------- más alla!

that smile made her pull her hand away as though it’d been burned. smirks and half-grins and mocking smiles were fine… but that soft, happy look? well, nope. she’d have to go to the bathroom and scrub her hands with the soap surgeons use before cutting into patients just to wash that look off her skin. the last thing she wanted was for Mickey to see her as weak or vulnerable or for him to think that he could influence her in anyway. really, what she’d have to do is stay as far away from him as possible in the next job. somewhere he couldn’t bump into her with an alcoholic beverage and expecting a kiss. five years her junior and fifty times as cocky. what a catastrophic combination.

she looks back at him unflinchingly, forcing herself to feel nothing but mild amusement and slight superiority over the man in the hospital bed. she banished the thoughts of him caring for her during her concussion, feeding her good food and making sure she crawled into bed alright afterwards. instead, she looked back at him, one unimpressed brow raised, and she tried to slip her hand away from his before the heat of his palm could sear her.

too late. he was already tugging her down, and she could all but feel his chapped lips brushing the shell of her ear. she’d never considered that area particularly sensitive, but now she wasn’t sure that there wasn’t a dozen nerve endings all alight just from his breath curving against the skin. then he said that.

shoving him lightly, so she could finally break away, she rolled her eyes at him even harder, getting up off the bed. “that line is worse, frat boy. could you be any more childish?” she settled back in the chair and put her feet up by the foot of the bed. then she stretched her arms upwards and felt her lower back pop. “while nudes are fine in principle, i don’t send them. and definitely not to you.” maybe someone who’d actually consider me worth sleeping with.

when Athena pulls back as though she’s been burned, the linguist’s dark eyes track her carefully--------  curiously. though he’s exhausted, and perhaps mildly traumatized, and certainly in a mental ( if not physical ) state of shock . . . even her reaction doesn’t go unnoticed. the slightest bit of softness had her rearing away like a gun-shy horse :: and, hell, who was he to let such a thing go without confronting it?

“ fine, no nudes. “  his voice ---- that deep tenor as always, seeming even lower in the sterile hospital lighting and the sharper contrast in the shadows they threw ---- seemed almost too loud between them . . . but he knew his words weren’t. he knew. no more impish smirks, no more attempts at stolen kisses or thieved caresses or mischievous gestures.

not the linguist. not the fratboy. just . . . Michael.

“ --------  but you did go after me, didn’t you?  you, and Scout. and you. “  his tone is even, unwavering :: dark eyes boring into her own.  “ . . . typical, for a Monroe. sentimental. trying to change the world by doing right. “

a pause. the world balances on its axis.

“ . . . Тысяча благодарностей, Owl Goddess. not everyone came after me, even though all of us ended up with the bennies. “  and wasn’t that the truth. Mickey was still second-guessing his decision to give up the Hen to the Bobrovskova and Monroe crews ---- they were probably frittering away their ( not-at-all ) hard-earned gains on idiotic things. fashion shows, or charities, or . . . other such nonsense. next time, given all the concern those so-called Masterminds had shown for him . . . he’d repay them, with interest.

( get yourself together, girl. )

“Oh– fuck off, will ya?,” she said with no malice at all, a blush rising on her cheeks as the heat crawled up her spine at the memory– it wasn’t like she had dealt with this thing whatsoever, merely done what she always did; shove it down as far as it would go and distract herself until she was too cowardly to bring it back up. There was… something there, but thinking there was something there and actually pursuing it were two different things and well… Maisie was never one to go after what she truly wanted, not if it resembled a leap of faith.

She had fallen before and nobody had caught her. She didn’t think she’d survive something like that again.

“It was to distract that Irish prick,” she muttered, disappointment in her brown eyes before she turned around– Seb walked in and looked marginally better than he had when they had last seen each other; not well-rested per se, but better, so that made Maisie sigh in relief and regard him with a warm smile. “You know, that is absolutely true. One of these days, you’ll regret enabling us this way, Sebs,” she teased, knocking her shoulder against his biceps as she passed by him, curious eyes fixated on the tray in front of her– some drinks she could identify, others she didn’t trust whatsoever.

But, well, so what if she got shit-faced drunk? These were her friends, her people. They had held her hand when she had laid in that hallway, broken and bleeding and having taken a bullet for one of them– Maisie was a fool sometimes, but not about this, not anymore. It was them– Mads and Sebs and Mickey, these were her people. So, if she couldn’t get wasted with them around, who else? She trusted them.

“You’re so fucking dramatic,” Mase complained, but she was grinning either way, eagerly taking her seat next to Sebastian before eyeing the tray with amusement and no tiny bit of want. “Why do we hang out with this loser?,” she questioned into Seb’s direction, nudging her knee against his to get his attention as the tray spun– and hopefully settled on a drink she’d enjoy.

“Perhaps, one day. But that isn’t today.” Sebastian replied, eyes following Maisie as she moved passed him. He still hadn’t thought much on what had happened during the job, the kiss as a distraction and his own indulgence right before he checked on the Rolls. Tearing his eyes from Maise’s form, he turned to Mickey and his tray of mysterious drinks.

Sebastian stared at the tray of drinks, not surprised to find he didn’t recognize a single one. He had never been one for too much drinking and still wasn’t. But spending time with Maisie and Mickey was well worth it, even if he drank a considerable amount less than them.   “He is,” Sebastian agreed as he shot Mickey a glance at Maisie’s question and smiled, giving a soft nudge back to Maisie. “ There are plenty of reasons, but one of them is definitely the drinks.” Sebastian told her. There were indeed hundreds of reasons and the drinks didn’t reach the top hundred.

“It seems that’s all I have been doing lately with drinks presented to me is play roulette,” Sebastian said, giving Maisie a deadpan stare. He hadn’t minded the mystery coffee but it was strange to be doing the same with alcohol in a matter of weeks (no matter how different the atmosphere and circumstances.) Knowing he would get nothing but a sly grin from Mickey if he looked, Sebastian grabbing the drink in front of him once the spinning tray came to a stop.

“Congratulations Mickey, on your freedom from the hospital. Please don’t piss off Gañero enough to where she runs you over and puts you back in there. Or Katya just murders you. Cheers. ” Sebastian said, joking tone obvious to the two people who really knew him best as he lifted the drink to the other two. 

( the dice gods say ... Maisie gets drink #3, a Cat 5 Hurricane, known to be the ruin of many a tourist in New Orleans. Seb gets a Vesper, the martini made famous by the most recent iteration of James Bond movies. and Mickey gets a Dark & Stormy, good for the fire in his veins. )

grinning widely as the lazy susan slowly ... slo-o-o-wly came to a stop before the three eager participants in front of it ... Mickey noted with satisfaction that Maisie had gotten herself an appropriately colorful and fruity drink. Seb’s was less so ---- far more posh and classy ---- but Mickey inclined his head towards the hitter with a grin.  “ goes well with your dark and mysterious persona, Bas! if ya don’t like it, give the lazy susan another spin. as for me, I’m takin’ my drink. “

and take it he did :: though he was a frat boy through and through, a constant mix of tequila and vodka churning through his veins at any given moment during his collegiate days, Mickey did enjoy himself some Caribbean drinks. the Dark n Stormy was plucked up from the lazy susan, and about half of it was downed in two solid gulps :: clearly Mickey was more than intent on celebrating his freedom from the hospital--------  and from that wretched con--------  on this night.

“ I’d toast to those fine women--------  an’ Kitty Hirata, too, an’ Scout---------  she’s kinda cute in her own way ... right?  guys?  yeah? “  glancing quickly around the table, Mickey decided it was best to continue on, and quickly.  “ but, y’know what?  I’m gonna toast to a different set of people tonight.

here’s to the people that had my back. to Madi, who needs an industrial-strength decontamination after being trapped in a car with fuckin’ Santos. to you, Bas, for finding me--------  estoy perdido---------  in a goddamn labyrinth of skeletons, what the fuck, Paris, get yourself an actual city planner. to Mais, for makin’ the tires on that sweet ride squeal to get to me fast enough and not leaving me by myself to wander in the dark and end up like that one claymation dude in Corpse Bride. hey... here’s to all of you... don’t think I’d be quite right in the ol’ noggin if it wasn’t for you guys. “

and when Mickey killed the rest of his drink after that toast, the look in his eye during the long pause afterwards was anything but joking.

setting the empty glass down on the table, Mickey gave the lazy susan yet another spin ---- indicating the night was far from done ---- before he crossed his arms and leaned in on his elbows in order to get closer to both Seb and Mais. it was clear he didn’t want to be overheard :: didn’t seem like much of an issue, especially in a loud, crowded bar ---- but they were con artists, and they didn’t get to where they were by being careless.

( . . . and the beast‌: )

Maisie was in a foul mood (which, yes okay, was not out of the ordinary), but with the last weeks still very much present in her mind, it was difficult to get out of that slump. The texts that followed their failure was weighing more heavily on her shoulders than the actual ruined job (which, whatever, not that Maisie cared about the egg much in the first place and Mickey got the Hen anyway so… don’t get your panties in a twist)– she didn’t like uncertainty, it made her fingers itch and her flight instincts kick in.

Hence the massive relief upon reading the invitation Mickey sent out– Maisie and Mads had left Paris behind them rather quickly after all of this. Also– nothing got rid of the bitter taste of failure quite like a drink or five.

Hence, despite her mood, she walked into the bar with a bit of a spring in her step, raising her hands the moment she laid eyes on Mickey, her own eyes dancing with mischief. “Honey I’m home~,” she sing-songed, flinging an arm around Mickey’s shoulders and squeezing briefly. “This is the part where you get me really drunk, Mickey Mouse. I have no intention of paying you for your bartender services and every intention of needing someone to hold my hand so I can walk home without accidentally walking into traffic. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

Sebastian couldn’t say that he was doing okay. He was completely off balance due to the last few jobs. It wasn’t pleasant and he hadn’t been so completely lost since New York before James Vincent found him in that alleyway. Enough that he was seriously considering heading to some sort of fight club despite his continuous bad endings with them. Sebastian needed his equilibrium back so he could focus on the next threat: the text messages from Leverage.

But before Sebastian could give in to the temptations, Mickey texted Vincent crew. A wild call beckoning them to Slainte Irish Pub. It wasn’t just a distraction but perhaps a way to center himself from giving in. Choice made, Sebastian slowly made his way to the pub. It didn’t take long with how close it as to the Vincent apartments.

Catching sight of the tail end of a very familiar brunette, Sebastian hurried his pace. Now that he was almost there, his thoughts turned brighter. Sebastian was excited to see them, even Russo if she deemed it worthy. He entered and headed over to Mickey and Maisie, catching the end of their conversation. “Or I can do that as I assumed Mickey was going to get thoroughly drunk to celebrate his freedom from injury,” Sebastian interjected with an amiable smirk, taking a seat on a nearby stool.

“ hey, hey, hey, “ came Mickey’s protests, as he caught Maisie’s suggestion ---- even if his face did light up with a wide grin at the touch of Maisie’s arm around his shoulders. this . . . this was right. this was home ---- here, with his best friends and his crew and his people. not with psychopaths trying to outwit or kill them during the cons they ran, or with rival crew members they were forced to work with. here :: alcohol and friends and good times.  “ no way we’re blowing anything. unless----  heh, unless that text from Owl Goddess talkin’ ‘bout you and ‘Bas locking lips was anything to go off, then I’d hope at least the elder Hathaway is doin’ some blowing of her own------------ “

before Mickey could get any more descriptive ---- or any more lewd ---- in came the very man he’d been referencing, and the linguist was scooping up the tray with the five various drinks on it. they were of varied colors; some more alcoholic than most ---- and, with Mickey’s reputation, all were potent to the point they could probably raise a half-dozen drug-addled deceased rockstars from their graves.

“ vale, vale!  come one, come all ---- I’m not telling you what these drinks are, but it’s russian roulette ---- whatever you spin on, you get. “

Mickey set the tray on a lazy susan down between the three ---- leaving chairs open for Madi and Via, should they decide to show ---- and shot a hyena-like grin at his two friends.  “ c’mon, we’ve gotta lube the blood with libations before we start talkin’ shit. to my freedom!  an’ to Katya Dolohova’s arse, an’ Athena Gañero’s tits ---- wherever those ladies are keeping said assets tonight! “

-------- and with a deft flick of Mickey’s wrist the tray spun rapidly; which drinks would stop on which individuals only time and fate would tell . . .

Athena’s thumb rose of its own accord, swiping just under the swell of his right cheekbone. he’d pointed out the damage done, and she’d seen it when it first came in — but to know the cause, the source, the whys and wherefores of the mark — an unspeakable anger welled up in her. she wanted to hunt down the man and make him suffer, she wanted to hurt him as he had made Mickey afraid. twenty times more than he had made Mickey hurt. she didn’t know he was dead, but it would fill her with great satisfaction when she found out.

when he started singing, her autonomic response and sheer instinct had her rolling her eyes, scoffing at him. but his hand was up, and she wouldn’t lay down beside him, so what harm did it do when she slipped her palm against his and sat at the edge of the bed. her eyes were unreadable as she looked down at him. what lay in there? irritation? anger? tenderness? relief? what was she feeling? could she even articulate it to herself?

“lame line, Fitz. when you get out of here, you have to learn how to up your game.”

well, the course of true love never did run smooth, wasn’t that right? . . . or whatever it was that Shakespeare had said; Mickey had only paid 49% attention on the best of days during his high school AP Lit classes ---- mostly to steal lines to pick up girls with, but attention was attention after all. Mickey can’t help as his mouth curves into a slight smile ---- not a grin, not a smirk, but an actual smile ---- as Athena’s thumb moves just beneath the cut on his right cheek.

one could almost accuse her of caring.

but then they’re back to their usual selves ---- back to that same old, same old between them, when he sings to her and her eyes roll in response. as if he would’ve expected any differently from the antagonistic driver :: his fingers tighten just the tiniest bit against hers as Athena seats herself on the edge of his bed. though callused, perhaps due to leather-bound wheels or soft kid-skin drivers’ gloves, her palm still feels small against his own ---- and he matches his own gaze with her, bold as ever ---- bold as always.

( he wasn’t going to bemoan his fate, or be a shirking violet now. especially not now, trapped in this hospital bed until the doctor saw fit to release him after determining he wasn’t going to perish of a concussion. if he was, it would change their dynamic . . . and what would she possibly do then? )

he looked strong. the thought itself needed justification in her own mind, since his physical form looked more quiet and vulnerable than she’d ever seen him… but he was there. he was whole, and he was still moving, trying to acknowledge her presence there, responding to the stimuli of her form there talking to him.

the sigh that leaves her mouth tinges on exasperated, but she fights to keep it from sounding too relieved. he’s there… “do you remember what you said to me? when you were grinding on me like a goddamn menace at that bachelor party? you… you made me promise to be here. and here you are, slacking on your end. it was a reciprocal promise, you ass.”

halfway through the speech, one she thought she could keep light and partly joking… her voice cracked, her throat tightened, and her body finally betrayed her. her voice was soft, so she could deny it if Mickey chose to crow about it later (not because she couldn’t even manage a louder volume). “i’m sorry. about your… your dumb present. scout was just trying to find you. i was… i was driving stupidly and as fast as i could. i wasn’t paying attention… she… she set off your alarm. but… but why couldn’t you… why couldn’t you just turn it on? you, you get hit in the head before or something? i made it for this reason exactly. why didn’t you… Scout couldn’t find you. she was really freaking out about it. i think you scared her.”

she cleared her throat, her voice gruff and tense. she didn’t want it to sound angry. he was in a hospital bed for fuck’s sake, and it wasn’t like he’d asked to be taken, but she was thrumming with cognitive dissonance and fighting the urge to lash out at him.

finally, she hazards a glance at his eyes, not really sure what her own were saying. Athena hasn’t felt this out of control in so long. another thing she fucking hated. she had to get out of here soon, before she started saying too much.

though she’s talking, the words come to him in waves ---- belated comprehension, as his mind struggles to understand. promise to be here. reciprocal. it all sounds . . . well and good, once he understands what she’s saying. which---------  he’s not entirely sure he does, at least not at this point. maybe later. a minute----  five minutes later. ten. everything’s still--------  muddled.

least of all whatever this thing is between them.

athena continues speaking, talking about . . . hey, she was apologizing. apologizing. he vaguely remembers now, the memories coming to him like ripples over the surface of a drum :: the abrupt, immediate screeching coming from the bracelet around his wrist. Aedan slamming on the brakes, the Rolls-Royce skidding to a stop in front of Les Invalides. the so-called dying mercenary gripping his collar so tightly from the backseat that his tongue had rolled out of his mouth, his air supply cut off ---- Aedan tearing the shrieking little thing from his arm, leaving a raw, red stain across his wrist :: in an uncanny burst of strength, the Irishman breaking it and tossing it from the window. but they were caught now, stuck, and so they’d tumbled ungracefully from the car and down into the Metro, down,

                                                                            down,

                                                                                               down . . .

“ couldn’t turn it on. “  the presence of his voice surprises even himself, soft but even in that distance that separates them.  “ hands . . . on the dash. had to. merc behind me, knife to my face . . . still got me even tho’ I listened. “  that was clear enough, the ugly gash on his right cheek an indication of the truth ---- even though it was mainly because the merc had been shot, thanks to Isabela.

when Athena’s gaze meets his own ---- glassy, unfocused, exhausted ---- he meets and holds it, probably thanks to the . . . morphine, or whatever hung in that IV above him. there’s a moment’s pause, and his left hand rolls on the sheets ---- palm-up ---- and he extends it a few inches towards her, the faint trace of his old devilish smile dancing around the corners of his mouth, murmuring softly :: but still melodic . . . he could sing to her, couldn’t he?  reassure her?  after all, she hadn’t made an appearance at his birthday party, so many months ago. . .

she wasn’t sure if she was welcome. she wasn’t sure if he’d even want to see her. but Sebastian told her where they were, and Nathalie sure wasn’t going to be welcoming her into the fold with open arms any time soon, and… and they’d lost the egg as far as she could tell – which they might not have if they had another driver and hacker on the case – but they did. and no matter how she sliced it, every step of the way, Athena felt as though she were the one to blame. she chose Mickey, but didn’t find him, didn’t get to him, practically made things worse with her dumb birthday/Christmas gift. she didn’t choose the egg and pissed off her mastermind and deprived them all of resources… she was falling apart. she had messed up. and now she was worried the only thing vaguely resembling a maternal figure she had left was going to turn her back on her.

bad day in all.

her feet carried her all the way to the floor he was staying on, but she stopped outside, in the waiting room. what was she doing here? there was no one else from her crew around… it would just be the Vincents. and what did she even have to say to him? she came all the way here, so she might as well peek to see how he’s doing generally, but… well there was no reason he had to know she’d come, right?

“excuse me?” she turned to a nurse who was passing. “i’m looking for a man who must’ve been recently admitted? Mickey Fitz?” please don’t be using an alias.

“Michael?” the nurse scanned her over – all sympathetic warmth and tender care – and likely deemed her trustworthy… and suitably worried from the look in her eyes. “you poor dear. must’ve had a bit of a scare there with him. it’s not the worst i‘ve seen around here though. not by a mile. c’mon… i’ll bring you to him.”

as she walked, she just kept repeating to herself, just a peek in, then make an excuse. see him breathing and walk away. but that was shattered when the nurse, well-meaning though she was, burst into the room with a cheery smile, all but leading her in, careful in case Mickey were sleeping. “now don’t be any trouble now! he’s meant to be resting, and you can’t crowd him. but why don’t you sit down right on over here,” she gestured to a chair, “and stay as long as you’d like, we believe friends and family help the healing process here, so our visiting hours are 24/7. let us know if you need a cot, yeah?” a cot?! as in i’m sleeping here? but before the shock could wear off and Athena could protest, the nurse was gone, and she was alone in the room with Mickey.

“gave the team a scare there, Fitz…” she mumbled, glancing at him with the cl(osest she could come to an unaffected facade.

he’d never imagined he'd be one of those people sitting there shell-shocked, mumbling that things were a blur . . . but that was precisely what had happened when he was in that hospital room with Seb----  and were there others there too?  Maisie, and Madi, and Via?  maybe even Kim, and James himself?  the faces were indistinct, the voices all melding into one another . . . hell, he’d never dealt with a concussion before :: only what he’d seen with Athena, back during the Wedding Job. ( wasn’t like IC swimming was a high-contact sport. ) he felt . . . slow. sluggish. like he was trying to sprint somewhere but was trapped in chest-high water ---- his mind knew what it wanted to convey, but it just . . . wouldn’t come out as quickly as he wanted. the thoughts wouldn’t form just right.

this must’ve felt like what it was to be Jack Santos, all day every day.

the guests come and go. he’s aware of Sebastian’s comforting presence. he’s aware of Maisie’s swearing, and Madi leaning over him with worry. ( perhaps it’s all a hallucination induced by the painkillers . . . but if it is, he won’t argue otherwise. ) he remembers telling them what exactly had happened--------  he remembers passing off the Hen--------

he remembers sleep. sweet, blessed sleep. resting, to ease his battered, aching brain. to shrug off the stress and worry from having a gun pointed at him :: twice. his mind goes down many rabbit-holes, trying to follow the voices of his kidnappers, their strengths, their weaknesses, their motives . . .

. . . but before long, he’s stirring in those sterile, eggshell-white sheets. there’s another presence here, one that’s . . . not one of the Vincent Crew’s, but is somewhat familiar all the same. he’s on his stomach ( much to the dismay of the nurses, he’s sure ) with his face nuzzled into the pillow; he’s only really half-conscious, but he tries to make out the voice all the same. it’s familiar. . . very familiar. it’s------------

------------  well, she’s unexpected.

he lets out a soft hum in response, clearly not fully aware :: but could one truly expect him to be at full capacity following what had happened?  he shifts in the bed, clearly responding to her voice ---- but there’s little else as far as reactions. just a slight turning of his torso towards her, the tilt of his chin in her direction, eyelids barely open.

( his subconscious mind wonders :: is it enough?  will she stay? )

MICKEY FITZ: aesthetic