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I look at the painting and think, this is mine.

Not "this will be mine" or "someday, maybe, I can afford something like this." No. This painting is mine. The inconvenient part of it is that it's in a gallery, and it needs to be homed to its rightful owner.

My claws flex on the tiled floor, ears flicking as I pretend to contemplate the painting, and not memorizing the pathway of the guards around me, or noting the security cameras discreetly encased in bubbles along the ceiling. The painting is from the Italian Renaissance, one of those pieces that wasn't painted by the masters, but art collectors would drool at just to get their hands on. The esoteric nature of the fountain, the fox playing with dryads and satyrs in a Neo-classical nod to Roman ancestors, it's gorgeous.

My paws itch, but I keep them still. My sister would kill me if I made a move this soon, before the appointed time. I left her at the coffee shop along the way, and my right paw is tucked into my suit jacket pocket, texting her all the relevant information as she pretends to read a tabloid and keep her phone tucked between the covers. Knowing her, she's probably doing both.

We need to pull this one off; there's whispers in the networks that we're becoming "unreliable." Been a while since those Heist Twins made a move, a few international papers report, with glee. Maybe Interpol scared them off.

Nothing could scare us off.

Well, correction: Someone can scare us off, but it's not an Interpol agent. It's not anyone Interpol even knows about, and if they did, they wouldn't be focusing on my sister and I.

I admire the brushstrokes for a moment longer before I notice a large crowd, some kind of international tour group with a bunch of gazelles, starting to head this way. I move a little out of their path, just another businessman admiring the paintings, contemplating which one will look great over his four poster bed in his smart house, or maybe he does have an interest in history and knows there's more to the Renaissance than Da Vinci and Michaelangelo.

The answer is a bit of both, but I don't think anyone would really think I'm a businessman. My spaded tail tip waves behind me, my horns catching the light briefly when I tilt my head up. I'm pure wolf until the... differences. A hybrid, usually able to blend in, almost always forgotten. My sister got less of the hybrid than I did, but she's a fox, so she's got a lot more to contend with than I do.

Most days. I don't like to talk about the cons I've thrown just because I've managed to get muzzle-to-muzzle with a few of the pure blooded "dragons" running around. She does, but since when doesn't she like to talk about the things I've screwed up? It's either that or the times when I get... Let's call it 'distracted'.

I find myself trying to look at other paintings, but the fountain scene drags me back, even when it's notably free from anyone lingering. I'm not supposed to draw attention to myself, but I've been at this for a few days, and I've seen all the other paintings. This is the only one in the entire museum that has any value; the rest of them we could pinch on the way out, but offloading that much all at once on the market causes a dip in value and a rise in attention.

We tried that once with Egyptian artifacts. It didn't end well.

I gaze at the painting again, picking all the details I've noticed a thousand times again, the glimmer in the fox's eye in the painting, the strange creature that we call a 'satyr', though most art historians agree that it's probably a dragon-goat hybrid, a nod and a curse to the days when the dragons ruled over everything. I look at the globs of oil, a dragged claw print in one of the trees. The artist must have gotten excited and forgotten to sheathe their claws-- it's pretty well known that it was a snow leopard who painted it.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

I try to hide my startled reaction, my lifting hackles, when I peer over my shoulder. The voice belongs to a stoat, standing close enough that it's clear he's talking to me, but on the edge of a personal bubble which men would start to call 'intimate.' He's in his winter fur, pure white that offsets his obsidian eyes, a black tipped tail. The crimson tour guide uniform stands out on his small chest, but I can't get a good read on his name. I recognize him, though. He's the only tour guide here that seemed to really like his job, and not one of the many bored college kids slogging their way through it. I figured he wouldn't be here after the first day I saw him-- weekend shifts and weekday shifts are noticeably different.

I nod, turning back to the painting. "It's well done," I say.

The stoat is watching me, and his tail droops a little. Not the answer he was expecting. "It really is," he says, looking back at the painting. "The dragon-goat hybrids in it are my favorite," he continues. "A lot of people at this time always tried to make the satyrs look regal--"

"--But he took the risk to make them not, because he was starting to get angry about the romance of the past and the bourgeois of the ruling class." I clamp my muzzle shut. Shit. I really am not supposed to be talking like this.

The stoat likes this answer, his tail perked again, small ears toward me as he nods. "I figured you knew your history," he said. "I saw you here a few times, making faces behind our more, ah, inexperienced tour guides."

Well, shit, or as my sister would say, fucking shit fuck. Someone noticed me and made a note of my pattern. Granted, this stoat isn't a security guard, he's just a tour guide, and I doubt he's one of the new 'undercover' security guards. He stands too relaxed if he's trying to see if I'm a threat, and his whiskers haven't twitched once. So I think I'm okay, for now.

"A lot of them are just college students," he says. "And I don't think a lot of them are art history majors, if they even passed a humanities class." He chuckles, his eyes squeezing shut. "Oh, it hurts me to hear them too. But the people that listen to them are even worse. No one really wants to hear about the history, or actually study the painting. They just want their pat on the back that they went out and did something 'cultured' instead of sitting at home on a Friday night and watching a big game."

I can't help it when my head turns toward him, ears cupped in his direction, or that my tail makes a lazy wag. "History student?" I ask.

"Oh, worse," He continues. " Assistant professor." He winks at me, and I notice the distance between us shrank a little.

I whistle, glancing back once at the painting as my ears fold back, and I shove my paws deeper in my pockets. "You're pretty young for a doctorate candidate," I said, and I did leave a pause after the pretty, because, well, I don't know. No, I do know, but if I think it, I'll just think it in my sister's voice.

He laughs a bit. "European education," he says breezily.

I arch an eyebrow. "I don't hear an accent."

"Transfer," he continues. "What about you?" He nods to the painting. "If you were looking for a pretty piece on your wall, I would think you would get something that looks more abstract."

So at least my disguise is working. I want to pump my fist in the air but I restrain myself by rocking on my toes instead. "Is there a price tag on it?" I ask.

He laughs at that. "Sure, for near a hundred million." He gestures with his elbow around the corner. "I'll sell you that abstract modern painting over there for a buck and dinner, however. And honestly, you can keep the dollar."

I let my tail wag in a slow, lazy arc. "Sounds like I'd be getting the raw end of the deal," I say.

"Well, given that we'd be eating in a fast food restaurant and you'd have that painting in your possession..." He scratches the bottom of his chin. "I'd say so, yeah."

I grin, and then stop as it hits my brain like a truck hitting a cement divider: He's hitting on me. Openly. And dinner wasn't exactly a joke. I can see his individual whiskers, I can see the name on his tag, but open panic has overridden the stupid, horny part of my mind that's wondering if he'd let go of anything else for a buck and dinner.

This is exactly what my sister has been telling me to avoid. This is exactly what I'm not supposed to be doing: forming connections with people, as if I'm someone of singular importance. As if I'm an interested wolf who keeps hanging around an art gallery because he has too much money and time on his hands, and maybe, just maybe, he's a little bit lonely and the pleasure he gets in a painting is the most that he's had in a while.

He's certainly not faking a role. He's certainly not a criminal.

I keep my body language in control-- or, I think I do. My tail hits a horse walking by me who snorts, nearly braying at me, and I back up a half step as the stoat comes closer to me, holding out a hand. "Woah, you okay?" He asks.

"I'm-- fine!" My voice cracks horribly. I'm no longer a suave, cool business type, I'm scrambling to find all the broken pieces of my identity and shove them back on. I avoid his paw, squaring my shoulders, trying to force my tail to stop wagging as ice water fills the warm gap in my chest.

"Are you sure?" He frowns, and God help him, he actually looks concerned. "I think that horse stepped on your tail, let me take you to the back and get an ice pack--"

"No!" I bark too loud and he takes a step back, wary. Eyes flick to my horns, to my eyes, and I can see the twitchy, nervous energy that rises in him.

"Hey, I'm sorry if I read this wrong--" He starts, and I cut him off again.

"No, no, it's not-- You, you didn't--" Because I'm not going to make him afraid of me, and then I realize, again, this was my perfect opportunity to do so. I curse under my breath, but he must have heard it, because he frowns more and starts backing up.

"I'm so, so sorry," he's stammering, and my heart is thrashing in my chest, and he knows me, and he's seen my face, and he knows what I sound like, and he knows more than I should have let on.

"I have to go," I say, and I push past him. He might have said something, but I don't stick around to hear it. I push past the double glass doors, almost tripping a kid on the way out, and I turn the corner and sink my back onto the cool wall, not caring when I hear the cheap seams in my jacket pop as I slide down onto the sidewalk.

I sink my muzzle into my paws, and I hear my heart rate still frantically beating. A cute guy asked me out. If I had gone out with him, we would have had a nice time. I would have taken him to the botanical garden right on the corner of 8th, I would have dressed in my best, I would have lead him to the statue of two tigers twirling around each other, and maybe, just maybe, I would have kissed him. And maybe, if I'm lucky, he'd kiss me back too.

And then I wouldn't have my painting. I'd have to watch as hundreds of people walk by it, not understanding, not admiring, just stare at it. And it wouldn't be mine.

If I can't have anything else in this world, I'll take the painting.