe burglarising some jerk's house was the best way of looking after your boyfriend. And that's what Rusty had been doing, and every time he started thinking along those lines he got even more confused. But there were words for people who made a habit of breaking and entering, and Livingston found it just a little bit difficult to apply any of them to the man sitting next to him on the sofa playing with a deck of cards and eating marshmallows.

But still, he hadn't been able to shake the thought that Rusty and Danny might be, well, criminals. It bothered him every time he saw either of them, and though nothing had been said he knew, just knew, that his nervousness had been noted, pondered over and probably discussed. He knew them well enough by now to understand that. And yes, he was nervous, it was as simple as that. Because if it was true then right now he could be sitting in a room with two extremely dangerous men. Admittedly the effect was somewhat spoiled by the fact that one of them was quietly arguing with an ex-girlfriend while the other was . . . licking powdered sugar off his fingers. Mmmm.

He forced himself to stop staring with an effort.

Stop laughing, would you? They could have been dangerous. I mean, I couldn't possibly have known that they're about as violent as linoleum. All I knew was that they possibly made a habit of breaking into people's houses and taking things that don't belong to them. You know how many images off stockings-over-heads and sawn-off shotguns were running through my mind?

Seriously, stop laughing.

The argument that Danny was having had reached an extremely hushed fever-pitch. Livingston recognised her vaguely; Danny had dated her last month for about two weeks, give or take. She hadn't seemed to approve of Rusty and him much, and Livingston had formed the vague impression that that had been a major cause of the break-up. Which might explain why when he'd quietly suggested to Rusty that they move and give Danny some privacy Rusty had shook his head and continued with his card game. Solitaire, that was the one you could play alone, he thought. Must be some variant involving multiple decks though, that was the fifth Ace he'd seen go by. It might also explain why Danny was offering something less than his usual degree of charm.

"I mean, come on Danny. You could be doing so much more with your life. And I know I said I never wanted to see you again, because you never take anything seriously and you've got no ambition, and you'll never admit that you're wrong, and your friends . . . but you know, I've thought about it I'm willing to overlook all that."

Throughout the monologue, Danny was starting to look a little desperate, and Livingston watched curiously as Rusty leaned across and quietly tore a piece of paper out of the notebook he'd been pretending to work in, scrawled 'Gail' across it in large letters and held it up behind her back.

"Listen, Gail," Danny said immediately, holding up his hands placatingly. "It's been lovely seeing you again, but the simple fact of the matter is it would never work between us, for all the reasons you listed and more. So," He started ushering her towards the door. "I don't think that we should continue to torment ourselves with what might have been, do you?" Looking completely bemused, she vanished out the door, and Danny shut it with a sigh.

Rusty raised his eyebrows. "Torment ourselves with what might have been?"

Danny shrugged. "Got it from – "

" – I know, I watch that show too, remember?"

Dangerous criminals, Livingston reminded himself.

The sound of the phone woke him up the next morning, but only very vaguely, and even the sensation of Rusty's arm being removed from around his waist, and the feeling of the mattress shifting as Rusty got up prompted nothing more than a mild groan of protest before he rolled over into the warmth left behind.

No, the first thing he was he was really aware of was Rusty – fully dressed – shaking him awake. "What is it? Are we on fire?" he asked, groggily.

"Well, I'm not." Rusty answered with a laugh. "No, that was Saul. Me and Danny need to go into work. Some sort of emergency. Sleep in as long as you like, help yourself to anything that's in the kitchen and let yourself out. You remember where the spare key is, right?"

He nodded sleepily. "In the cutlery drawer." He'd suggested a while ago that they should keep it under the doormat, or on the ledge above the door, or anywhere that it would actually be useful in the event of being locked out, but Rusty had just grinned and said that they didn't want to encourage thieves. And remembering the look that Danny had given him then, Livingston couldn't help but wonder.

"Uh huh." Rusty bent over and kissed him for a brief, tender moment and Livingston started to feel a lot more awake. "Gotta go. If you're not here when I get back I'll give you a call tonight, okay?"

"Have a good day." he called as the bedroom door shut.

Opportunity. He stayed in bed for exactly another half hour after he heard the front door shut, watching the numbers on the clock change, afraid that if he got up and started snooping that would be the moment when the door would open again, and it would turn out that Rusty had forgotten his wallet or something, and he wouldn't be able to explain and it would all be unbearably awkward.

But thirty minutes passed and nothing, so he got up and stood looking round the room. So. If he was evidence that his sweet, funny, incredibly good-looking and unfathomably brilliant boyfriend was, in fact, a crook, where would he be? This sort of thing was definitely easier on TV. With a shrug he figured he'd start with the room he was in. After all, both he and all of Danny's passing crushes had complete access to the kitchen and lounge. And searching Rusty's room might be distasteful but it was slightly less weird than searching Danny's room. He bit his lip and decided to start with the underwear drawer.

After about an hour of painstaking work – with a few hair-raising moments when he couldn't remember whether a pair of socks had been lying that way or that way – Livingston was just about ready to concede that other than a well-thumbed copy of 'The Wonderful Wizard of Oz' stuffed between drawers, a pair of too-shiny gold cufflinks in the shape of dice, and a photo of Rusty and Danny grinning conspiratorially at each other in what appeared to be a cable car, there was absolutely nothing troubling in Rusty's dressing table.

There was also nothing under the bed, other than a half-finished box of cracker jacks which he vaguely remembered Rusty munching on the previous evening.

In a moment of inspiration he'd gone around the room, poking at the floor and ceiling and tapping on the walls, looking for hidden compartments, but all that had happened was that the man next door had knocked back.

He was just about ready to give up. It wasn't like he had any idea what he was looking for. Sighing, he told himself that he'd search Rusty's wardrobe and if there was no black and white striped sweater with accompanying 'swag' bag, he'd call it a day and admit that he'd been being paranoid.

The sweater was nowhere in evidence, but he did find a turquoise shirt with a little palm tree motif at the hem which he promised himself that he'd contrive to rip if Rusty ever wore it on one of their dates.

He stood back from the wardrobe with a grimace and looked at the box on the top shelf. Honestly, he was rapidly losing the heart for this. He really didn't want to be the guy pawing through his boyfriend's photo-collection - or worse.

Still, he'd said he'd search the wardrobe, and that would be it. If he didn't there'd always be the doubt, so he carefully pulled the box down, noting that it had been just a little off being plumb against the wall. A little leather packet fell down with it, and frowning he picked it up and unrolled it.

He was confronted by a wide selection of oddly-shaped, gleaming little tools and he felt his heart stop. None of them were exactly familiar to him – he didn't know what any of them in particular was – but he'd seen the same sort of set-up on TV. He knew what they were.

He tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. It was true. It was all true. And suddenly he realised that he'd been looking to disprove it, he'd been expecting to disprove it, and he had no idea what he was supposed to do now.

Numbly he turned his attention back to the box. Almost dreading what he was going to see, he raised the lid. On top were building plans, clearly marked as the Metropolitan Museum of Art. An involuntary giggle escaped him; well, at least they weren't unambitious. He glanced over them, seeing the notes in a very familiar hand marking out the location of the security cameras, the exits, the pressure pads. How could he do this?

He leafed through the remaining contents of the box. Mostly it was a wide selection of fake IDs – maintenance worker, drivers license in the name of Tony Munroe, French passport, museum pass for a visiting professor, and an accompanying validated parking permit.

With shaking hands he dropped everything back into the box and carefully replaced it, and the lockpicks, on the shelf where he'd found them.

He had to leave. Now.

For the next two weeks he avoided Rusty to the best of his ability. He cancelled every date and invented plans for every time that Rusty called him. And yeah, some of the stories he invented were pretty weak. Apparently he lacked talent as a liar. After the third time Rusty wasn't trying to hide the hurt in his voice. After the fifth time he stopped calling.

Oh, come on. Stop looking at me like that. I know, I know, I was a complete bastard, but it was a very long time ago. I was young, confused. I didn't know. And Rusty forgave me ages ago. Even Danny did, so seriously, stop looking at me like that!

He just didn't know what to think, and he certainly didn't know what to do. The idea of calling the police, or even the museum, didn't occur to him until three days had gone by, and he dismissed it immediately, He couldn't do that. He really, really, couldn't do that. And that told him something right there, though it took him another ten days to finally accept it.

Because he wasn't really able to work up a good dose of moral outrage about it all. Yeah, he was hurt and angry that Rusty hadn't told him, but, well, that was more than understandable really, wasn't it? And yes, okay, there was still the possibility that they were dangerous and violent, but he was having real trouble reconciling the idea of 'vicious criminals' with the guys he'd watch come up with a non-competitive version of foosball; the guy he'd caught getting all teary-eyed over 'A Star is Born'; or the guy tracked all over town to pick up the orange popsicles he liked so much when he'd had a sore throat that time. Maybe he was just naïve. Maybe he just didn't have a good enough imagination. But he couldn't make it work in his head.

And the simple truth of the matter was that since he'd met Rusty his life had got better in every way imaginable. Leaving aside the mind-blowing sex - which, while fantastic probably wasn't actually a good enough reason to close his eyes to all illegal activities – there was still the simple fact that he was in imminent danger of turning his back on one of the few people he'd ever known who had seen past the awkward geek and actually got him. Someone clever and witty who not only understood what he was saying but found him interesting and funny and even just a little bit cool. And while he was with Rusty, maybe he really was those things.

Not to mention that work had got so much better since they'd done whatever to O'Brien. Without him there to start it all off the petty bullying he'd had to deal with had nearly stopped. Nearly. That kind of friendship, that kind of loyalty – was he really prepared to give it all up just because the guys freely offering it were responsible for separating a few wealthy morons from their assets?

But on the other hand . . . He just didn't know.

Two weeks and he hadn't figured out anything more than the fact that he didn't want to close any doors just yet. But either Rusty was screening his calls (and Livingston wouldn't blame him) or else he was genuinely out (stealing things) because two days and he couldn't reach him. Finally he decided to go round and if Rusty was in, great, and if not he'd leave a note or something. Chocolates maybe. Or flowers. Or not.

The door was ajar, that was the first sign that something was wrong. The arguing voices was the second. Unsure of what to do, he lingered just outside and listened.

"Well, I wasn't the one who thought it'd be a good idea to leap off the staircase." Rusty. Sounding frustrated, and maybe a little . . . worried?

"The camera moved. What was I – " Danny sounded tired.

Rusty interrupted him. "Some of us hid in the closet."

"Some of us weren't prepared to deal with the inevitable jokes." Danny shot back.

"So you decided to jump instead?"

There was a pause and Livingston could imagine – though not understand, never understand, - the silent conversation he couldn't see.

"Keep that ankle up." Rusty said finally. "I'll close the door."

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Livingston pulled himself together and knocked.

After a second, Rusty swung the door open wide and smiled on seeing Livingston. There was relief and apprehension in his eyes, and Livingston still felt like a bastard. He could see Danny lying on the sofa behind Rusty, his ankle wrapped in ice and on a pile of cushions.

Rusty saw him looking and moved ever so slightly to block his view. "Hi, Livingston, look, please believe me when I say I'm really glad to see you, but this really isn't a good time."

"Was it the Met?" he blurted out.

He had to hand it to them, there was absolutely no reaction. The atmosphere in the room didn't change in the slightest. Rusty simply gave him a quizzical look and repeated "The Met?" in a bemused tone.

"I know. About what you and Danny do. I got to thinking after O'Brien, and then I did some snooping, and I'm sorry about that, but I found stuff and that's why I cancelled our dates and I'm really sorry about that, and, yeah. Sorry."

Rusty quickly glanced past him, out into the hall. Livingston looked round as well, but there was no-one there. Then he suddenly felt a hand on his shirt and he was pulled inside and the door was shut firmly behind him.

He and Rusty stood staring at each other for a long moment. "What happens now?" Livingston asked finally.

Rusty shrugged. "Could you get some more ice please? And the bandages? They're in the cupboard with the pot stands. And there's some Tylenol on the spice rack."

Oh. Right. He hurried into the kitchen and quickly found what Rusty had asked for. When he turned back and deposited everything on the chair next to Danny, they were once again exchanging long, meaning-filled looks. His attention was caught by Danny's ankle which looked unpleasantly swollen.

"Is it broken?" he asked, in a hushed tone.

"No." Danny answered shortly, as Rusty packed more ice around it. "Just sprained."

"Does it hurt?" he asked, feeling stupid as Rusty passed Danny the Tylenol and a glass of water.

"Yes." Danny said, through gritted teeth, and he decided to shut up for a while.

"Take three." Rusty advised. "Make you less grumpy."

There was silence for a while, as Rusty got on with what, in anyone else, Livingston would have been inclined to call fussing.

"I'm not going to tell anyone." he blurted out finally. There was a noticeable lightening of tension, and he suddenly realised that Rusty and Danny had no more idea than he did what was supposed to happen next. Somehow that made everything a lot easier.

"For real?" Rusty asked carefully.

"Yeah. I mean, I thought about it for a while," he admitted, "But I just couldn't do it." He swallowed. "But, well, I will if . . . I mean, I need to know. Do you ever hurt anyone?"

Two completely shocked expressions came his way. "No!" Rusty exclaimed.

Danny shook his head. "We're not like that."

"But you are criminals." he felt compelled to ask, just to make sure that they really were all on the same page here.

"Yes." Danny answered immediately.

Okay, now for the hard one. "Why?"

Rusty didn't even hesitate. "It's what we do."

"It's what we're good at." Danny expanded.

Huh. He listened to the certainty in their tones and wondered. He'd never felt that confident about anything in his life. "Somewhere along the way, you picked up some really weird career advice." he joked uneasily.

Rusty grinned. "Maybe."

"Seriously, was it the Met?" He was still curious.

That wiped the smile off Rusty's face. He nodded. "Yeah. We've got a buyer lined up for a Pollock."

"There's supposed to be a blind-spot in the cameras. But it's not there quite long enough." Danny was looking at him thoughtfully. He didn't know why.

He also didn't quite get the problem. "Can't you just loop the tape?"

Rusty shook his head. "Controlled centrally by computer. We don't have the expertise. . . " As Rusty stopped and whipped his head round to glare at Danny, Livingston suddenly got it.

"I could do it." he said, and he would say that he didn't know why – except that he did. He really did. They both looked at him. "I mean, you know, if you're still planning . . . if you want me to. I could do it."

"No." Rusty said firmly, but it was Danny he was frowning at.

But why not? He couldn't think of a single reason. Because before his life had been ordered, predictable. Everything had been laid out for him, and this – all of this – had never been part of it. "Rus'." He waited until Rusty turned to look at him. "I know what I want."

The last three days had been some of the longest of his life. He'd had to sit in work, pretending to figure out the best way to keep thieves out, while in his head he was figuring out the best way to get two thieves in. And all the time he'd been so nervous – his supervisor was convinced he was sick, and had kept trying to send him home. But though Rus' and Danny hadn't said anything, well, he assumed that he should be trying to act as normal as possible.

Didn't exactly help that every single day he'd had to persuade the pair of them – individually, and occasionally together – that he hadn't changed his mind and wasn't going to.

Though, staring at the two monitors in front of him – one showing what was really happening, one showing what the surveillance tapes was going to show – telling himself over and over again that there was absolutely no way he was going to throw up, he wondered if maybe there was still time to back out.

They'd left him here twenty minutes ago.

"Shouldn't take more than an hour." Rusty had promised, handing over a pack of M&Ms. He hadn't been quite certain what that was supposed to accomplish but he'd appreciated the thought.

"We've fixed it so there should be no guards coming anywhere near the place," Danny had said, for what had to be the fifth time. "But if you're not certain – "

" – Get out." he'd nodded and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He was neither a child nor an idiot.

"Don't wait for us. Don't waste time trying to warn us." They'd both stared intently at him, and he'd nodded, though in reality he had no intention of doing any such thing. He might not know how to be a professional thief but he knew how to be a friend.

Now he was watching the screen and sucking M&Ms while simultaneously trying to avoid thinking nausea-inducing paranoid thoughts and thoughts that were likely to produce a completely different effect. Because, he thought, as one of the black-clad figures he was watching (he was pretty sure it was Danny, but the picture quality wasn't that good) bent to remove the fake painting from the case, there was something incredibly sexy about the larcenous look. And when Rusty (if it was Rusty) stretched up to re-hang it, revealing just a hint of flesh as his top rode up, he was suddenly really glad that he was sitting down. Weak at the knees didn't even begin to cover it.

And when they were finished and Rusty turned and waved up at the security camera, and he could see the smile beneath the mask, he knew he'd been right. Because he was nervous as hell, and maybe just a little terrified, and it was dangerous, and illegal and definitely not the good, stable job with prospects that he'd been so lucky to get, but this was everything he wanted. Everything.

You know, there's really not that much more to tell. After I got my cut – an equal share, the guys insisted no matter how often I pointed out that I hadn't been in all the way – well, I decided that the time had come to start moonlighting. So I worked a few jobs with Rusty and Danny, got introduced to a few people, and within six months I was able to quit work and I've never looked back.

Well, that wasn't what you asked about in the first place.

Fine, me and Rusty . . . we just drifted apart, I guess. No, that's not quite right. I mean, he's still one of the closest friends I'll ever have. He's still the first guy I call when I'm in trouble.

But for the rest, well, I got pretty busy pretty quickly. There was always something new and interesting, you know? And then Danny had to leave New York in a hurry.

Of course Rusty went with him. Like there was ever any doubt.

I don't know, we just kind of agreed we were better as friends.

It's not like I ever fell in love with him or anything.

Hey, would I lie to you?

And that's an ending people - so, if you've had an opinion about this story, I'd really love it if you let me know.