[Okay, maybe he's punched a few walls of his own in his time. Maybe more than a few. He's still pretty sure they need the walls of the Waverider to fly the Waverider though, and even if a part of him wants to hang back and see if Sara can punch her way through the hull...
He hangs back to see if Sara can punch her way through the hull.
But he isn't exactly easy to miss, leaning in the doorway and taking up pretty much all of it, so either Sara has also figured out that punching her way through the hull isn't the best idea or she's noticed him and given up. He holds up a bottle, dark green glass, dusty label. Probably horrifyingly rare and expensive and it definitely doesn't deserve to suffer the way it's about to.]
she isn't — though from the redness around her eyes when she takes a moment to acknowledge mick with a look that's neither embarrassed nor apologetic for what she's done, it's fairly obvious that she has been at some point, and he'd better be prepared for his face to find out what the hull feels like right about now if he chooses to bring it up. almost defeated, her hand drops back to her side, fist uncurling to reveal the beginnings of a few bruises blossoming along her knuckles.
her gaze sweeps towards the bottle then back up to mick and sara goes as far as attempting a smirk, the tiniest twitch of her lips. )
[The bottle gets gestured up and around at the doorway, bereft of any doors that close it off from the hall. Besides, if she didn't want company, she'd be somewhere he couldn't find her. It's not that big a ship, but she's not that big a woman. She'd manage.
She can keep her red eyes to herself. It's not a stretch to guess what that's about. Same reason he sounds more gravelly than normal. Then again, that could be because he'd already tried Rip's booze, just enough to decide which bottle to swipe. So maybe each bottle is an inch lower than it was an hour ago. It had taken a while to decide.]
Coming or do I get all of this to myself? [He wiggles the bottle again.] Good stuff. Plenty more where this came from.
( sara just looks at mick for what feels like a silent eternity, trying to evaluate whether or not the company — the booze, too, she guesses — is something she can deal with right now. eventually, she admits defeat. ) Alright. ( but she's quick to add: ) But only because I'm not one to back down from a challenge.
( she meets him in the doorway, abandoning the scene behind her, and wraps her hand around the neck of the bottle to tug it out of mick's hand so she can examine it, brow furrowing just slightly as she does. ) Good to know Rip's been holding out on us this whole time. Dick.
You say that like it's a surprise. [He'd been prepared to wait as long as it took for her to agree or tell him to fuck off, and now that she's moving, he steps back into the hallway, heading somewhere with a little more seating space, a spot to line up all the shots they'll need.] How often has he ever managed the whole truth? Never when I've been around. Maybe I missed it.
Mm, ( she hums absently in agreement, lifting up a finger. ) Point.
( sara doesn't comment on rip further, as she's already pissed off at their beloved captain enough and doesn't want to let that particular wound fester more than it has to. she tags along with mick until they reach what can be considered the waverider's makeshift living room (in that it has actual cushioned couches, and a table, even — god forbid the team get anything as cozy as the captain's quarters) and sinks down onto a couch, already looking weary as though they've been through a tumultuous journey to get there.
glancing up at mick with a raised eyebrow, she comments, ) Don't expect me to go easy on you just because you passed out last time, Rory.
I hadn't had a drink in three centuries. [As he flops onto the couch himself, then wonders if they should have collected glasses before sitting down. Too late now.
He takes another pull from the bottle and passes it over. This stuff is a damn sight better than whatever swill they were distilling from dead raccoons, or whatever the hell that stuff had been. Mmm.]
And you didn't even try to wake me up for a bar brawl in the Old West. That hurts.
Excuses, excuses, ( sara chides with a shake of her head, wrapping her fingers — the ones that aren't bruised, aching — around the bottle to take a drink at last. it's actually decent, surprisingly, which makes her glance curiously down at the label as though that's gonna clear anything up for her, what with rip's time jumping abilities.
... maybe she's just gonna, you know, steal another drink before forfeiting the bottle back to mick, pulling her knees up to her chest. ) Figured you might've needed the nap. I doubt the Time Masters were down to let Chronos take a little afternoon siesta.
Hnn. You wouldn't be wrong. [He'll take that bottle back now, thank you, and have a nice long pull of it himself. They'll just go dig up another one if this one isn't enough, and odds are, it won't be.] Lots of ways to keep a man going until the job's done.
[He looks pointedly down at the injured hand when he holds the bottle out again.] Fixing that up, or gonna live with it for a while? [No judgment if it's the latter. Sometimes it's what you do. Mick isn't sure he won't end up punching a dent into a bulkhead before he's done.]
( there's a twitch of a scowl on sara's lips at that. she really has no idea what the full extent of what they'd done to mick, outside of the complete and utter brainwashing that apparently wasn't all that effective — chalk that up to his stubborn personality, his undying loyalty, she supposes. sara doesn't really want to think about the cruelty of those time bastards — len's affectionate nickname for those assholes, a thought which sends another pang of grief rolling through her stomach, making her press her cheek against her knee as though curling up into a ball might stave off the pain — right now.
her eyes sweep idly over the harsh, reddened skin at her knuckles, and she gives a halfhearted shrug as she takes the bottle again. ) Probably just let it go. Kind of feels like a cop out to use Gideon for something so stupid. ( she takes her drink, lips curling into a smile around the bottle's lip as she thinks of her next witty retort. ) Besides, I've felt worse. Try getting shot by three arrows and falling from the edge of a building to your death. ( sara flexes her bruised fingers, not even bothering to wince with pain as she hands the bottle off. ) It's not so bad.
[It hadn't been pretty. He won't shy away from the details if she wants them, they've been through too much and he knows she could take it, but he's never been the type to open up. Rarely had anyone to open up to who didn't already know enough to know not to ask.
Never been that demonstrative either, but the way she's curling in on himself makes him toss a casual arm over her back as he takes another long drink.]
Got shot by arrows once. Haven't died yet. Not sure I'd trade.
Len pushed through the door of the motel and then stopped dead. The heist had been successful, until the very last minute. They had blown a tire on a goddamn nail on the getaway and had to leg it the last mile. They could've stolen another car, possibly, but given how close the fuzz were, he hadn't wanted to stick around. Thankfully, the take was jewellery, so it had been easy to carry.
But this motel was the only one in the area, and they needed to lay low for a night to wait for the heat to die down. The clerk had insisted there was only one room left, and it was 'kinda small', but Len had taken it anyway, and plunked down cash. The guy hadn't even bothered asking them to sign the register.
"Kinda small's an understatement," Len said to Mick, wrinkling his nose. The place was tiny. There was only one bed, and it was a double, sitting in the middle of the room. There was a distinct scent of mildew, and Len peered at the floor skeptically, deciding that if Mick didn't want to bunk in with him on the bed, Len was definitely not going to be sleeping down there. At least the bedding looked fresh. He just had to hope there weren't any bedbugs in the linens.
He sighed and stepped further inside, sitting down on the edge of the bed and starting his usual post-job check of his cold gun.
"You're finicky," Mick shot back, amused as ever by how particular Len was. The job had gone fine, even with that last little hiccup, and Mick was never one to let a little thing like sprinting from the cops get in the way of enjoying success.
He'd always rolled with the unexpected better anyway, and he rolled with this new development just as easily, flopping full-length on the tiny bed and chuckling at the protesting grinding wheeze of the mattress. He'd do a post-job check soon, but for now it felt good to relax. He hadn't really considered the logistics of one smallish bed and two tallish men yet, but once that occurred to him—or was pointed out—he'd roll with that too.
Len side-eyed him as he took over the bed in two seconds, blowing out a breath through his nose. He pulled his goggles down and set down his gun. He needed to charge it, but he didn't have the equipment with him. That would have to wait until tomorrow.
"I'm not finicky, I just don't want to get crabs from a dirty carpet," he said with a wry smile. He shrugged out of his parka and hung it up. "You planning on sharing that bed with me, or do I have to arm wrestle you for it?" He would lose arm-wrestling Mick straight, but he wasn't above cheating.
"Arm wrestling. Sounds fun," Mick rumbled, not moving to shrug out of his jacket, or kick off his boots, not even moving an inch. ...for a few seconds. Then he rolled back to his feet, with the accompanying groan, and let his jacket lay where it landed on the questionable carpet, and sat again to unlace his boots.
"But I wouldn't wanna hurt'cha," he added with a little grin, and flopped back again, this time with a little more space on the other side. A little more. Not half.
Len bent to unlace his own boots and kicked them off. "Thanks," he said sarcastically. "Lucky me, I won't sprain an elbow."
He eyed the space, then laid down next to him, still dressed as well. He used elbows liberally to get comfortable, shifting until there was pretty much half of the bed allotted to him.
He deserved it for not just giving up half the bed to begin with, but Mick still let out a complaining outright growl as Len systematically jabbed him backward and laid claim to his portion.
"Could've asked, instead of bullying to get what you want," he said without much heat behind it, because it was far from the first time and wouldn't be the last time. But what was having a partner for if you couldn't lay into him a little?
Like all good friends, Mick and Len gave each other grief out of affection. Len rolled onto his side and rested his head on his arm. "You were asking for it. Forgive me?" he purred.
"Not sure yet," Mick shot back immediately, spreading one hand out over his ribs as if feeling for the damage Len had definitely not managed to do. "You might have ground to make up."
"Oh yeah?" Len rolled his eyes, suppressing a smile. "And what do you want me to do to make it up to you? Assuming I'm willing... which I'm not saying I am."
"Thought you were supposed to be the planner," Mick said with a shrug that effectively proved he wasn't hurt at all. He stayed on his back, still on the bed but tucked up close to the edge.
There was a solution to this space issue, but he wasn't going to point it out first. He never pointed it out first. He knew a lot about his partner and it was better, he thought, to let Len take the lead. "So plan."
Len was aware of Mick's strange recalcitrance. Then again, while Len trusted his oldest friend to call the shots in the bedroom, he tended to react better to it if he made the first move. It made him feel more in control of the situation, even if Mick was on top.
He watched Mick for a few moments, then got up from the bed again. He moved to the air conditioning unit and turned the dial. It began to rumble softly.
Then he began to undress, folding his clothes and setting them aside. He watched Mick as he did it, to gauge his reaction. At the very least, it'd be more comfortable to sleep this way.
Mick let out a neutral grunt and shifted to sit up without any real protest, yanking his shirt up over his head and letting it fall, followed in short order by everything else and Mick dropping heavily back onto the bed, on his back, un-self-conscious and relaxed. He could relax like this. This was familiar.
The sheets were still hot, he hadn't been gone from them long enough for them to cool off, but he was taking up more than his share of room again, on purpose this time. He'd object to the heat being turned down, if he wasn't going to get a blanket.
Len finished stripping down to his underwear. Only in here was he unselfconscious about his scars. He was more than familiar with Mick's as well.
He crossed the room and climbed onto the bed, sliding on top of Mick and flopping down. His knees fell to the mattress on either side of Mick's thighs and he squirmed downwards, pillowing his head on the broad chest. "That better?" he murmured.
"Good enough," and the answer was almost more felt than heard as Mick laced his fingers loosely across Len's back. He didn't pay special attention to Len's scars, but he never avoided them either. He'd been there for a few of them, knew enough about the rest to know they were just a part of the whole.
The sprint from the cops hadn't taken much out of him, but it had been a long day. As Len's warmth spread into him, the temptation to drift off to sleep followed close behind, but he held it off a little longer. "See, plenty of room."
Len was cool and comfortable, warmed enough by Mick's body that he didn't need a blanket. He smiled and played fingertips down Mick's bicep, appreciating the chance to touch without barriers between them.
"Yeah, turns out neither of us have to sleep on the floor."
"I wasn't planning on sleeping on the floor." He kept still, nothing moving but a slow dragging of his thumbs across a few inches of Len's back. His partner's fingers had always been long and graceful, and Mick could appreciate how they went from deadly purpose to idle elegance like this.
"Would've liked to see you try and make me, though. Could've used the laugh."
"You were already complaining about my elbows, you big baby. Want another round?" Len teased, mock-threateningly. He pressed a brief kiss to the underside of Mick's jaw and settled down, content.
They called it closure. It hadn't felt much like closure to tell Len what he meant to Mick now, knowing Len wouldn't have any idea what to think about it or what had come over his blunt, uncomplicated partner. No, it hadn't felt like closure at all. But it had been on his list, he had to keep the lists now that Len couldn't do it anymore, and it had been on his list, and now next up was Central City, May 2016. The Saints & Sinners Bar.
Lisa always knew somehow when Len or Mick came in. Even in the middle of holding court, conning some drunk asshole out of all the cash in his wallet and a couple credit cards for good measure, she'd know. She knows now, glancing up from across the room. They've been gone...five months? Is that all? Mick can't remember the last time he'd measured time in such a small increment.
Normally he'd take a seat in the back, leaving her to finish up her business before joining him if she wanted to, but he can't pretend the routine is unchanged now. He walks straight for her, and it isn't the same fuckoff swagger he'd had before, the one that invited fights from egos inflated with booze. It's quiet, he moves through the room like he isn't really there, and he isn't sure he can keep the truth off his face for her.
"Get outta here," he says absently to Lisa's current mark, and when the man whirls on him, he pins him with a stare that has centuries behind it, and looks away. "Lise."
Not for herself, not really, but of all the wrongness, from his walk, to his face, to his eyes. It's Mick, but not Mick. More than Mick. He's more than he was, and it's remarkable and frightening. It's only been a matter of months since she's seen him, and that wasn't unreasonable, for them. He was always Len's, only hers by proxy, and they never really spent much time together out of that context.
But here he is. Without Lenny. With years in his eyes she knows he hasn't lived, and a weight on his shoulders she's never seen him carry. Without Lenny.
Her eyes widen and she shakes her head, too many times, not daring to look away from his eyes. She doesn't speak, doesn't trust herself to find words above sounds. Her fingernails claw into the wooden bar top until she hisses in a breath. Swallows hard.
"Yeah." It's a quiet, huffed-out confirmation. Yeah, it's Mick. She wouldn't know yet why he needs to say it out loud, to make it real in this time and this place that he is Mick, but maybe he'll tell her someday. Not now, though. Now he has something else to tell her, something she already knows. Is it crueler to force it out, where it can't be ignored, or to keep silent so she doesn't need to hear...
"Len's dead."
It's just for her ears, and once he's gotten that much out, the rest gets stuck. He can't talk here, they can't talk here, not in here. This is their place. Len's regular table is even empty, like he might stride in at any moment and slide into the booth and give Mick that little stare that means Time's a-wasting, partner.
"C'mon," he says instead of explaining. "Can't drink here." Too many memories, too many ghosts.
They'd never been the type to hang off each other, but Mick slings an arm around her shoulders now, wild eyes staring a path between them and the door. He needs to get her out. He knows a place.
They say a part of the grieving process is seeing the faces of loved ones in daily life. Someone just out of reach, walking down the other side of the street, getting onto a bus, driving away in a car. Mick doesn't see Len in anyone else's faces. He hears him in the sardonic dip and twist of a voice that isn't Len's. The sharp whistle of wind that brings winter coats wrapping tightly against it. It cuts through whatever layers Mick is wearing and drags down his back and he feels him there.
He can almost hear Len's little tsk of irritation when he burns down the idiot he'd thought could replace his partner. Inefficient, he knows, but Mick had never been the planner. Oh, he can plan the easy stuff now, bank jobs, jewelry stores, he's picked up enough from Len over the years, but that's just minute by minute. He totes the coldgun with him to every hideout, cleaning and maintaining it along with his own, never firing it. It's not his to use.
He's lived for centuries and now he's standing still. He's waiting.
( len survives, and he returns. it takes him a long time — or is it no time at all? — to get the hang of having blown himself to bits together with the oculus and coming back a combination of both.
he goes back to central city, and he hears on the news of a bank robbery, about a burnt corpse, and he visits three of their hideouts before he finds mick, even though his newfound understanding of the timeline tells him that he won't find him in the place he turns to first before he's even reached it. he still goes to find out for himself, because he doesn't trust this yet, because it stinks of predeterminism again and len died to stop that.
except he didn't. he died so that mick wouldn't. mick, who would have died because ray had told him that someone had to, mick who has been tortured, who almost turned against them because of the choices len has made.
his partner. )
I hope you're taking good care of that. ( len drawls when he finds mick leaning the coldgun, because he doesn't know what else to say. )
[He's heard echoes of the voice before, but never so clearly. Never so sharp, with that drawl that manages to be both slow and lazy and crisp and impatient at the same time. It's a sign that he's rattled when he doesn't whirl with his heatgun already pulled and aimed, but turns slowly, still seated, the coldgun powered down and held in both hands.]
...I do. But I don't use it. It's yours.
[It's all he can think of. Is he finally crazy for good? It's possible. But who would have thought the thing that would finally send him around the bend, after everything, would be losing Len?
After a few extra moments of staring, he does all he can think of, he holds the gun out.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
no subject
He hangs back to see if Sara can punch her way through the hull.
But he isn't exactly easy to miss, leaning in the doorway and taking up pretty much all of it, so either Sara has also figured out that punching her way through the hull isn't the best idea or she's noticed him and given up. He holds up a bottle, dark green glass, dusty label. Probably horrifyingly rare and expensive and it definitely doesn't deserve to suffer the way it's about to.]
Rematch.
no subject
she isn't — though from the redness around her eyes when she takes a moment to acknowledge mick with a look that's neither embarrassed nor apologetic for what she's done, it's fairly obvious that she has been at some point, and he'd better be prepared for his face to find out what the hull feels like right about now if he chooses to bring it up. almost defeated, her hand drops back to her side, fist uncurling to reveal the beginnings of a few bruises blossoming along her knuckles.
her gaze sweeps towards the bottle then back up to mick and sara goes as far as attempting a smirk, the tiniest twitch of her lips. )
Ever heard of knocking, Mick?
no subject
[The bottle gets gestured up and around at the doorway, bereft of any doors that close it off from the hall. Besides, if she didn't want company, she'd be somewhere he couldn't find her. It's not that big a ship, but she's not that big a woman. She'd manage.
She can keep her red eyes to herself. It's not a stretch to guess what that's about. Same reason he sounds more gravelly than normal. Then again, that could be because he'd already tried Rip's booze, just enough to decide which bottle to swipe. So maybe each bottle is an inch lower than it was an hour ago. It had taken a while to decide.]
Coming or do I get all of this to myself? [He wiggles the bottle again.] Good stuff. Plenty more where this came from.
no subject
( she meets him in the doorway, abandoning the scene behind her, and wraps her hand around the neck of the bottle to tug it out of mick's hand so she can examine it, brow furrowing just slightly as she does. ) Good to know Rip's been holding out on us this whole time. Dick.
no subject
no subject
( sara doesn't comment on rip further, as she's already pissed off at their beloved captain enough and doesn't want to let that particular wound fester more than it has to. she tags along with mick until they reach what can be considered the waverider's makeshift living room (in that it has actual cushioned couches, and a table, even — god forbid the team get anything as cozy as the captain's quarters) and sinks down onto a couch, already looking weary as though they've been through a tumultuous journey to get there.
glancing up at mick with a raised eyebrow, she comments, ) Don't expect me to go easy on you just because you passed out last time, Rory.
no subject
He takes another pull from the bottle and passes it over. This stuff is a damn sight better than whatever swill they were distilling from dead raccoons, or whatever the hell that stuff had been. Mmm.]
And you didn't even try to wake me up for a bar brawl in the Old West. That hurts.
no subject
... maybe she's just gonna, you know, steal another drink before forfeiting the bottle back to mick, pulling her knees up to her chest. ) Figured you might've needed the nap. I doubt the Time Masters were down to let Chronos take a little afternoon siesta.
no subject
[He looks pointedly down at the injured hand when he holds the bottle out again.] Fixing that up, or gonna live with it for a while? [No judgment if it's the latter. Sometimes it's what you do. Mick isn't sure he won't end up punching a dent into a bulkhead before he's done.]
no subject
her eyes sweep idly over the harsh, reddened skin at her knuckles, and she gives a halfhearted shrug as she takes the bottle again. ) Probably just let it go. Kind of feels like a cop out to use Gideon for something so stupid. ( she takes her drink, lips curling into a smile around the bottle's lip as she thinks of her next witty retort. ) Besides, I've felt worse. Try getting shot by three arrows and falling from the edge of a building to your death. ( sara flexes her bruised fingers, not even bothering to wince with pain as she hands the bottle off. ) It's not so bad.
no subject
Never been that demonstrative either, but the way she's curling in on himself makes him toss a casual arm over her back as he takes another long drink.]
Got shot by arrows once. Haven't died yet. Not sure I'd trade.
Floor is Lava because I said so
But this motel was the only one in the area, and they needed to lay low for a night to wait for the heat to die down. The clerk had insisted there was only one room left, and it was 'kinda small', but Len had taken it anyway, and plunked down cash. The guy hadn't even bothered asking them to sign the register.
"Kinda small's an understatement," Len said to Mick, wrinkling his nose. The place was tiny. There was only one bed, and it was a double, sitting in the middle of the room. There was a distinct scent of mildew, and Len peered at the floor skeptically, deciding that if Mick didn't want to bunk in with him on the bed, Len was definitely not going to be sleeping down there. At least the bedding looked fresh. He just had to hope there weren't any bedbugs in the linens.
He sighed and stepped further inside, sitting down on the edge of the bed and starting his usual post-job check of his cold gun.
Well if you say so :3
He'd always rolled with the unexpected better anyway, and he rolled with this new development just as easily, flopping full-length on the tiny bed and chuckling at the protesting grinding wheeze of the mattress. He'd do a post-job check soon, but for now it felt good to relax. He hadn't really considered the logistics of one smallish bed and two tallish men yet, but once that occurred to him—or was pointed out—he'd roll with that too.
no subject
"I'm not finicky, I just don't want to get crabs from a dirty carpet," he said with a wry smile. He shrugged out of his parka and hung it up. "You planning on sharing that bed with me, or do I have to arm wrestle you for it?" He would lose arm-wrestling Mick straight, but he wasn't above cheating.
no subject
"But I wouldn't wanna hurt'cha," he added with a little grin, and flopped back again, this time with a little more space on the other side. A little more. Not half.
no subject
He eyed the space, then laid down next to him, still dressed as well. He used elbows liberally to get comfortable, shifting until there was pretty much half of the bed allotted to him.
no subject
"Could've asked, instead of bullying to get what you want," he said without much heat behind it, because it was far from the first time and wouldn't be the last time. But what was having a partner for if you couldn't lay into him a little?
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
There was a solution to this space issue, but he wasn't going to point it out first. He never pointed it out first. He knew a lot about his partner and it was better, he thought, to let Len take the lead. "So plan."
no subject
He watched Mick for a few moments, then got up from the bed again. He moved to the air conditioning unit and turned the dial. It began to rumble softly.
Then he began to undress, folding his clothes and setting them aside. He watched Mick as he did it, to gauge his reaction. At the very least, it'd be more comfortable to sleep this way.
no subject
The sheets were still hot, he hadn't been gone from them long enough for them to cool off, but he was taking up more than his share of room again, on purpose this time. He'd object to the heat being turned down, if he wasn't going to get a blanket.
no subject
He crossed the room and climbed onto the bed, sliding on top of Mick and flopping down. His knees fell to the mattress on either side of Mick's thighs and he squirmed downwards, pillowing his head on the broad chest. "That better?" he murmured.
no subject
The sprint from the cops hadn't taken much out of him, but it had been a long day. As Len's warmth spread into him, the temptation to drift off to sleep followed close behind, but he held it off a little longer. "See, plenty of room."
no subject
"Yeah, turns out neither of us have to sleep on the floor."
no subject
"Would've liked to see you try and make me, though. Could've used the laugh."
no subject
no subject
no subject
Lisa always knew somehow when Len or Mick came in. Even in the middle of holding court, conning some drunk asshole out of all the cash in his wallet and a couple credit cards for good measure, she'd know. She knows now, glancing up from across the room. They've been gone...five months? Is that all? Mick can't remember the last time he'd measured time in such a small increment.
Normally he'd take a seat in the back, leaving her to finish up her business before joining him if she wanted to, but he can't pretend the routine is unchanged now. He walks straight for her, and it isn't the same fuckoff swagger he'd had before, the one that invited fights from egos inflated with booze. It's quiet, he moves through the room like he isn't really there, and he isn't sure he can keep the truth off his face for her.
"Get outta here," he says absently to Lisa's current mark, and when the man whirls on him, he pins him with a stare that has centuries behind it, and looks away. "Lise."
no subject
Not for herself, not really, but of all the wrongness, from his walk, to his face, to his eyes. It's Mick, but not Mick. More than Mick. He's more than he was, and it's remarkable and frightening. It's only been a matter of months since she's seen him, and that wasn't unreasonable, for them. He was always Len's, only hers by proxy, and they never really spent much time together out of that context.
But here he is. Without Lenny. With years in his eyes she knows he hasn't lived, and a weight on his shoulders she's never seen him carry. Without Lenny.
Her eyes widen and she shakes her head, too many times, not daring to look away from his eyes. She doesn't speak, doesn't trust herself to find words above sounds. Her fingernails claw into the wooden bar top until she hisses in a breath. Swallows hard.
"Mick."
no subject
"Len's dead."
It's just for her ears, and once he's gotten that much out, the rest gets stuck. He can't talk here, they can't talk here, not in here. This is their place. Len's regular table is even empty, like he might stride in at any moment and slide into the booth and give Mick that little stare that means Time's a-wasting, partner.
"C'mon," he says instead of explaining. "Can't drink here." Too many memories, too many ghosts.
They'd never been the type to hang off each other, but Mick slings an arm around her shoulders now, wild eyes staring a path between them and the door. He needs to get her out. He knows a place.
no subject
oculus!Len FTW?
They say a part of the grieving process is seeing the faces of loved ones in daily life. Someone just out of reach, walking down the other side of the street, getting onto a bus, driving away in a car. Mick doesn't see Len in anyone else's faces. He hears him in the sardonic dip and twist of a voice that isn't Len's. The sharp whistle of wind that brings winter coats wrapping tightly against it. It cuts through whatever layers Mick is wearing and drags down his back and he feels him there.
He can almost hear Len's little tsk of irritation when he burns down the idiot he'd thought could replace his partner. Inefficient, he knows, but Mick had never been the planner. Oh, he can plan the easy stuff now, bank jobs, jewelry stores, he's picked up enough from Len over the years, but that's just minute by minute. He totes the coldgun with him to every hideout, cleaning and maintaining it along with his own, never firing it. It's not his to use.
He's lived for centuries and now he's standing still. He's waiting.
no subject
he goes back to central city, and he hears on the news of a bank robbery, about a burnt corpse, and he visits three of their hideouts before he finds mick, even though his newfound understanding of the timeline tells him that he won't find him in the place he turns to first before he's even reached it. he still goes to find out for himself, because he doesn't trust this yet, because it stinks of predeterminism again and len died to stop that.
except he didn't. he died so that mick wouldn't. mick, who would have died because ray had told him that someone had to, mick who has been tortured, who almost turned against them because of the choices len has made.
his partner. )
I hope you're taking good care of that. ( len drawls when he finds mick leaning the coldgun, because he doesn't know what else to say. )
no subject
...I do. But I don't use it. It's yours.
[It's all he can think of. Is he finally crazy for good? It's possible. But who would have thought the thing that would finally send him around the bend, after everything, would be losing Len?
After a few extra moments of staring, he does all he can think of, he holds the gun out.]