Disclaimer: The only thing I own is the story idea and only some of the witty remarks. I own so little; so please don't steal.

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Merridew's Eight

Jack is the oldest at twenty-six, and therefore the 'leader' of the rat pack gang. Tall, gangly, and redheaded, he commands quite a presence, if anyone could get past the fact that he is more anal than he appears.

Ralph is the blonde law genius who knows his way around the courts and the strings to pull should they get caught, but so far he has just been biding his time and learning the tricks of the trade.

Simon can sing, draw, and act. He has performed the roles of right-hand man and female fatale. He can both ooze charm and ooze it out of you.

Sam and Eric are the diversions who create alibis when the other is in the middle of a gig. So far, the world is only aware of Eram.

Roger is the brawn, guts, and security.

Piggy sits by himself in a room of computers and eats ramen noodles while hacking into the motherboard and is perfectly happy about his life. He likes chocolates, successful code, and watching Jack fail.

Maurice is everywhere, and therefore is the supplier of anything you can ask for.

[=]

"It's the bee's knees," Maurice says. He slides the laminated photos around of a strange orb-like object and shakes it around on the diner table as if that can seal the deal. "Top grade methoxyflurane. Smells like strawberries if you stop to smell it, then bam." He snaps his fingers. "It's mostly a painkiller, but I think it's enough to throw any security off."

"Are you sure?" Roger asks, threateningly, cracking his knuckles so the sound resounds off the booth they are squeezed in. Maurice hardly looks intimidated. Jack stares at the pictures over an untouched dish of chips.

"Positive. I can get you a good amount for a reasonable price. I have a stock of other sedatives, if you gentlemen are interested." Maurice stabs a sausage link with a fork and waves it around. "But you've worked with me before."

"Maurice," Jack says finally, looking up from the material. They are surrounded by teenagers and elderly in booths around them, and the grill in the back kitchen sizzles as the waitresses chat up any prospect high tippers. The jukebox in the corner warbles unsteady show tunes. "Where do you get all this?"

Maurice grins. He is the merchant in video games; the one who appears in convenient locations ready to sell you a remedy for a couple gald or two. Not to be questioned, he appears without fail. "I can't tell you that," he says, before biting into the sausage.

[=]

"From a completely legal standpoint," Ralph says as he takes stock of all the itinerary, "I believe they won't press charges in the situation you were discovered. My research shows me that half of the goods weren't acquired in the light of day." He nods thoughtfully. "Of course, that presents the case of how we have possession of them, but of course, I work with the underground law as well." He neatly organizes the magazines in their boxes, the firearm in another. "We can get good deals."

"Good," Jack says, watching him with a preoccupied expression.

Ralph studies him for a moment before sighing loudly and closing the box. "Jack, I believe I gave you my permission and blessing ages ago, and you still have done nothing? You're bringing all this pining upon yourself."

Jack flushes darkly and turns a grim glare onto Ralph, who meets his eye calmly. "You two dated three years ago. I think he can make these choices himself."

Ralph shrugs, brushing an invisible ball of lint off his knee. "I won't say I know him best, but the truth is I do. I was the one who introduced you and last I checked, he still tells me a lot."

"I don't need to know. And I won't buy it from you."

Ralph grins a toothy grin. "You know lawyers too well, Jack Merridew."

[=]

"If you keep all the important figureheads in the front," Sam says, his fingers running smooth paths over the map, "they can't quite believe the maids if they see me." He tip-taps his fingers up the drawn stairs as Eric leans over the desk. "I'll be able to check out the locations of everything. Piggy says they shouldn't have the security systems on during the day since everyone is so vigilant. But I beg to differ." He tossed his head around proudly. "If we weren't scouts, I would have been part of the whole heist group."

Eric, used to listening to such proclamations, does not respond, but since they are sitting in a corner of Piggy's computer room to make clarifications with the techie, they have another listener.

"Pygmalion," Piggy says sourly, the glow of the screens reflecting off his thick glasses. The floor underneath his chair is smooth from the numerous times he has rolled it over to get to another computer. Currently, he is studying the routines of all the security in the house. He has collected footage from previous parties. "My name is Pygmalion."

"Piggy," the twins chorus, much to the bespeckled man's irritation.

"We would understand if Jack gave you that nickname…"

"…but it was Ralph who called you it first and you like Ralph better than Jack, right?" The twins snicker as Piggy fumbles to come up with an adequate argument to that.

"We're all grown men," Piggy eventually grumbles, switching his attention to another screen as he typed away at something only he could comprehend. "Stupid nicknames."

"Anyway," Sam continues, losing interest, "you've got the plan, Eric, and you're ready for the utter distraction?"

"Yes, but I don't understand why Roger has to come with."

"You never know when things don't go to plan and we'll need his fists to get out. On any note," Sam says, smirking something sly as he reaches over and elbows his brother, "it's not like you mind, do you?"

As Eric sputters in protest, Piggy snorts. "I think we all should mind a great deal more. When that idiot should have been checking the entrances of this place, he spends more time sneaking around to your room." Piggy gestured to a packet of old tapes sitting on top of a couple of the computers. "Surveillance."

Eric covers his face.

[=]

Simon resents when people call him girly. It's all part of a successful actor. One cannot shy away from the unusual roles. And the clothes make the man, so it is only natural he pays meticulous attention to each article of clothing he must wear.

"Please," Jack says, walking into the room with a clothes-hanger with the article of clothing in question, "do not hang your bras on the roof where everyone can see them."

"Where should I hang them then?" Simon asks, not bothering to look up as he combs all the tangles out of the silky black wig he would protect with a rabid intensity. Jack tries to avert his eyes, but the fact of the matter is that Simon is wearing one-size-too-small gym shorts and a t-shirt and Jack thinks he already made an announcement that although they are at the headquarters hideout, there is a dress code. "In your room?"

"Discreetly, please."

Simon rolls his eyes and takes the wire hanger from Jack's hands, before pursing his lips together in a coy manner. He raises his eyes in only the way a skilled seducer can and Jack feels dread even before the words leave the nineteen-year-old's mouth. "Would you like to see me in it?"

"No." He would like to leave, but leaving at such an awkward time would be a victory on Simon's part. Jack clears his throat. He find himself with nothing to say.

Simon looks about to prolong the torture, but after a minute, smiles sweetly and purrs in his professional feminine voice, "You may go, Mr. Merridew." Jack curses silently when Simon turns away, his legs pivoting. Things like this. Things like this make him want to have considered other professions.

[=]

"It's a pleasure to have you, Eram." Eric plasters on his best fake smile. The victims are too pompous for his liking. They open their mouths and he does not want to hear it. The way they speak, the way they act all make him sadistically satisfied he is part of a plan to rob them all blind. Roger, standing behind him like the picture of a perfect bodyguard, is expressionless.

"We have a collection of priceless paintings," they say, drinking in the fact that he is a curator of the finest arts. He has been many things. Antique collector. Private investigator. Young, enthusiastic teaching assistant. Now he is a curator who is searching for lovely paintings to feature in his newest gallery, in an art museum that does not exist. But of course they do not know that. Any suggestion of flattery or admiration and they do not do the research. "Please come this way."

Eric nods soundlessly and is about to follow them through foyer when he sees a fleeting movement above them. They do not see, they are talking among themselves, but he sees; Sam is staring over the balcony at them, grinning a Cheshire cat and looking full of himself. Eric frowns, and tries to motion that he'll get them all in tough shit.

Roger touches his waist, a light gesture that sends sparks up his spine. "Come, Eram," he says in the sophisticated voice Simon taught him before. "You'll get lost in this house." He smiles with exterior affection, but Eric hears the smugness because he's reacted the way Roger wants him to. When he looks up again, Sam is gone. They are waiting for him with plastic welcome.

Eric grits his teeth and hopes for it to be over soon.

[=]

Piggy realizes that while he doesn't quite care for the stupid, intimate relationships his co-workers (he never calls them friends; not even Ralph does he consider particularly close) engage in, he is forced to witness them anyway. He is in front of so many screens, and many of them are cameras around the house to prevent any authorities from sneaking in should they find this undisclosed location. He slurps up some beef-flavored ramen as he watches Ralph walk over to Simon's room, leaning on the doorway as he says something to the youngest member of their entourage. Piggy doesn't care. He knows something about their past relationship, something that was there, then wasn't.

He makes a face and adjusts his glasses, reminding him for the fiftieth time this month that he should clarify that he does not want to hear about Ralph's life again. His eyes shift to another screen, where Sam is scaling the wall outside because that idiot cannot climb enough walls. Eric is watching him from the ground (Eric was always the more level-headed of the two, Piggy thinks). Roger is doing his rounds around the vicinity, but Piggy sees that he is really standing in the shadows watching the twins. He will have to make a report to Jack.

(Piggy knows things like this alienate him from the rest of the crew, but rules were meant to be followed.)

He sees through his thick glasses Jack walking toward Simon's room. He quickly pulls the noodles into his mouth, drops of soup flicking onto the screen as he fumbles for the volume button. He doesn't care what Ralph has to say, but if he can catch this scene of rejection for Jack and record it, it will be his greatest victory this week. Jack looks caught off guard. He must not have realized Ralph would be around.

Fool, Piggy thinks ruefully, quickly adjusting his camera to find Simon's face. He lands on an angle where Simon is looking out the doorway, wearing pantyhose and fiddling with a bra. Piggy has long gotten over Simon's figure. He would rather be shapely than dress as a woman. Simon stops moving when Jack moves into view, looking incredulous with padding tucked neatly into the bra as Jack gargles, "Do you need any help, Simon?" Ralph watches this whole scene, an amused half-smile on his face as he shifts his weight.

"It's not polite to watch a woman dress," Simon says smoothly, and Piggy trains in on Jack's flushed face, laughing all the while. What a prat! Is he recording all this? He is distraught that the red recording button is not on that he does not hear whatever snide things Ralph has to say and only laments when Jack rushes away, looking absolutely mortified.

[=]

Jack drives the black sports car while a plain, unmarked white van follows a distance away. He grips the steering wheel until his knuckles are the same color as the van that carries his accomplices. His suit is black, black like the car and the night sky and his tie is dark velvet, the same color as Simone's dress sitting next to him. He keeps his eyes to the front.

"Simon," he says hesitatingly.

"Hmm?" Simone turns to him, long black hair falling into her face. Jack wonders again for the uncounted amount of time if he has fallen for Simon, or for Simone. He cannot really tell. He can barely find Simon in the midst of smooth skin, womanly curves accentuated by the dark velvet dress, sitting proud and tall in three inch heels. But she smiles, and he sees Simon; he sees the stuffed bra, the blisters on his feet that he complains about after every job – and his heart skips a beat at that.

"It's…" He wants to turn off the microphone, but it is against his own protocol in case there is an emergency. He knows Piggy, Ralph, and everyone in the car behind him is probably listening with bated breath. Bastards. "Do you remember what I told you after the last job?"

The voice hums in Simon's throat as he turns back to stare outside at the lake they are passing. "Yes."

Jack gulps, taking a hand off the wheel to loosen the tie around his neck. He always feels so funny and constrained when he talks to Simon. "I just…I'm not…" He lets out a confined breath. "It's been two months."

"It has."

Dammit! "Don't be a tease, Simon, he wants an answer." That is what Jack wants to say, but won't; but someone has said it for him. Both turn to the microphone over the rearview mirror and hear light laughter from Ralph. "Jack, you're beating around the bush!"

Jack growls and ignores protocol; switching the mic off with one quick motion, he takes another deep breath as Simon stares at him. "I wouldn't mind if you avoided me these two months, but you just…"

"Are being a tease?" Simon volunteers. Jack opens his mouth to retort and closes it. "Jack." Simon giggles, putting neatly manicured nails over his mouth. He is in high character today. "I haven't forgotten your confession. But I do have to still think about it, you know."

Jack knows he shouldn't whine. He is the oldest one, and he should show some sign of maturity. But when Simon gives him long looks over dinner and slinks up to him to look at the house blueprints, he can't help but wonder. The pollen from the rose pinned to his lapel must be irritating him. "I understand," he says, wishing his voice did not sound so strained.

[=]

"Ah, welcome Joseph Dewmer. And this must be your lovely wife Simone Dewmer." The host greets them as they walk into the ballroom on the second floor of the estate. The way the host says their names, like the bouncer that admitted them through, Jack feels a twitch of irritation. He hopes it is not also because while the host is married, he is staring at Simon in a very lecherous way. Simon does not seem to notice, an arm carefully through Jack's, and smiles, a sexy lipsticked curve.

The party is extravagant; there are so many people Jack thinks that this may be the easiest heist he's going to pull off. So many diversions available. He feels Simon press against him, the gas canisters under his suit clunky against his shirt. The way his wife walks attracts attention; but as he knows, Simon can play woman very well, as good as the best of them. It was a talent Ralph had flaunted, as if instead of being an ex-boyfriend, he was an agent.

"Strike of twelve?" she asks, leaning up and Jack marvels at how her makeup erases every bit of babyfaced nineteen year old underneath to a mature, coy woman in her twenties. He nods, glancing inconspicuously at a gold wristwatch; at nine, the lights will go out. At ten, the Dewmers will be gone.

"I'll meet up with you later, darling. After all, Simone Dewmer is a socialite basking in the influence of her rich, cultured husband." She pulls him down slightly to give him a kiss on the lips, before easily sliding out of his grasp and into the sea of people, as smoothly as a salmon upstream – a flash of velvet and she's gone.

Jack takes a tall glass of champagne from the walking waiters nearby and waits.

[=]

The party is not solely to celebrate the fact that the host is rich, but also that he is going to become more rich by packing up and selling a slew of expensive art pieces (like the affluent equivalent of baseball cards) to a European history museum (Eram's low offers have been rejected) with the least amount of questions asked. They are waiting for departure in a secret room in the house, where they will be moved the next morning. They have been packed in a way to have the least amount of space, as not to draw attention to the fact that they were not gained in a very respectable way.

[=]

All the bugs Sam planted during his caper are in working order, Piggy is pleased to discover. It would not be the first time that stupid twin messed up their plans by fiddling and breaking an important part. He turns on his two laptops and has the footage running. The hallways do not have extra security (but he already knows this) and the alert level is still low. The goods are ready to be taken. Ralph and Sam have taken their places inside the premises, but to his knowledge, Roger and Eric are still in the front part of the van somewhere. They have parked close to the exit, but the plan will not work of two players are not in position outside (Roger to knock out the guards, Eric to transport the goods along).

"Pig to Blackbird and Cire. Go to stage one positions, I repeat, go to stage one positions." There is no reply; Piggy is used to this. They usually ignore him the first time. Pushing his microphone away from his mouth, he slides the compartment door separating the back of the van to the driver's spot to see Roger and Eric, crammed in the passenger's seat, feverishly locking lips.

"Oh, gross!" Okay, he is twenty-three. He is used to seeing grown adults making out. But he hopes this embarrasses them enough to stop and get back to work. It works on Eric, who breaks away and flushes brightly, but Roger pulls him back, adeptly sliding his tongue back into the flustered twin's mouth as Piggy tries to avert his eyes. "Really now!"

Roger speaks between attacks at Eric's mouth. "Don't hate," he says, before running his hands down Eric's back, "if you can't get any." The way he touches the twin makes Eric's back arch and he moans in a way that makes Piggy feel he is somehow witnessing a porno. He does not want to pull out this card, but he is forced to.

Piggy turns on his microphone, the wireless tapping into the earpiece Jack wears. "Jack," he says, knowing his voice sounds whining. "Roger and Eric aren't getting into places."

"Roger." Jack's voice is not loud, but Roger grimaces all the same. Eric's eyes looked slightly dazed as the older man pushes him back, wiping his mouth and glaring at Piggy. Piggy hears Ralph stifle a laugh. He wonders how the blonde can take all this so lightly. Sam tuts into his microphone but says nothing.

"You're done for, afterwards," Roger hisses, pulling open the car door and pulling Eric along with him. "Mark my words, Piggy." The door slams shut with the thinly veiled threat. Piggy sighs and moves back to his computers. They were always much easier to work with than real people.

[=]

At nine o' clock sharp, the lights in the estate go out; every single one – the lawn, every closet, every nook and cranny goes dark. The conversation buzz in the ballroom suddenly stops, as if someone swooped in and stole every single voice.

Jack blinks quickly. He has set himself up where he can quickly reach the exit. The host will not cause panic and potentially set himself up for a houseful of panicked guests, who may in turn wreck something expensive. As he starts to slide himself toward the door, he sees the host quickly discuss something with the hired help and as the redhead scans the darkened crowd for Simon, hears, "Ladies and gentlemen, we are now moving deeper into the night! For a most magical night, we will hold a candlelit dance!"

Jack almost scoffs. How pathetic; but the ripples of tyranny are instantly smoothed and as music begins somewhere from a record player in the room, the bodies come together in a dark, fumbled movement. He sees Simon spot him from a couple yards away and Simone comes closer, making a movement to remove her heels for better travel. But both see the host making his way to the door as well; obviously this threat has not been unnoticed.

Simon gives Jack a second's glance before veering directions and practically throwing himself on the host. "I'm sorry!" Jack hears as he worms his way through the crowd despite this setback. "It's just…I've seemed to have misplaced my husband…and I'm terribly afraid of the dark!" Jack is not able to waste time to hear the host's reply but curses his every fiber. This would not stand if Simone was his real wife. But he has a job to do.

Sam's scouting is always accurate; the boy has a knack for remembering twists and turns. He navigates through a couple hallways' worth, fuming, before he encounters the first wave of security. Guards are now patrolling the halls cautiously and Jack slips on a gas mask. It pays to be lanky; gear only fills out where fat is absent (he meanly thinks about how Piggy could never pull this off). He rolls a canister of gas down the hallway soundlessly and wait until the men seemed sedated and confused before slipping through the shadows. Honestly, he feels angry enough to shoot, but gunshots would alarm the other guests and the last thing he needs is a frenzied mob.

He better not touch him, that dirty, old bastard…

When he reaches the room where the goods are hidden, Ralph, donned in ordinary waiter garb, is waiting with Sam, who has already started placing the boxes into the wheeled icebox. "Loads of ice cream," he grins, careful not to break anything as he continues. Ralph blinks at Jack.

"Where's Simon?"

"Distraction," Jack says vaguely, waving his hand. Ralph is still looking at him, so Jack knows he must have sounded pretty pissed. He ignores this and helps Sam stock up the ice carts. "Power outage," he comments, as the three make quick work of all the boxes. "We're trying to move all this food to a place with a generator so it doesn't rot."

"Say, where is the generator to this place?" Ralph asks.

"I assume the fatty took care of it."

"I resent that," a bitter voice comes in through their ears. "The coast is clear, men. It's one hallway to go, then west down the lawns. There were a couple guards outside but Roger took them out. Eric should be waiting for you halfway."

The art is compacted so that only two carts are needed. While the three make their way toward the back of the house, a man in black approaches them. "Who goes there?" he calls harshly. Jack feels Ralph stiffen; he was never really good at things like this. Sam has no reaction.

"We're moving the frozen goods out before they rot," Jack explains, making his voice rough to disguise it. "The power in the kitchen is out."

"Wouldn't it have been easier to move it out the side docking entrance?" the man asks. A brief silence descends upon them before Jack shoots forward and knocks the man out in a quick hit. He kicks the body to the side of the hallway.

"Calm down," Ralph says, because Sam does not have the guts to say it. Jack ignores him again and continues down the dark corridor.

By the time they reach the cold night air, Roger is waiting for them, leaning against the gate looking bored. "For all their money, they hire pretty shitty security." He cracks his knuckles and reaches for one of the ice carts. "I'll get the cart; Ralph, go ahead and make sure the exit is secure." The blonde nods and trots off as Sam and Roger start making their way away from the estate. Jack watches them for a second before turning and picking his way back to the ballroom.

"Pig to Butterfly, Robin is homeward bound." Jack grits his teeth, knowing if he asks, Piggy will not tell him what Simon is up to. The cameras should cover every angle of the ballroom and its adjacent rooms and Simon has been told that any diversion should not stray further than the foyer. He almost hears the mirth in Piggy's voice.

The ballroom is now glittering with candles. The music is now fading into a slow waltz, and as bodies scoot around him, Jack sees Simon coming at him with the host in tow. Simone's hair is undone and her dress is slightly messy. He does not like that her lipstick is smeared. "Honey!" She flings herself into his arms. "I was so worried when I couldn't find you!"

"It is good we found you, Mr. Dewmer," the host says, looking rather haughty, probably thinking he was too stupid to know his wife's activities. Jack wraps an arm around Simone, whose breath hits his ear with warm puffs, and turns to the host.

"We must be on our way," he says curtly, noticing that the host adjusts his unkempt shirt and forces the urge to punch the man in the face deep down. Fly the coop, Piggy whispers in their ears. "I am not sorry."

Simone blinks at him, but Jack navigates them through the crowd before she can question, leaving the host in the middle of the dance floor, bewildered and robbed blind.

[=]

"Are you upset?"

Jack doesn't know what to say. He steps harder on the accelerator, moving the car faster down the country road. The white van has separated from their route on another way home. The last he saw, they had all clamored into the vehicle with Roger pulling Eric into his lap before closing the door and practically speeding away. The whole gig was flawlessly executed. But he is unhappy.

"How do you do it?" Simon turns to him, wig lying abandoned in the backseat. "You're male, so how do you escape detection when perverts feel you up?" He does not want to come off sour and damper; after all, this is not the first time Simon has used his womanly wiles to throw the victims off the scent of the trail. It will not be his last.

"Simone is not a whore," Simon laughs. "There is a line not even the most flirtatious men can cross." He wipes a hand across his face to rub off the last of the lipstick.

What did that son of a bitch do to you? "It really eats at me," Jack shouts, unable to hold back, slightly swerving as he did so, "that it's so easy for you to let those men touch you, but…!" He forces his mouth shut again. But he really is so, so angry. "I know it's what you're supposed to do," he starts again, his voice thin. "And you're very good at it."

"I haven't let anyone further than second base, Jack." Simon's small voice unravels Jack's wrath and makes him feel silly for having lost his temper. The road has gotten less bumpy and they are well on their way to the hideout. The forest road has ended and they are riding under the stars, but the moon is behind the clouds. He keeps his blue eyes on the road and feels Simon's dark ones glance at him. "Whenever I play a wife, or a girlfriend…" Simon trails off, hesitant. There is a long debating pause. "…you're the only one I let kiss me, for real."

At this, Jack tears his eyes from the road and nearly runs them into a boulder. He slows down and pulls off the road into a shaded spot, and before he can even shift gears, Simon has unbuckled his seat belt and climbed into the driver's seat, onto his lap. Jack hears the tearing sound of the dress that Simon rips in his haste, but the loose piece of cloth is forgotten as Simon descends on him, reaching over to guide Jack's hands to his waist.

[=]

"So I didn't hear you come in last night," Ralph says, one eye closed like a bad Hallow's Eve decoration. Sam sits next to him, staring at Jack intensely over a cup of coffee. Piggy is never at the table; he takes his meals in his room and has been snoring since he collapsed onto his bed last night. "I thought maybe the authorities had gotten to you."

"I'm glad for your concern," Jack says, eyeing him darkly. "I could see the whole house was in a panic when I returned and everyone was asleep."

"We had only fallen asleep since we had gotten so tired worrying about you two," Ralph explains grandiosely. He is chipper because he has coffee in his system and Maurice has called to say that they already have several potential buyers to get their stolen goods out of their hands. He is going to meet with that jack-of-all-trades later today. He is waiting for Roger to finally roll out of bed to accompany him, as transitions always require the presence of someone willing to punch someone's lights out. But as it stands, it appears Roger is not in a raring mood to go; especially if Eric hasn't left his room yet.

Simon walks into the kitchen, shirtless and wearing a pair of pants that is obviously Jack's, as they hang off his hips and drag on the floor. He does not say good morning and is oblivious to how Ralph and Sam stare; he gets a glass and goes to the tap, not bothering to hide the dark bruise along his jaw with the hair that falls into his face. He empties the glass, puts it back on the counter, and shuffles out, strands of flyaways bobbing in the air as he ascends the stairs again. Ralph and Sam watch the sounds before turning to Jack.

"I assume you got some," Ralph says bluntly. Jack mimes throwing the hot coffee in Ralph's face, which he really can't, in the scheme of things. Sam purses his lips together to hold back another comment.

"No comment," Jack replies smoothly, standing and leaving the coffee half full in his cup. He does not need to justify himself with two immature children who enjoy getting off on other's expenses. He knows once he leaves the room, they will talk behind his back. At this point, he doesn't even care. The floor feels cold against his bare feet as he crosses the tiles. At the doorway, he stops, one hand against the frame, the other shoved in a back pocket. He turns his head, briefly.

"Good work."

End

[=]

Note: Long story is long. But I really liked this premise…I can't write crime well, though. Urg. If it's something I want to do better, it's writing crime dramas. Anyway, I hope you all found this pleasant, if not time consuming! I am infatuated with the idea of a Jack/Simon Mr. and Mrs. Smith sort of thing. Yay! And Piggy as a hacker is just so RIGHT. In case you were wondering, I have no plans to continue this, so don't ask. I hope I wrapped it all up adequately.

Fun fact for the day: the first M rated slash fic for the LOTF category is not Jack/Ralph, as you would expect. It's Jack/Piggy. This is funny, you guys. Thanks for reading.