The sexual politics of illegal trade and activity aside (mergers and acquisitions executed - literally, at gunpoint), Jude watched the doors open on the underground like an entirely too anticipatory Dante with spirit-companion urging on greater deeds of derring do. Wasn't it weeks, if not months, since a properly-executed con tied up with a ribbon on top? Oliver's surprise was heart-warming but not the sort of exploit that put money in the kitty for toilet-paper and turpentine and besides, best of brothers was not high-risk stakes these days. Somewhere down the line, Jude had decided that the home falling down in the woods was Home. Capital H, with all the self-expected ramifications of stability therein. And Oliver? The system wouldn't like Oliver, not the kind of system that came with bolts and locks and bars. It would squeeze the essential Oliver-ness out of him until what was left was nothing Jude recognized.
No, Oliver was in temporary park while Jude figured out how to navigate the emotional Minotaurian labyrinth of risking it all over and over again, or living small-scale on a bartender's paycheck. But Sasha? Jude cocked a look over his shoulder at his sister for the evening, very pretty picture given skin-tight couture but absent brotherly affection, general appreciation was off the table. Sasha would mold the system, fists first. It was not rejection or isolation, simply navigable wall erected between Oliver and the outside world and Sasha provided the occasional brick.
Jude's smile was slow, and heavy-lidded because the minute he'd set foot over the threshold, movement was molasses-slow. Rich people didn't hurry or agitate and all extraneous movement was pared down to the absolutely essential. He stepped out in front of her without saying anything at all because permission was for those that needed to ask, and he braced a hand at her waist to drag her along in his eddy.