1965-11-06 - Turkish Treasures and Irony Abounding
Summary: Poor Columbia University, constant target of the Jackal. Thank goodness, however, for aspiring graduate students and one cantankerous Professor to prevent the majority of a take from disappearing!
Related: None
Theme Song: None
ambrose halgrim 


It's well after dark in the Collections rooms of the Archaeology department, a time when some of the later-working professors might still be about, but by and large the place is empty. The perfect time to swing by and lift anything easy enough to lay claim to, since security doesn't have it all on lockdown, and at this time of year the grad students are running on fumes and much more likely to forgot to lock doors or take their keys home.

Professor Oliver Kadin, a specialist in the history of the Levant, has returned from a trip to Istanbul and Ankara, bringing with him a few pieces on loan, and some new finds from a dig site on the border with Iraq. Among them are a handful of statuary, some tiles from a partial mosaic, and several pieces of jewelry. They've all been cleaned up and processed and stowed in their drawers, and are taking their turns in the hands of the university's specialists.

That door in the Collections hall sits closed and dark, as does the Norse/Scandinavia room. The Mediterranean room, however…is open, with the lights on. And there are hushed voices arguing inside.

*

Ah, the Archaeology department. Even as Ambrose ascends onto the final landing of the building, he's all speculative silence. His current clothing, while dark, isn't anything out of place or markedly the type a thief might wear. Functional while not entirely fashionable, he does happen to have that small knapsack slung across his body beneath the warm leather jacket. The air smells of coffee still, which is surprising given the late hours, and he pauses as he hears the voices coming from inside one of the Collections rooms. Damn. Still, nothing like a challenge.

Rolling the soles of his boots, he makes his way patiently down the hallway and over to the Mesopotamia collection. Such luck! Lazy graduate students, tsk, look at this: the door's open. A furtive smirk at the occupied room and then he slips inside. The door shuts with a quiet click that cannot be avoided. Standing before the door, the master-thief scans the contents of the room visible by ambient light…which is unfortunately few things. A sigh to himself and he carefully wanders over to the desk inside the room. Ah, there's the light switch for the small desk lamp — and that comes on too. He frowns and glances at the door. Hmm. Rifling inside his jacket, he then makes a soft sound of delight: a flashlight! Off goes the desk lamp and over to the drawers he goes.

"Hello, you…" he murmurs gleefully to himself before putting the flashlight's end between his lips. It's the jewelry that's new and boy. Shiny. Hi, hi, hi.

*

|ROLL| Halgrim +rolls 1d20 for: 7

*

The jewelry is quite lovely, it must be said: a handful of filligree pendants combining gold with carnelian and agate; two intricately woven gold and silver neckpieces set with lapis lazuli; and a set of rings, all of them gold, in various designs, all bearing precious stones of some sort or another. The condition is variable (one of the neckpieces was definitely crushed at some point, and several of the rings have signs of wear from sand exposure), but overall even the worst off of the lot is quite valuable. Showpieces all.

The click of the door as Ambrose shuts it yields a brief pause the hushed arguing across the hall, then it resumes. Another minute later there's the sound of approaching footsteps, and a door closing—probably the Mediterranean collection door, to go by the proximity to the room Ambrose is in. The footsteps carry whomever it is between the two rooms, away and out of the building. After a moment, the same door which had shut opens. Ambrose can see the light come on in the hall as well.

*

Ambrose slides his eyes towards the door, frozen in his motions. He's got the plate of glass overtop the rings and necklaces lifted and the flashlight's beam still pointed into the drawer rather than towards the exit to the room. He listens and by the pattern of who's still present, he wonders…

…but no, he's basically got this in the bag right now. With archival gloves quickly donned like a second skin, he plucks the rings bip-bip-bip out and carefully slips them into small lined pockets within the interior lining of the knapsack. The necklaces will be more difficult, but he's still apparently going to attempt them.

The hallway light clicks on. His heart jumps. The master-thief grimaces around the end of the flashlight, teeth bared, as he tries to carefully maneuver the gold neckpiece with its gorgeous blue stones into a larger lined pocket.

*

There's a bit more hushed murmuring out in the hall, the sound of some shuffling about. Ambrose, he hears footsteps stop in front of the Mesopotamian collections door. "Wait," a voice says, muffled but audible. "Is this one unlocked too?" It's a young man's voice, with a Mid-Atlantic accent. There's the sound of the knob being tried, which stops.

A different voice, maybe a young woman's, says, "No way, they're keeping a close eye on that jewelry. I'll never be able to explain two breakins. One's enough."

*

The sound of the doorknob being tested is enough to make the master-thief's resolve flinch. He tongues the button switch of the flashlight off, the item still held between his teeth. The drawer's glass is settled as fast and quietly as possible and the drawer slid into place. With a quick flit of movement, Ambrose makes to slip into the darkest shadow of the cabinetry of the room, out of immediate line of sight from the doorway. The flashlight is slipped into his coat again as he makes to buckle the knapsack firmly closed.

Thus, he waits, eyes on the door. The minute movements of his living state allow one glancing flash of nightshine in his pupils, but otherwise, he's doing his best to blend in with the hood of the jacket pulled up and partially over his face.

*

|ROLL| Halgrim +rolls 1d20 for: 4

*

Outside, in the hall, the murmured arguing continues. "But it's just sitting *open*," the young man argues, and the young woman hisses, "*Jason,*" even as 'Jason' opens the door.

As Jason steps in, Ambrose can see him by the hallway light: a tall, solid young man, with a ruddy complexion, a soft, puffy face, and dove brown, straight hair. The young woman behind him in the hall is average-sized with mousy blonde hair, sallow skin, and a stern face which is made sterner by the frown she's wearing. "You're going to get us expelled," she says through clenched teeth.

If Jason has noticed Ambrose, it's not apparent in the way he does a cursory scan of the dark room. He says over his shoulder, "There was like a half-dozen rings, I saw the manifest—he won't notice one, Tara, come on."

*

|ROLL| Halgrim +rolls 1d20 for: 4

*

Only through long practice does Ambrose control his breathing; a silent gasp rather than one quick and sharp. With eyes averted but for peripheral vision being used (as not to give the students the sense of 'being watched' that invariably stems from the gut instinct), he listens as this 'Jason' is reprimanded by one 'Tara'. The fall of the hallway light into the room brightens things a spectacular amount to the Jackal.

Tsk. Tsk, indeed. How dishonorable of them…and poaching on his turf, of all things. The brunet thinks fast, weighs options, and by the coy and thin-lipped smile, he's got an idea…and maybe one particularly-persnickity professor won't lambast him for it.

As silently as can be managed, he shrugs off the coat in one smooth motion; the strap of the knapsack is lifted over his head as well, all out of line of immediate sight of the doorway. One-handed, he makes to tuck the black fringed scarf about his face until only his eyes and hood-mussed hair show. Folding the knapsack away into the coat, he then stoops sideways to set the item down so no zippers contact flooring. A flick of a butterfly knife from his pocket and he opens the front of his shirt like filleting a fish. Away goes the knife, and a deep inhale, and…

He slowly steps out into view, utilizing all his life's experience to make the movements supernaturally-fluid. The open shirt hangs about him almost as the vest he used to sport back in Basra. Of course, the demonic red nightshine in his pupils and he hisses as venomously as possible at the two students in Persian: "«Cursed be the ones who dare to touch these treasures!!!»"

Sudden ancient relic haunting, go?

*

|ROLL| Halgrim +rolls 1d20 for: 11

*

|ROLL| Halgrim +rolls 1d20 for: 8

*

Tara is exasperated with Jason. "Won't *notice*? He can count to *six*. We *have* to get out of here before one of the—"

And then, there's something out of their nightmares — or at least out of the nightmares generated by a few too many beers on Halloween — coming at them, waving a sword? a knife? does it matter? and yelling at them in…Persian?

"Holy shit!" Jason yells, stumbling back into Tara, who grunts in surprise. "Son of a—fuck!"

Jason's mad scramble sends Tara falling back into the opposing wall, and him stumbling back into the hallway. Tara stares, wide-eyed, but unlike Jason she doesn't resort to making a lot of noise. She just tries to process *what* she's seeing.

*

It's one thousand percent worth seeing the young man yelp like a shocked cur. Ambrose lets out a rolling laugh that's…really rather a little unhinged in the end, low and growling. Out comes the butterfly knife in earnest — two of them, one from another pocket, and he continues that slow stalk forwards in full bluff. He attempts to imitate the weird roll of shoulders belonging to the feline Rakshasa demons of interior India (a story for another time, perhaps) as he steps forwards.

"«Flee, trespassers!»" He hisses again, this time a bit more loudly than before. He's still within the room proper, sticking to the heavy contrast of darkness in comparison to the inwards fall of hallway light. If he can bluff them farther out into the hallway proper, there might be time to double-back and grab his coat and knapsack yet.

*

|ROLL| Halgrim +rolls 1d20 for: 17

*

Jason's yelling has, in fact, attracted *someone's* attention. The door at the far end of the hall opens, and in response Tara bolts into the Mediterranean room. Jason tries to follow her, only to find the door shut in his face.

"Shit! Tara, don't leave me out here with—"

A very familiar, Swedish-accented voice drifts up the hall towards them. "Jason what's going on, what's all this yelling about?"

*

Oh good, they've completely left the room. Ambrose immediately does an about-face, flipping the butterfly knives shut as he briskly walks back over to his coat. Into his pockets they go. He slings the knapsack across his body yet again. His teeth are bared in a pleased, fierce little grin at Jason's panicked words, but the expression goes blank at the next voice he hears.

SHIT.

Quickly, he unwraps the scarf from about his neck and stuffs it into the knapsack. The coat is shrugged on and zipped as fast as possible. A little clearing of his throat as if centering himself before stepping onto a stage and then he too is stumbling out into the hallway, looking as if he's seen a ghost as well.

"Oh my GOD, did you see that?!" he says to the rather startled Jason, mouth hanging agape. "This place is haunted!" His best faux-American accent, on full display.

*

|ROLL| Halgrim +rolls 1d20 for: 15

*

|ROLL| Halgrim +rolls 1d20 for: 3

*

Jason panics even more than he already is; he looks from the professor at the end of the hall to the room he just fled and back. Where there'd been some sort of sword-wielding ninja demon there was now…a random…man?

He struggles to pull himself together. "It's, it's, it's nothing Professor we — there was — something—" He stares at Ambrose, eyes huge. Voice cracking, he asks, "Who are you?"

A Swedish sound of dismay and sympathy, and Halgrim starts to approach, slowing when he sees who Jason is addressing. There is a feeling of a chill settling in the room, which Jason clearly senses, because he edges away from Halgrim as he draws close.

"Oh. Yes. No need to explain," Halgrim says, biting each word precisely. No yellow in his eyes, no change of his voice, but Ambrose can feel the weight of Halgrim's displeasure like a physical thing.

Tara, meanwhile, is silent in the other room, hiding under the desk, in one of the wisest decisions of her graduate career.

*

"No one of importance," replies Ambrose to Jason quickly and quietly once asked of his personage, flashing a toothy grin at the young man. Shock and awe, always effective in allowing a get-away. He straightens from his feigned shock upon making eye contact with the approaching professor and seems to size up the man. There's no missing the amount of pique emanating from Halgrim — one could see it on his face, regardless — and so the Jackal makes a wise decision to begin to walk backwards from the collection of university-kin, his movements light and nonchalant. The stairs aren't too far. In theory.

"Yes, no need to explain at all," he says, loudly enough for everyone to hear and with his horrible Jersey accent dropped like a rotten apple. His smile is broad, beguiling, as sweet as antifreeze. "Good to see you, professor, but I'd best be going. You'll need to speak with that young man there about his inability to lock a door." Jason gets a narrow-eyed squint now even with Ambrose in full retreat. He doesn't mention the kid's thoughts about lifting one of the rings because…well…those rings are burning a hole in his knapsack right now.

*

|ROLL| Halgrim +rolls 1d20 for: 4

*

|ROLL| Halgrim +rolls 1d20 for: 11

*

Jason just stares at Ambrose. "W-wait, what—" He seems to be about to *follow* him, when Halgrim speaks.

"No," he says. His voice is heavier than it should be, a voice of command, and Jason unwittingly obeys, stopping dead in his tracks. Seeing the effect his voice has had, he adds, more gently, "I'll take care of it," and moves past Jason to follow Ambrose, his expression turning predatory. There is a distinct sense that Ambrose is, in fact, about to get run off the campus. Again.

Jason swallows. "Ah, should I call—security?"

*

The Jackal's smile sharpens. "Never mind security. You've your own right here," he calls down the hallway towards Jason, his tone making mockery of Halgrim's approach. By his expression — eyes gone bright and pinpoint, jaw set despite the near-snarl of a grin, poise gaining a readiness — Ambrose has revealed himself to be an adrenaline junkie of the worst kind.

"Care to speak with me then, professor?" he asks of Halgrim in a volume only for the professor's ears even as he reaches the stairwell. He pauses, allowing the man another few strides closer, before he simply turns and begins to descend the steps at a proper if brisk pace. "I did find some proper Swiss absinthe, as a matter of fact. I could stop by with a nightcap for you?" His voice echoes upon itself somewhat and there's a really rather coy amusement to it. Oh, danger. Oldest friend, oldest love — how he missed you.

*

"Just lock the doors," Halgrim says, his voice only just above a growl. He picks up the pace, following Ambrose at a ground-eating stride that never stops. "Afraid I'm busy tonight, running off thieves and taking stock of what they've made off with," he says, accent growing stronger along with his anger. "A shame, since I'm sure it's wonderful."

Despite his size, he's not a clumsy or awkward man; he follows down the stairs with practiced ease. "Terrible mistake here, Atherton," he says as they descend. "Now you have at least one person other than myself who's seen your face. I may have to actually report you to security this time."

*

Two sets of shoes pattering down the stairs now. Ambrose risks a glance back over his shoulder and increases his pace. "Oh nonsense, professor — do you really believe they're going to believe that young man? Much less his ability to give a proper description of me? He could barely finish a sentence. He'll be unable to describe well what he saw in the wing this night." Aaaaannnnd down the hallway at something shy of a jog at this point, heading for the doors leading out into the courtyard.

"Besides, I've nothing on my person that belongs to the Archaeology department here, much less Columbia itself." Which is not a lie. Technically. Out into the courtyard and he hazards a spin in place, allowing Halgrim a few steps more yet. Ambient light flashes red in his pupils. "Come now, we should have a calm discussion about this, Lindqvist, don't you think?" Still smiling like his Jackal namesake, all teeth.

*

It's probably true that Halgrim can ensure Jason's silence; after all, he's reasonably certain Ambrose wasn't the *only* one doing a little lifting from the Collections rooms tonight. He's not about to admit that, though. He's managing to keep up with Ambrose without breaking out of that long-legged walk, but only just. His voice too low, too heavy to be natural, he snarls, "That's *rich* coming from a *Brit*," just before they emerge outside. It practically echoes in the empty, dark building.

Once they're outside Ambrose can see a golden cast to his eyes, which could be the courtyard lights, or it could be his temper is getting the better of him. The tone of his voice suggests the later. "We'll have no calm discussions while you leave me to clean up your fucking messes." Oh, he's not slowing down. Not one bit.

*

Yep, not slowing down at the idea of a rational conversation. With a faint incredulous laugh that's a bit higher than usual due to adrenaline and quivering nerves, Ambrose does another about-face and does a little skip-sprint to regain his lost ground.

"Now — now, see here, Lindqvist — the young man was about to make off with the newest acquisitions!" He says over his shoulder, trying very very hard not to break into a loping run. He saw the golden eyes. He can feel them burrowing between his shoulderblades. "I interrupted him and his little bird of a cohort, so in a way, you owe me gratitude for halting a burglary!" The irony abounds. Boy, it seems like it's a long way to the edge of campus now. His heart thrums in his throat as he glances back over his shoulder again.

*

"And I'm sure, you weren't there, to do anything like that your*self*." On the final syllable, which is barely even a spoken sound, Halgrim breaks into a sprint. Oh yes, there's no doubt about it, his eyes are yellow. Brilliant, baleful yellow. It's a legitimate question as to what's going to happen if he actually catches up to Ambrose. Is he going to hit him? Grow enormous teeth and claws and tear him open? Turn into something else entirely and swallow him whole? There are a lot of options.

*

|ROLL| Halgrim +rolls 1d20 for: 6

*

|ROLL| Ambrose +rolls 1d20 for: 14

*

"Window-shopping! They call it window-shopping here, don't they?!" The man can't help but be pithy even when sprinting across campus. His legs and arms work to keep him a step ahead of the man with the preternaturally-golden eyes, but it's not a large number of steps. The night air is brisk as he leads the chase from pavement and onto grass. Another quick look behind him and the mind scrambles to put together a coherent image of Halgrim still close behind.

It's enough to put wings to his boots. Thank god for the nearest tree. Up onto a study-bench he steps and then a leap to catch the lowest hanging branch at mid-chest. An "OOOF!" of lost air, but he still scrabbles up onto it and then up another few feet yet into the growth. "Lindqvist! See reason!!!" he wheezes, glancing down towards the grass with mouth hanging wide to pant for air.

*

"Yes I'm sure there's *nothing* in your coat pockets." They're barely words, but Halgrim clings to the idea that if he can still form coherent sentences then he's not going to lose his grip. Not just yet. He slows when Ambrose leaps into the tree, comes to a stop under it and looks up. The yellow in his eyes has died down some; perhaps the run let him blow off a little steam. Yet the sense that a wolf is gazing up at tree'd prey is unmistakable.

"I'm not sure what reason you'd like me to see, Atherton," he says. "Please—enlighten me." His voice continues to sound exceptionally guttural, so he can't be *that* calm.

*

Nestled in the crook of a sturdy branch, where it meets trunk, Ambrose dares to close his eyes for a few seconds and simply breathe. He then swallows hard and showcases both empty hands, daring to look down again. The hindbrain squeals; the man shivers despite himself, the fine hairs on his neck fully risen now at those bright eyes pinning him.

"I've nothing in my coat pockets of interest to you, Lindqvist," and again, not necessarily a lie — it's all in the knapsack. "My reasoning is my own, but that you would not hurt me. Not you. I don't believe you'd vent your anger upon me as you presume to show." A hesitant and forced smile now, cajoling now that he feels safer on high. "Weren't we working towards an hour of not going for one another's necks? The clock-timer will need to be started over, unfortunately, and the fault belongs to you." What a sass. "I'll gladly speak to you about matters at length once you're calm again."

*

Halgrim's jaw clenches visibly, and one of his hands forms a fist. It's irrational, how he reacts to seeing Ambrose on the campus grounds; a gut instinct born on that night in Special Collections that he can't seem to really get a handle on. It says this is *their* territory, and of course while it might just annoy Halgrim, as far as Fjorskar is concerned there is only one way to deal with trespassers, especially repeat offenders. And yet, simultaneously, there's Elmo's voice in the back of his mind, urging him to maybe not tear Ambrose to shreds. Maybe. At least, *try* not to.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out very slowly. It's cold and damp out, and he can barely feel it. Oh yes, she was close to shoving him aside and dealing with things her way, and that could have easily lead to a disaster. "I think you'll find that the fault lies with you. It would be mine, if I'd wandered down to your…" he wants to call it a lair, or something equally insulting, and forces himself not to, "abode, and decided to rearrange the furniture in such a manner as to make sure you knew it was me." Another slow breath in, and out. His voice is almost normal again. "One of these days you're going to push too far, Atherton. And you are not, going to like, what you see."

*

The master-thief folds his arms and does his best to look as if he hadn't just been run up a tree by a member of University faculty. He scowls down at Halgrim now, all record of that previous smile gone.

"My actions are not without meaning, Lindqvist. Moving my furniture about is petty. It accomplishes nothing. I am accomplishing my task in this life," says Ambrose from on high. "There was nothing on this green earth keeping you from simply telling me 'goodnight' and allowing me to leave without this farcical chase." A contemplative moment and then an inkling of sly interest in those nadir-blues. "You keep implying that your collective is something to fear. I'll grant you, that eye color is spectacularly spooky and you've some…aura about you, but both I have seen before — hence, my wise retreat. But you're all words, professor," he continues more calmly, somehow keeping insult from his tone. "All words until I see as such." A shrug.

*

For a moment there's the overwhelming sensation that no tree is possibly tall enough to get enough space between Halgrim and Ambrose. His eyes gleam dark gold, there and gone in a second as he clamps down on his reaction. He voice low, he says, "It's not an implication, Atherton. You know full well where you can get the information on a small piece of what, precisely, she's capable of." He lets that sit between them, forces himself to look away over the courtyard and listen. No sound of security, no alarms. Jason and his accomplice, whomever it was (Beth? Tara? Janice?) have wisely decided to keep their mouths shut.

He looks towards the tree, but only so his voice will carry in the right direction. "What prevents me from telling you 'goodnight' when I catch you here is…" He stops, tries to think of how to explain it. "It's not rational," he admits, finally. "But I have seen what you can do, and I think in her way she knows it. Somehow. Just like she knows this is *my* place. And in the spaces which are ours, she won't permit," he finally looks up at Ambrose again, "interlopers." His voice drops on the word.

*

Only barely does Ambrose keep himself from retreating farther up into the branches. There's a responsive quiver through him again at the amber hue, there and gone, and another hard swallow hidden away by the high collar of his jacket. As the professor scans their surroundings for potential interruptions, the Jackal does the same. It's a cursory look-about; the mind is still consumed by just who has that information because sure as the day dawns, he's going to hunt the potentials down and ask after it.

"Bloody-fucking-hell-it's-not-rational," the brunet whispers to himself in one quick string of words, garbled up behind his teeth. Not loud enough to interrupt Halgrim. Once the man meets his eyes again, Ambrose allows himself another one of those hollow, higher-pitched laughs. "Interlopers. Quaint. I'm not here to steal territory from anyone — and besides, I followed your proposed terms specifically. Classical entry, classical exit, and no one influenced by any compulsions beyond their own." His usual smirk returns slowly, but it's there again. "You're reneging on your word, professor. That's bloody dishonorable."

*

"I never said anything about letting you run roughshod over this campus," Halgrim says, low and heavy. "Particularly if I caught you in the act." Another of those breaths, in and out, the keep his reactions under control. "And in any case, you made that agreement with me. Not her." He raises his eyebrows. "You're welcome to negotiate with her for a more lenient contract, if you like. Otherwise, stop trying to steal things when I'm here."

The cold is finally getting to him, which is a good sign, even if it does make him shiver. His gaze drifts to the trees in front of him, and his eyes become unfocused. "Territory isn't just about the area, Atherton. Not to a spirit of the wild. The whole of the space is territory. The water, the air, the earth, and anything in and on them—all of it. She'll fall apart into nothing before she relinquishes anything she feels is hers without a fight."

*

"I bloody believe it…" mutters Ambrose in terms of the spirit-grouping he's seen and yet is not aware of this. He sighs, his breath ghosting before his face. "I'll be glad to negotiate with your collective when I get the opportunity. If it means marking when you're not present, so be it. I need not even bargain for my work." He sounds thoughtful, voice barely loud enough to be hear. Another shrug. Halgrim receives a cautious squint. The prior shiver, however, is what convinces the master-thief that he's safe to come down.

"One tic," and then he swings legs over the bough. A slip of balance and a light thump on the grass to mark his landing. He straightens in place slowly, still wary as all hell, especially now that he's kicking himself mentally for having the tree trunk directly behind him. "Truce, Lindqvist?" asks the Jackal quietly, though he offers no hand to shake - merely keeps them at his side.

*

Halgrim's mouth twitches in a sardonic smile. "Figuring out when I'm not here might be easier said than done," he says, far too smug for his own good. He steps back when it becomes clear Ambrose is coming down, because he's not entirely certain of his response, and would prefer it not take him by surprise.

Fortunately, the answer is that the beast is satisfied, in some way or another, because Halgrim doesn't feel the overwhelming urge to punch Ambrose incredibly hard like he did just five minutes previously. He stands there, weighing the request for a truce against the events of the evening. His answer is, "What were they taking?" He means the graduate students, of course; he'll never get an answer out of Ambrose on what he was after, or got, and he knows it.

*

"The fault lies primarily with the young gentleman." A crooked grin appears. "The young bird, she warned him off, but he chose not to listen to sense. So, I chose to scare it out of him. I daresay he screeched more than she did." Ambrose glances towards the Archaeology building across the camp. "He wished to take one of the rings, I believe. The logic I heard from him is that no one would miss them until far too late."

The master-thief shakes his head. "I couldn't hazard why he wished to do so. I thought that attaining the level of graduate student was something to be respected and not taken lightly." He looks back to Halgrim again, a hint of sympathy to be found in his expression. "I suppose you're considering speaking to him. You may not need to. The unpredictability I put forth as show might keep him leery enough to attempt it again."

*

"I wish I could say I was surprised," Halgrim says, his attention shifting to the Archaeology building as well. 'Jason' must already be a known Problem. He gives Ambrose a dry, sidelong glance, shakes his head. He can't entirely hide the flash of morbid amusement that Ambrose's description conjures.

"Oh, I can think of plenty of reasons. Troubles with money will always plague people from all walks of life — those rings are gold and precious stones, very valuable even if they don't go to a collector." Drinking? Drugs? Gambling? It could be anything, but at the end of the day student theft was a real issue he had to keep in mind. He shrugs half-heartedly. "Only to find out if he wants to file a report, but since there's no alarm being raised I suspect the answer is a no. Still — I'll check with him, make sure he understands he should," a narrow-eyed look for Ambrose, "keep quiet."

*

|ROLL| Halgrim +rolls 1d20 for: 20

*

Very precious gold and stones. And preciously hidden away in Ambrose's knapsack. He poker-faces like a champ at the look he receives, his own brows lifting high as if to imply, 'who, me?'

"I think that a wise course to take, professor." He nods in complete agreement, his poise having nearly returned now to a state of moderate comfort in Halgrim's presence. "The young man should know better than to attempt to take things when you're on watch. After all…he doesn't have my prowess. Little cockerel, puh." The master-thief actually rolls his eyes a touch in disdain for someone attempting to beat him to the punch.

*

Halgrim mmmmms. "Yes, though in fairness it might have gone worse if I'd caught him. Who's to say in desperation he might have done something foolish and caused me to…" He lets the rest go unsaid, contemplates his boots a moment. "No, as ridiculous and theatrical as you no doubt were, it was probably the better outcome."

He sighs. "Oliver was in Ankara and Istanbul for nearly a month, working on a dig and visiting a few museums in the region to give talks. Went through quite a bit of work to convince them to let him work on them and clean them up. They're scheduled to go back next summer. If they'd gone missing it would have been quite a disaster. Speaking of which." He holds out a hand, palm up, and gestures at Ambrose in a classic 'let's have it' motion, his eyebrows up.

*

|ROLL| Steve Rogers +rolls 1d20 for: 3

*

A knowing nod from Ambrose at the what-could-have-been and, in a small corner of his heart, relief. It would have been awful to have had a hand in such reckless reaction…something he never used to consider. Time does change people in small ways, it appears. A conscience is a burgeoning sprout in him after all. Still, it doesn't mean that he's forthright with Halgrim.

His eyes drop to the open palm and flick back to Halgrim's face. "I'm not about to give you a 'low five' or any of that youthfully-exuberant nonsense for your decisions, professor. What is it that you want?" He frowns at the man, pulling his lips to one side. Inside? Laughing madly. Perhaps it twinkles behind the curtain of his expression through his eyes.

*

Halgrim smiles, gently and yet devoid of any warmth. "Do not mistake my present demeanor, Atherton. This is not a request." Indeed, his tone is entirely mild, and there's no hint of yellow in his eyes, no looming threat of his other face peering around the edges of himself. Yet there's also a sense that this is a layer, a thin crust, and under that is a lake of lava, and it won't take much to punch through to what Ambrose was facing not five minutes earlier, or even something much worse.

*

|ROLL| Steve Rogers +rolls 1d20 for: 9

*

It's akin to a stand-off at high noon. One hand outheld in expectation, devoid of weaponry but for the imminent threat implied — two others now stuffed into pockets as if attempting to avoid drawing outright. Ambrose just looks straight back into those eyes and it's one of those odd lingering gazes, wherein holding it expands each second into an echoing heartbeat. He's taking the man's measure and weighing it against self-preservation, no doubt.

A subtle lift of his chin. "…fine," he says sharply, looking aside. "Let me put on a glove." He unzips his coat in order to reach for an inner pocket. Halgrim will no doubt recognize the beige-colored knapsack slung across his bared chest; the parted shirt beneath does showcase skin, and there's no mistaking that Ambrose is as athletic as his actions bely. Muttering to himself in Persian, he reaches into the knapsack without lifting the flap. His fingers do smooth lifting motions within and out come all six rings, now on display around each digit. The last, he holds between forefinger and thumb and all are protected from skin by softest archival fabric. "A king's ransom," he murmurs wistfully even as he looks from the antiques to Halgrim again.

*

Halgrim meets Ambrose's eyes unflinching, holding perfectly still but for the occasional blink. There's a tension to him, a readiness, that doesn't abate until Ambrose relents and opens his jacket. He arches a brow at Ambrose's open shirt; a droll, 'oh, really, who's showing off now' look stealing over his face.

"Indeed," he says as Ambrose takes out the rings. "I'm told they belonged to a royal couple." His eyes pass over the jewelry with familiarity. Did he have a hand in helping Oliver clean them? Well, he might have; he's in that building at all hours, and what are the chances his hallmates work less hours than he does? Not likely. A wiggle of his fingers. He makes a magnanimous offer. "You can feel free to steal them from the university in Ankara once they've returned."

*

"Are you certain that you wish to put forth that temptation…?" asks Ambrose in a soft, almost velvety tone even as he begins to pluck at the archival glove's wrist-hem. He looks Halgrim dead in the eyes as he continues speaking. "Because you know full well I'll travel there and take them because I can — and you will not be there to stop me." It appears he's using the archival glove as a temporary sack. Keeping his semi-curled fingers upright, he pulls the white fabric inside out. The rings are safe within. With a disgusted curl to his nose, he holds out the inverted glove and drops it onto Halgrim's outheld palm. "There. Your rings are returned. And I'm not about to grant you any further requests," he adds, looking as if he's going to step back by the lift of one foot.

*

"The university in Ankara isn't my problem," Halgrim assures Ambrose in a sweet, almost coy tone. He keeps his eyes on Ambrose's, solidly black brown with no hint of danger, though he's also watching the movement going on in his peripheral vision. "Turkey is well outside my purview, and while I won't envy them having to deal with you, I'm sure they'll cope in some way," his hand closes over the glove, and he tucks it into the pocket of his pants, "or, another."

He stays put, making no move to advance on Ambrose or otherwise threaten him. "No? Have I used up my only request?" He sighs softly, clouding the air. "Such a shame."

*

"I'd hazard it's a damnably weighty request, Lindqvist," snaps the master-thief, truly irritated at having caved to the simplicity of an open palm. Another step back. Ambrose attempts to smooth out his expression and mostly succeeds. "Don't think you've bested me," he warns the man in quiet, steely earnesty.

Still…why is there the faintest glitter of triumph to be seen in his half-lidded gaze? Yet another backwards step, out of immediate arm-reach now. "It's cold. Perhaps you should retreat back to your cozy little office. What more could you ask of me tonight anyways? Humor me, if you feel inclined. I could use a laugh."

*

Although Halgrim's eyes dance with 'too late', he at least has the grace to say, "Of course I haven't," and mostly sound like he's being sincere. His mouth doesn't even twitch in a near smile. "I appreciate that I am, in fact, asking you to go against your nature, just as you've asked me to go against mine previously." The scroll, of course, and Renata. "So on that account perhaps we may say we are truly even."

He spreads his hands. "I can ask nothing, you told me I've run out of requests. Perhaps I'll earn myself another one in the future, mmmm?" He seems undecided on if he actually wants that, though.

*

"Ah…" The Jackal holds the note almost in mocking musicality. "Well…your loss in not asking then, I suppose. I might have rewarded courage on your part." Another backwards step and he zips up the coat against the chill of the night air. "Though I can appreciate your confidence in our proposed standings." He briefly reaches beneath the thick material to better settle the knapsack across his body. "…a folly-filled notion that it may be."

Now at least a dozen feet away from Halgrim, Ambrose allows himself that coy smile of triumph. "Check your manifests, professor."

*

"You would have done no such thing," Halgrim says with a sniff. "And I'm well aware I can't get *everything* back from you—I don't even know what all it is. Just…some of it." He pats the pockets of his jeans. "The part I care about." He smiles, nods, puts his hands in his pockets. "I assure you, I will. Have yourself a wonderful walk home, Atherton." He looks around them. "It might freeze tonight. Take care to not slip."

*

A fencer's nod to the professor from across the distance from Ambrose, still sporting that keen grin. "Thank you kindly for your well-wishes, Lindqvist. Be mindful yourself, should you choose to leave your studious bower. Another time, perhaps — and I will bring the aforementioned absinthe. We'll toast to this mythical even accounting of yours."

The Jackal then turns and breaks into a loping jog, unapologetically presuming that any little sensation of eyes boring into his back is reason to keep up the brisk pace. Run off the campus? Indeed.

*

Halgrim watches Ambrose go, not moving from his spot beneath the tree until Ambrose is well out of sight. He sighs, clouding his head in the chill night air. "Yes I'm sure we will," he mutters, and heads back towards the building, already mulling over the various paperwork he'll have to doctor in order to prevent the university from bearing the blame.

*

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