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.
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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."
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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."
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"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.