Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Cigarette smoke curled in the air around Ian; the bitter smell clung to his clothing. He leaned against a brick wall, illuminated by streetlights that blinked off and on, erratically. His suit was, as usual, immaculate, fitting for Belcredi-Hallet's best closer. His hair was gelled and combed back, save for a few sand-blonde strands ― Ian knew he was handsome. He used it well, if he did say so himself. Did that make him an asshole? Sure.

Ian dropped the cigarette onto the rain-slicked concrete with all the ease of someone who had always won in life. He stamped it out and was ready to go back to his car when the side door to the run-down, tacky bar next door opened. A woman walked out. She stomped down the stairs with barely concealed rage. The light above her flickered back on, and damn, she was beautiful, even in such low lighting. She had long, thick chocolate hair that dripped down her shoulders and was dressed simply in low rise jeans and a slinky brown top. Gold jewelry adorned her hands and wrists.

"Fri, wait!"

Just as Ian was about to reach out for her, let her know that hey, the great Ian Wainscott, best closer in New York, was interested in her, a man stumbled after her. This was her deadbeat boyfriend, he guessed. Sad. She could do so much better than some loser with mid-brown hair and no alcohol tolerance. Like him, for instance. Seriously. He'd even be happy to be the rebound relationship.

The woman, Fri, turned and glared at the man with a terrifying amount of vitriol. "No way in hell, Harrison. I don't like you enough to care that you kissed her, but you could have at least spared my ego and done it in the next fucking room!"

Christ. Harrison was clearly an idiot. And blind. He sobbed out some alcohol-slurred apology that blamed her half of the time and insisted she needed him for the other half. Then he gagged and kneeled over, vomiting on the pavement. Ian clung to the shadows as he made his way to his car. Curse words echoed through the alleyway as he left. He was fairly sure some of them were in Latin.

Curiosity made him want to stay, but eavesdropping wasn't his thing, and he liked drama, sure, but not when he wasn't at the center of it. Besides, he'd never see the beautiful woman from New York's shittiest bar ever again, would he?

Chapter Text

Whiskey burned his throat as he sipped from his glass casually. He leaned back on the low seated leather couch he was on and waited for Cassandra. The two had gone to law school together, and their relationship now was equal parts rivalry and sin. She was his for the night, and then she'd be seen at some party in Spain, kissing someone else. Cassandra pretended like it wasn't to annoy him, and Ian pretended to care.

Here she was now; she opened the door with quiet but deliberate danger, walked over to him on stilettos tall enough to be a weapon. She pushed her sleek, pin-straight hair out of her face and smiled at him. If the taunting, indecent smirk on her face could even be called a smile.

"Long time no see, Ian," she said between rouge-red lips.

"You say that as if it was my choice. Tell me, how was Milan?"

"Excellent. I could have bagged you a ticket, if you weren't so dead set on staying in New York."

"I could have agreed to that if you hadn't walked out."

Cassandra laughed, then took a sip of her drink. "And here I thought we weren't supposed to be getting attached."

Ian sighed and fiddled with his tie. "Attached? Please. You know my ego."

She set her glass back on the table with a light thud, the beads on her dress glistening under the low light. They'd done this many times before. He knew what she would say before she said it. They would escape to his car; he'd put up the divider in a hurry as one of her shoes stabbed him in the leg. She'd taste like something expensive; his tie and suit jacket would soon decorate the floor.

"Do you want to-"

"Yes."

This granted him a victorious smile he didn't much care to interpret. Which would likely be to his detriment later, but this was their relationship. War. Of course, it was sugared with lipstick stains and flirtation, but it was still war. If he was being honest, he preferred it like that.

***

The sun rose, and Ian watched the hustle and bustle of the city below as he always did. Yellow taxis dotted through the streets; the sun shone on the skyscrapers. And he was above it all. He was a winner. Ian Wainscott, people would whisper around him, either in fear or reverence. It didn't matter which, to him.

Both meant he was important.

The door slid open behind him. Cassandra stood next to him, dressed in some immaculate suit-dress she'd picked up from somewhere. With one hand holding on to the railing, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

"I have to go now. Hasta luego."

He turned to her and grabbed her waist. "At least kiss me properly first."

She sidestepped out of his grasp and walked off without so much as a goodbye. Typical of her. Cassandra knew she was smarter than most people, and she used it, just like Ian did. It gave her an unshakable sort of confidence that, if Ian was honest, both terrified and amused him. Sometimes he thought about changing their relationship, but why should he? They both annoyed the hell out of each other.

Besides, he had work.

***

Frost was in the air as he walked into the firm. He loved all of it, the light wood walls, the clinical Belcredi-Hallet sign. Even the annoying sound the elevators made when they arrived on your floor; he stepped into it and pressed the button for the 50th floor.

Mirabella was waiting for him when he arrived at his floor, her artificial blonde hair swept up in a bun (which meant she hadn't left the office all night), her hands clutching files nervously.

"Naomi is waiting for us in her office." This was said tensely, behind gritted teeth. Oh. He knew what this meeting was about. Mirabella did too, and that was likely the reason for her unpleasant demeanor. She was always prickly, but more so whenever he won at anything. And this? Well, if he was right, this would be a very big win for him.

"You're nicer than usual." Sarcasm coated his words as he strode ahead of her and plucked one of the files out of her hands. "Ugh, pro bono. You know this won't make Naomi choose you, right?"

Mirabella snatched the file back. "Shut the fuck up, asshole. At least I care about more than money and my hair."

"You? Nah," Ian chuckled. "You just dickride Naomi for a title she's never going to give you." They had reached the door, and he paused, his hand on the handle. "And, by the way, there is nothing wrong with caring about your hair."

He stepped into the office. Naomi was waiting on the couch, clearly done with both of them.

"You're both late."

"I'm sorry, Naomi, but I had to wait for Ian, and he was wasting time at a coffee stand."

"There is no way you saw that from 50 stories up," Ian scoffed. "Also, I was one minute late. It was you and those pathetic pro bono cases that slowed us down."

Naomi stood up. "Both of you, be quiet. This is a law firm, not a daycare. Ian, you need to choose an associate. You're our next senior partner."

"But I have better billables than he does! I urge you to reconsider! I deserve that position!"

Naomi glared at Mirabella, and whatever words she had left to say died in her throat.

"That's enough, Mirabella. I have chosen Ian and that is final. Ian, remember we only hire from Harvard. Find someone suitable."

"But that's limiting our options. I'm looking for someone like me, not some genius loser who looks eleven."

"I don't care who you choose, just make sure they're from Harvard. Should be easy, considering you went to Harvard."

Mirabella stood awkwardly, toying with the end of a file. She looked furious, but she was trying her best not to show it. Him, on the other hand, was leaning against the back of Naomi's leather sofa, a picture of victory. Naomi was unimpressed with both of them.

"You're both dismissed. Get out."

"Yes ma'am." Ian strolled through the halls to his office; an infuriating grin plastered on his face. He'd wanted to be senior partner for years. This deserved a bottle of expensive wine and perhaps a flight to Cassandra's vacation house in LA. He presumed that was where she was at the moment. Melanie, his secretary, looked up from her desk as he passed her, her dark hair haloed around her head as she grinned at him.

"It finally happened?"

"It finally happened. And I need you to organize meetings for me to pick my associate. I'm looking for the next me."

"Brilliant and obnoxious?"

"Exactly."

The rest of the day passed quickly, and by the time he made his way home, darkness had settled over the city. It still thrummed with life ― this was New York after all. City lights sliced through the inky sky; drunken laughter chorused through the streets. And one day, he'd own it all. He'd have the largest office in the firm, his name on the building in gold ― not silver, like usual. He fiddled with the key to his penthouse and pushed the door open.

Cassandra leaned on his couch, twirling a wine glass between her thumb and forefinger. She'd changed into another evening dress, something sparkly that clung to her body like a second skin.

"I thought you were supposed to be in LA?"

"Oh, well Melanie told me about your promotion," Cassandra grinned. "Plus there was an adaptation of Romeo and Juliet that I just had to see."

Silence filled the air as he sat down next to her and accepted the wine glass she was holding out to him. She broke it, but he'd wanted her to.

"Congratulations, by the way. Very impressive."

He sighed and sank down into the couch cushions. "Thank you. I'm not excited to choose my associate though. Most of our newest recruits are useless and awkward. And I'm-"

"You're looking for great?" She smiled and turned his head towards her. "Well, maybe you'll get lucky. Maybe someone great will come to you."

***

The interviews were organized sooner than he thought; he was pacing in an immaculate hotel suite, Melanie had set everything up outside. He walked out to her, and christ, the candidates were pathetic. He might actually have to offer the job to the first person to not use their Harvard degree as the reason they deserved it.

He leaned over Melanie and whispered in her ear, instructing her to signal if anyone promising showed up. Which was not likely, but one could hope. Then she called out for the first interviewee, and he surrendered himself to his depressing fate. The first candidate was smart, sure, but poorly spoken and bland. The second candidate looked like a child. The third was overly arrogant with nothing to back it up. The rest all blurred into each other.

Then, she walked in. He didn't know what she said to convince Melanie she was someone special, but Melanie discreetly tapped the side of her nose, so clearly, she did something. She looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it. Her dress was wildly inappropriate for an interview ― a bright red cocktail gown with cutouts in the front ― but even that was daring. Different. Plus, she looked really fucking stunning in it, so that helped.

He gestured for her to sit down. A glimmer of hope ignited in his stomach.

Then her briefcase clicked open, and papers fluttered to the floor.

Chapter Text

The cold air coursed through Friday's tiny flat, and she shivered and pulled her cardigan higher up on her shoulders. There was a half empty pizza box on the other side of the table that she'd long discarded. It was probably cold now, but she'd pack it up later. She pushed her glasses up her nose and continued plotting.

Friday should have had it all. She was brilliant. She still is, but in the way a pale, insignificant flower is when it grows between concrete. Her parents were surgeons ― and sure, she doesn't have any particularly amazing memories with them, but they saved people. She thought that would have meant something. It didn't, of course. They were killed the same way anyone could have been, steel piercing flesh, tire crushing bone like twigs.

She didn't get much for their passing. They were certainly worth more than a cheque. And anyway, that money had been spent on survival years ago. She'd still been normal, despite it. Her uncle Bernie raised her on trashy reality tv and fast food, and she'd had him. And her wits. Nobody could take her greatness from her, because it wasn't a title or beauty. It was her memory. Her brain, even.

But that was a stupid ideal. Maybe nobody could steal it, but she could ruin everything herself. And she had ruined everything, forcing the prospect of a shiny degree and glowing law career into the very back of her mind. Since then, she'd become a criminal. It wasn't glamorous, nor was it brave. She ruined lives, yes, but never directly. It was pathetic, the great Friday Barnes, the girl in school everyone thought would 'go places', reduced to a coward who spent most of her twenties highlighting weaknesses in buildings.

Years had passed in a blur of sub-par boyfriends, shitty apartments and listless sleep due to the knowledge that she was the cause of the latest robbery in the news.

Was she tired of it? Yes, but she couldn't stop. She had nothing else.

She sighed and threw her pen at the wall. Then she gathered her half-done building plans and shoved them into a drawer. Her blinds, ugly things that they were, were drawn, leaving her apartment in darkness save for a few candles and the flicker of her appliances. She sank down onto the couch and grappled for the tv remote, prepared for another night of restless half-sleep.

***

The hospital smelled sweet. Cloying. Everything was artificial, sterile. It unsettled Friday, the sense of aloneness she felt sitting on one of the uncomfortable metal chairs. Feelings were the last thing she wanted here, and yet they were all she had.

Friday hated feeling. To her, emotions were (mostly) unpleasant and ruinous. The book she had brought for Bernie ― some cheap airport mystery ― was clutched between her fingers like it was the only thing keeping her alive.

"Friday Barnes?" One of the nurses, an immaculate, beautiful woman named Bethany, asked. Her eyes scanned the waiting room before landing on the familiar sight of Friday's hair, tousled curls that tumbled down her shoulders. Friday nodded and got up from the chair, her scuffed boots squeaking against the linoleum as she followed Bethany.

Bernie was lying in his hospital bed, monitors all around him. He was paler than he used to be, and dark circles lined his eyes like poorly applied makeup. Friday knew he needed surgery. But she didn't have the money, and that ripped her apart. Bernie had given everything for her, and she couldn't even do this one thing for him.

She placed the book on his bedside and despite it all, he smiled.

She knew had to get that money. No matter how bad the job, how shady the client, she needed it. For the only family she had left.

***

"Are you sure about this?" Friday asked, words snatched by the wind as she got out of the taxi.

"Of course, you need to look the part," Arthur, her boyfriend, smiled at her as he tried to tame his messy, windswept curls. He was the prince of Denmark, but he didn't seem like royalty at all. He spent most of his time eating greasy takeaway on Friday's couch, pretending to be charming. "And besides, this way I get to see you in a bunch of fancy evening dresses."

She stopped in front of the door of a glossy boutique that was definitely way out of her price bracket and grimaced. "Yeah, but I can't afford any of this."

Arthur leaned over her and pushed the door open. "But I can. Come on, Fri. These people are dangerous; you can't deliver plans in jeans."

Friday followed him inside. What Arthur said was right. She never would have taken this deal if she wasn't desperate, since it hurt people ― actually hurt people ― and put her in the clutches of a very dangerous group of people. Not some spiteful thief or college failure. This was either the worst thing she had ever done, or a set up. And either way, she was going to do it in style.

A woman in an immaculate powder-blue pantsuit walked over to her. Or, well, Arthur. People didn't usually recognize him at first, but those who dealt with the world's elite knew him.

"Prince Arthur of Denmark?"

Arthur grinned. "Trea. I see you're well."

Trea grabbed Arthur into an extremely awkward looking hug. "Let me guess, you're crashing another function and need a suit."

Arthur, freed from the embrace, reached over and grabbed Friday's hand. Friday bit her lip, suddenly self-conscious. Why was Arthur so proud to have her around? Her, with her chipped cherry colored nail polish and lumpy knitted scarf. She knew Arthur loved her, but some part of her felt like she should only be his ticket to the normal world, the girl who took him to museums and run-down bars with peeling paint and cheap alcohol. The glamour he was used to terrified her. The top floors of those dazzling skyscrapers were just mentioned in her dreams, but he knew the people there. And yet he still chose her.

"... And Friday here needs a dress for a business deal she's doing, right, Fri?"

"I... Yes."

Trea turned and directed all her attention on her. It was awkward, being appraised by someone so fashionable. She just knew she'd be deemed unworthy. But she wasn't.

"I can work with this. Although that scarf is atrocious, honey. Get rid of it."

The scarf was promptly discarded and Friday was shoved towards a rack of dresses. She minorly avoided crashing into the end of the rack and began searching. The first option was pink and covered in crystals that were very much real and very much not her style. The second was a corseted masterpiece made of a fabric that shimmered like the ocean under sunlight. The third was green like poison, and featured vines crawling up the bodice. Everything was a work of art, but too bold, too fancy, too much.

Nothing felt remotely like her. Trea was hanging dresses in her fitting room, and still nothing seemed like it was right. Until she moved on to a rack that housed dresses in varying hues of red. She was halfway through the rack, and holding a dress that dripped rubies like blood, and then she saw it.

It was simpler than the others, but it was bold. The dress was scarlet, and was fairly standard save for the cutouts in the front, which were sharp and geometric, slicing through the neckline, intersecting on the stomach, and two of them were on the hip, pointing towards the slits like the points of twin knives.

Trea halted in her path. "That's perfect."

Arthur, who was leaned back on one of the plush chairs, turned to see the dress. "Now we need to crash a function."

"Go try it on. I'll find jewelry," Trea nodded to herself and ushered Friday into the fitting room.

Her regular clothing decorated the floor as she changed into the dress. It was perfect. A bit more revealing than anything she usually wore, but nothing about this situation was normal. And this dress made her feel more powerful than she ever had, which was a feat given Friday's situation. She ran her hands along the bodice and smiled to herself.

She'd get that money. She'd save Bernie. In fact, she'd get whatever she damn wanted to.

Jewelry was chosen, and Trea forced her to buy a pair of sharp brown heels to go with the ensemble. At the counter, Arthur rifled through several worn rewards cards before he pulled out his credit card and paid.

***

The next day, she packed the papers ― criminal plans ― into a shiny black briefcase and slipped the dress on. She straightened her hair and twisted it into a bun, and then she swapped out her earrings. Gold-set rubies crawled up her ears, and snakes hung from her lobes, licking her neck when she moved. She could probably stab someone with her heels. Good. She might need the weapon.

She arrived at the hotel at 11:06 am, and slipped past a child, about eight, who was whining about the pool being closed. A bellhop passed her and smiled. Damn. Uniforms were fancy here. They looked tailored, even. The elevator chimed and she stepped in.

Room 216. She just had to get to room 216.

The elevator arrived at her floor, which was mostly deserted. Plush red carpeting covered the floor. The light fixtures were ensconced in jewels. And two men stood in front of room 213, trying to jam what looked like a driver's license into the key card slot. One of them was dressed as a bellhop, but his uniform was loose, and the sleeves dripped too far down his hands as he cursed and shoved the card further. The other one was in a clean black suit, and as he leaned over to help, something glinted under his shirt. A gun.

Swallowing her nerves, Friday walked over to them.

"Excuse me, but I'm thinking of going for a swim. Which floor is the pool on?"

"The second floor, Miss."

No. This was a trap.

"Thank you."

Friday continued past them and pushed open the door to the fire exit. The door slammed shut behind her as she pulled one of her heels off and sprinted down the stairs. Her briefcase slammed against the railing, but she barely noticed in her haze of panic. She could hear footsteps behind her. She couldn't go to jail. She just couldn't. What would happen to Bernie then? While she was playing prison games and hiding blades behind her teeth in the courtyard, he would wither away in a hospital bed.

She reached the end of the stairs and skidded to a stop. She put her shoe back on and walked out like she had nothing to fear. Like her head wasn't whirling with ways she had failed him. She passed a sign advertising interviews. Right. She had seen a poster for that in the lobby, promising a position at a prestigious law firm on the condition that you impressed the great Ian Wainscott.

The door to the fire escape heaved open, and she ran into the room. She could pretend to fail a law interview. She knew enough.

"Alice Graves? Miss Graves?" A woman called out. Her eyes landed on Friday and narrowed at the sight of her. "Miss Graves, you do realize you are late, yes? Do you think a degree allows you to hold us all back?"

This was too easy. She plastered a fake smirk on her face and answered. "No, but my skills in the field of law do."

The woman leaned back on her chair and nodded. "Mr. Wainscott will see you now." She pushed herself behind the wall for a second, and then Ian Wainscott stepped out.

He had the confidence of someone born to run the world. The looks, too. And he was a hell of a lot less scary than prison. She followed him into the interview room, and then, as she settled down into a chair, her briefcase fell apart.

Her very much illegal and very much not law documents scattered all over the floor.

Shit. She was doomed.

Chapter Text

Ian flicked through the papers, then gathered them and passed them back to the woman in front of him. They were terrible ― embezzled money, ways to bypass building security ― but christ, they were brilliant. She knew every law, everything the US government would look for; and she sidestepped it all effortlessly. Obviously, she wasn't a lawyer, but she'd be a damn good one. If she had chosen the right side.

Hell, he might just try convincing her.

She grabbed the papers from his hand and shoved them into her broken briefcase. Her lip had been bitten so hard he could see blood. Right. He couldn't even hire from a different law firm, imagine what Naomi would say if he hired a criminal? The title of senior partner would fall right into Mirabella's manicured nails, no doubt. And he couldn't have that.

"You need to lea―"

Footsteps echoed from behind the door. Hushed conversation followed, and she tensed beside him. Her hand trembled slightly, and she dug her nails into her palm to stop it. Her eyes, which were wide and doe-like, bore into his. Ugh. Fuck it.

"How did you know it was a trap?" He said the words softly, evenly, like he was trying not to startle her. Or, perhaps more accurately, like he was trying to avoid setting off a bomb.

As she spoke, she ticked each thing off her fingers like a list.

"Everyone else's uniform was tailored, but this man's uniform wasn't. The other had a gun, and their room was nearly opposite mine. They didn't have a key card but pretended they did, something no hotel employee would do, and they didn't know the pool was closed when I asked."

"Why the hell would you ask a police officer if the pool was open?"

"What criminal would?"

"You know," he leaned over his desk as he said this, conspiratorially, "if you had any actual law qualifications, I'd hire you."

Her palm loosened as she leaned in to meet him, inches away from his face. "I've actually passed the bar, if that helps."

"Why?"

"Some asshole ex-boyfriend said I wouldn't be able to do it."

Ian didn't expect these meetings to involve him liking a criminal, but here he was. In fact, if Naomi wouldn't have his head for it, he'd hire said criminal. She was more competent than most of the associates they currently had. No, but she wasn't worth it. He needed this position more than he needed anything.

"Still can't actually hire you, sorry," he said, trying to convince himself more than anything.

"Okay. What if I told you I consume and remember knowledge like nobody you've ever met, and I was going to go to Harvard?"

"I'd say you're a liar. Pretty, but still a liar."

She grabbed one of the books on his desk ― a BarBri Legal Handbook ― and threw it at him. "Read me something from this book. Anything."

He deftly caught the handbook and flipped it open.

"Fine," he scanned the page and then started reading "civil liability is based on several factors, including―"

"The deviation of the agent of his path, the reasonable inference of agency on behalf of the plaintiff, and the nature of the damages themselves."

He pushed his laptop over to her and gestured for her to open it. "Okay, I'll show you what makes a Harvard educated lawyer so great. Pick a topic."

She opened the laptop and thought for a moment. "Hmm, stock option backdating."

He stood up and recited: "although backdating options is legal, violations arise related to disclosures under IRC section 409A."

"What about Sarbanes-Oxley?" She questioned.

"The statute of limitations renders Sarbanes-Oxley moot post 2007," he declared.

"Not if you find actions to cover up the violation as established in the Sixth Circuit May 2008."

"That would have been impressive were you not sitting at a computer."

She turned the computer to face him. "I'm playing cards. I told you I'm not like anyone you've met."

He sighed. "I'll walk you out."

He pushed the door open and surveyed his other options. Everyone looked the same, was the same, would just be another painful interview to sit through. No sliver of potential to be seen from them, and yet brilliance had stumbled right into his suite. He'd found his associate, and besides, Naomi had forgiven him before. The door slammed behind him.

Well, maybe he just wouldn't tell Naomi.

"If you wanted to be a lawyer so bad, why didn't you?"

"I was going to try. I was in college, and one day I realized my roommate was cheating off of me. She got caught, lied, and I was kicked out as a result. Harvard didn't want me after that, and I didn't have enough money to try again."

"And you're sure you have what it takes?"

"I have always had what it takes." This was said resolutely, with so much certainty that he knew she was right. From the moment she had walked in, running from the consequences of her crimes, he had known she had what it took.

"Of course you do. Okay. No more selling plans to criminals, no more evidence of that part of your past. You haven't been caught, so I assume you're good at hiding it."

She nodded, earrings jingling as she did so. He imagined what she'd do with his advice; later, she'd throw all the half-finished plans she had into the fire. They would crumple to ash within seconds.

"And no more talking to those who knew about your job. I don't care if you love them, I don't care if they need you. You cut them out."

Then she'd send her boyfriend a message that ended their relationship. After, she'd watch his number disappear from her phone. Then she'd flip it closed and shove it in the pocket of her tailored pants, passport in hand.

"Then you need to get on a plane to Harvard and learn everything there is to know."

She'd roll her beaten up carry-on up the aisle of the plane, headphones dangling from her fingers as she found her seat. After telling the first lies out of many related to this job, she would be in, learning everything about the school she was supposed to go to back when she had a future.

"That dress is stunning, but inappropriate for work," Ian flicked a card over to her, watching as she struggled to catch it as it fell down like a dying insect. "Get some work clothes. My dime."

"I... Okay?"

"Now give me back my computer, I need to email the firm to let them know I've found my new associate."