This was churned out with no edits. Today is busy. Apologies.
And a warning: minor Three Hopes spoilers within.
-
Names were vexing.
It was never something that would have occurred to her in the life she now thought of as normal. Normal life was before - in Enbarr. Normal life was family she had always known, and familiar smells, and food she did not have to be told how to properly eat, and a pillow where her head fit just so as she snuggled into it each night. Everyone, everything, just as it had always been.
That was normal.
Nothing in Fhirdiad was normal, not even her uncle. Not even...
Not even Edelgard.
She did not like it. Her mind was like the pig's bladders she had once seen some boys playing with near the palace grounds - dirty boys, coarse and skinny as poles, but laughing and chasing after that curious toy. They blew it up, then released it, again and again as she watched, careful not to be seen - not because she feared the boys, but because she had climbed a tree to peer over the walls, and she had been told repeatedly not to do so. (Which meant, of course, simply to grow better at hiding...)
But yes - that was an apt description of what now seemed to be happening within her. Inside her skull, someone was blowing up and releasing a pig's bladder, sending it whistling and careening from corner to corner, and she could not simply shimmy back down the tree, or even close her eyes and cover her ears to escape it.
And now names. Even those were not normal, in Faerghus.
At home, they had called her El. With gentle humor, with annoyance, with derision. El, El, El. She had felt odd, when someone called her Edelgard - more odd even than when someone bowed to her and called her princess, as if she carried the importance of her father. (She was old enough to understand this now, but of course had not always been so; she had only of late turned twelve.) Edelgard was her name, she thought of herself as Edelgard, but it was not what anyone else said. Not if they knew her.
Just another reminder, here, that no one did: she was Edelgard. And something... something had finally burst within her. Smaller than the pig's bladder, but an irritation nonetheless, and finally some little claws within her had bested it. Or... so it had seemed.
"Edelgard, shall we -"
"El!"
She was not one to shout, but she did - out of nowhere. Out of nothing. She felt startled herself, as if her lips had formed the sound of their own volition. She balled her hands into fists, feeling the tension build in her shoulders.
Dimitri stepped back, but his eyes never left hers, despite their sudden uncertainty. "I... did I upset you?"
She bit her lip, shook her head - almost frantically. "No. No - I... I apologize. I'm just... it's..." It was what? What? She didn't know. She just...
"El." She said it softly, now. "It's... my sisters. Everyone. They... they call me El. My... my friends." Were sisters friends? She had no others, unless one counted Hubert, and he had always called her Lady. And unless one counted Dimitri. She wanted to count Dimitri.
She wanted him to call her El.
He cocked his head, then smiled. "Oh. Okay. Then... El. El." He spoke it as if rolling it around in his mouth - but gave a decisive nod, the taste of it pleasing. "El."
But it wasn't the end of it.
"A nickname," he said later. "I have never had one. I confess, I am rather jealous."
"Jealous? It's only because my little sister could not say Edelgard. She was very small."
He laughed. "Fair. Still - it seems... nice. Like a family should be."
He rarely spoke of his family, but she had found herself wondering more than once if it was not entirely a happy one. She had never asked - it did not seem her place.
"We are friends, are we not?" He asked it almost reluctantly; his eyes had left hers.
"We... of course. I... think we are." Similarly discombobulated, though there seemed no reason for it. She could feel faint heat in her cheeks. Was it so strange? Perhaps... She didn't know.
He scuffed the ground with the toe of his boot. "If... if it might please you - and isn't too much trouble! - perhaps... perhaps you might give me a nickname? As well? I... I think I would like one."
A simple request. The simplest she had perhaps ever been given.
And yet...
Vexing.
The little house was fast asleep, and had been so for hours. Her uncle, the few servants and attendants and guards - all at rest, now. All but Edelgard.
She crossed her arms between her head and the pillow that was still not her own, staring without seeing at the night beyond her narrow window. The moon was bright here, brighter than in Enbarr, but colder, too, somehow. She did not like it - but for now, she ignored it.
Dimitri.
There was simply Mitri, but that seemed... too simple. Too easy to understand, and too much like she was not capable of saying his name correctly. She was not her sister at three years old, tongue twisting beneath sounds.
"Dima," she said softly, trying it out. "Or... Dimi?" But no - she had seen how he formed the El, how it had pleased him. There must be something similar to suit her own tastes. And his - his too, of course.
She shook her head, digging her fingers into her scalp.
New tastes. Unfamiliar. Not-normal. But perhaps...
She fell asleep, finally, as the first tendrils of dawn crept against the city walls, far to the east and beyond the scope of her smidgen of a window.
He looked startled, once more, when she told him - though it was perhaps the way she said it, and the way her chin lifted, as if in defiance. Well, perhaps it was; she was not inclined to be laughed at.
He didn't laugh. He seemed to consider it, as he had considered his own. He looked down, slowly forming the sound, hardly a breath, a whisper.
When his eyes met hers, he was smiling - the true, open smile he had when he so rarely, for a moment, forgot that which troubled him, whatever it might be. He nodded. "Yes! Yes, I think that is it!"
She was usually in control of her own expressions - one of the few things she could control, here - but his smile was too much to resist: she allowed herself to match it. Warmth bloomed somewhere within her, filling her chest, her heart - a promise of something past the winter, the bloom of spring, even if it was no bigger than a first tentative daffodil unfurling through the snow. "Dee, then," she said. "Dee and El."
"Dee and El." He took her arm, then, and squeezed - gentle. "Dee and El. And we're... we'll always be friends."
She did not know. And she did not make false promises. "I hope so," she said.
He nodded.
Whatever happened... she would not allow herself to forget this moment. This warmth, brief as it might be.
The sound of it in his voice - the warmth there, too.
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i need ANGST so please âand the saddest part of all? youâll cling to the good memories, as if there were anyâ for Phoenix and Cass, or just one or the other :~)
âWhy wonât you ever talk about him?â Cass folded her arms and leaned in the doorway, arching an eyebrow as she awaited her motherâs response. Phoenix was absorbed in reading the Daily Prophet, one of her favourite activities when she set Alfie down for a nap.
âYou know why.â They both knew who Cass was referring to. Phoenixâs clipped response wasnât good enough for Cass. Evan Rosier had been a Death Eater, but heâd also been her father. Surely he hadnât been all bad?Â
âYou said he loved me with his whole heart.â Cass snatched the Daily Prophet out of Phoenixâs hands, forcing her to focus on the issue she was constantly avoiding.
âI did.â Phoenix got to her feet. She had an effortless grace that Cass had always struggled to match. People often said Remus and Phoenix were quite the pair - her fatherâs casual state of attire compared with Phoenixâs glamour.
âSo what, that doesnât matter?â Cass demanded. âHe was fucking dad. Donât you think I deserve a sliver of introspect on what he was like?â
âYour father was a Death Eater.â Phoenix sounded like she didnât want to discuss this, grey eyes narrowing, but Cass surged on regardless.
âIâve heard some interesting things. About the nature of how he died. About who told the Aurors where to find him.â
Phoenix tensed, gripping the back of her chair with green-tipped talons. âCass, you donât know anything about that.â
âYou got him killed!â Cass shouted, her anger exploding like an inferno as she blazed onwards, not caring if she hurt her mumâs feelings in the process. âYou didnât give a shit about him!â
âYou want to talk about your father?â Phoenixâs expression was suddenly cold fury. âLetâs talk. Which part did you want to begin with, the part where he took some of my memories, the part where he emotionally manipulated me at every turn? Maybe the part where his Death Eater friends tortured me while he watched?â
Cass went quiet, the awful silence stretching between them. There was pain in her motherâs eyes now as she was forced to resurrect the ghost of a past she wanted to put in the ground. Cass hadnât known her dad had done any of those things and she wished she could
âI...I didnât know.â
âNo, because you want to see the good in him.â Phoenix planted her hands on her hips. âAnd the saddest part of all? Youâll cling to the good memories, as if there were any.â
Cass felt like the wind had been knocked out of her. She had always known her parentsâ marriage had been one of convenience, and sheâd heard the snide comments that sheâd been born to fill the hole in her motherâs heart after Phoenix had lost Regulus and Orion. But her father...
âHe hurt you.â
âHe did.â Phoenix clenched her jaw. âOver and over again. I donât even think he realised it sometimes. He thought he loved me, but someone who loves you will never treat you like. I want you to remember that.â
Jon opens his eyes, the remnants of nightmares fading from his mind. It used to rattle him more, these dreams. He would awaken horrified, heart racing, and in some ways that was better. He thinks he owes it to them to suffer, too. Now he just wakes feeling refreshed and guilty. The Eye is content, at least for a while. Itâs not that he doesnât care about the people heâs hurting every night, but it is remarkable, really, what can become so routine that it loses its effect.
Sometimes, like now, even the statement givers he watches seem to grow numb to their familiar terrors as well, and when they do the itch returns; Jon's eyes will be drawn to a stranger on the tube or in a cafe and if he isnât strong enough to fight it, which is more often than heâd like to admit, their story will inevitably be added to his collection of nightmares. He doesnât go out much anymore.
Martin stirs beside him. He has his share of nightmares, too, but fortunately this isnât one of those days. âGood morning.â he says softly, bleary eyes focusing on Jon.
He doesnât answer.
âOh no. Youâve got that look again.â
Jon blinks, startled. âWhat look?â If the hunger is that obvious...
âLike youâre thinking too much. Never a good sign this early.â
âI... Iâm fine. Itâs just the dreams.â Which is true, but not entirely. He isnât sure why he lies. Martin will worry about him regardless.
âRight,â he sighs, letting the matter drop for now. And Martin kisses him, slow and gentle, like Jon is something worthy of great care.
I love you so much.
For a second Jon believes the thought was his own, since he does in fact love Martin, but then he quickly realizes it wasnât and has to bite his tongue before he responds. They havenât actually said that out loud yet, and the first time they do should not be because Jon accidentally read Martinâs mind.
He doesnât deserve Martinâs love, or even his trust. Jon doesnât need any powers to know that. But he lets Martin pull him closer anyway, lets himself feel warm and safe and almost human in his arms. Tries to lose himself in that kiss. It doesnât fix anything, not really. Neither will the cup of tea heâll have later, or the statement he will record, but it certainly helps.
You remember how mick says he and len don't have heart to hearts? Well do you think they did when they younger and as they got older it changed? Under what circumstances do you think they would have a heart to heart?
So I know this isnât what youâre aiming forâŚ. but this is where I had to take it. #sorrynotsorry
His lip is bleeding. No, his nose is bleeding. It sure hurts bad enough. But he tongues his lip and it stings.
Theyâre both bleeding.
But heâs alive. So heâs laughing and relieved and wiping the blood on his sleeve and listening to the deeper, richer laugh of the guy next to him.Â
âThey cominâ?â
Lenny peers around the corner and sees everything in order, the other inmates in juvie, their varying ages and sizes belying their status in the hierarchy. No sign of the guys who jumped him.
âNot from there.â
The guy beside him sighs, finally, and relaxes deeper against the wall their backs are pressed to. Lenny tilts his own head back. He canât believe he cheated death. His hands are shaking and he tries to stop them. They ran all the way down here through a few winding halls and theyâre probably going to catch trouble for it later but this guy knew the way and now they seem to be in the clear and itâsâ
Itâs worth laughing about, okay? What else is he gonna do?
âWhatâs your name, kid?â
âLenny.â
âMick.â
He grins and extends his hand. The guys looks at his face and laughs. âYou look like shit.â
âYeah, well.â He smiles and itâs a little crooked because his lip is starting to swell, heâs pretty sure. His nose hasnât fully stopped bleeding, he doesnât think, and wipes it away again. He should probably go to a nurse to set it. He wonders if Mick will come with him. On that note,
âSo uh,â he starts in, âthanks for saving me out there.â
âYou owe me.â
âSure,â he bobs his head in a nod. âBut really, thank you. You didnât have to do that and â â
âHey whoa what is this? A heart to heart?â The guy is laughing but thereâs a warning in there somewhere. Lenny figures heâs probably sixteen and he seems easygoing enough but when he gets tense thereâs something more menacing about him.
Lenny backtracks. âHave to have a heart to have a heart to heart.â
It takes a second, but Mick breaks out into a grin. He grabs Lenny with a headlock and gives him a noogie with a laugh. âYouâre not so bad. Câmon kid, before anyone comes looking.â
[ ⌠]
It takes approximately three weeks for them to fall into a different sort of routine. Mick noticed fast that Lenny was sneaky and mean and he thought it was the greatest thing since sliced bread, how quick Lennyâs fingers were when he was lifting something, never caught.
âBeen doing it since my dad got out,â Lenny explained. âHe showed me the ropes.â
âYour old man?â
âYeah.â Lenny felt a little sour about his dad still. He was the reason Lenny was in here. But not really. Lenny shouldâve run faster. Shouldâve been smarter. The plan was sloppy and he shouldâve said something about the timing. He didnât want to because Lewis was drunk and drunk meant volatile but⌠whatever. It didnât matter now.Â
He frowned at his lunch tray and dropped the extra pudding cup on Mickâs instead. âHave it.â
âThink you could get me a lighter?â
Lenny eyed him. Heâd heard rumors about what happened to get Mick in this place. âYou sure thatâs wise?â
His eyes went hard and he moved to stand and Lenny felt a rush of instinctual fear â his own ally in this place, burning bridges in a literal sense might be better than burning this one in a metaphorical one.
âI just meanââ he starts in fast, and Mick stops so he takes a second to lick his lips and come up with something to say, âI just mean, Mick, that that kinda contraband is gonna run us up bad if someone catches you with it.â
Mick looks suspicious still but he sits back down and Lenny relaxes a bit.Â
âThought you were about to try a heart to heart with me.â
âWe donât have hearts, remember?â
Mick grins finally, the throwback to their first meeting setting him at ease. âYou let me worry about the contraband. Just get me a lighter, yeah?â
[ ⌠]
Mick shouldnât be here. Not that he had much else in the way of places to go, just got out of his second stint â first one as an adult, in medium security â but Lennyâs frowning and tense when he opens the front door and sees him on the porch.
He looks like hell â jumped for sure, bruising and swelling starting to form. Lenny swears and lets him in because what the hell else can he do? He gets him some frozen peas from the fridge and theyâre on the side of Mickâs face a moment later and heâs letting out a sigh and stretching out his legs at the kitchen table.
So of course thatâs when Lisa and her mom come in the door.Â
Itâs world war three after that. Lisaâs mom is pissed, Lenny wonât leave Mick behind, and Lewis comes home from the bar two hours later and Lenny catches all sorts of hell for pissing off his new wife. The shouting match is epic half because Lenny never fights back. He canât let Mick see him like that though â that weak. It would never fly.
Itâs not really about Mick anyway though.
Lennyâs seventeen and the house has been reaching a boiling point for a while. It was about time it spilled over.
Lewis tells him to get out and he does. Grabs his bag, and his cash, his friend, and theyâre gone.
Heâs got enough for a little while, enough for a motel for the night tonight though and thatâs all that matters. Theyâll find a place in the morning. Mickâs already talking about knowing a guy who might have a place for them at the end of the month, just gotta make a few calls.Â
Lennyâs mood is foul, heâs got his own shiner and no frozen peas for it, those definitely didnât make the cut of âessentialsâ on the way out the door.Â
Mick tentatively sits next to him and Lennyâs not sure if heâs ever done anything âtentativeâ since they met.
âYâknow, Snart, what you did back there ââ
âSave it.â
âIâm just - â
âI donât need a heart to heart, Mick.â He couldnât handle one right now, he really couldnât. Heâd fall apart.Â
Mick laughs a little, just a low chuckle. His voice is deeper than when they met. Itâs age, but also all the smoking, Lennyâs pretty sure.
âNo worries. We donât have hearts, right?â
Lennyâs chest relaxes again. He remembers juvie. How did the world feel so much simpler when he was locked up at fourteen? âRight.â
âSleep, or booze?â
Lenny considers, tilting his head. Their bruises are ugly but sleep ainât coming any time soon. âBooze.â
âWhatever you say, boss.â
He knows Mickâs just trying to cheer him up still, but somehow, he likes the sound of that.
[ ⌠]
He didnât think heâd ever point a gun at Mick Rory, but here he is. Twenty-four, scared shitless but heâs angry and he hasnât seen Mick in two years so what the hell is the man doing sitting pretty with the Darbynians?
Heâs on the wrong side and Lenny canât fix that, not here and now when heâs sweating down his back and promising himself that heâll never ever take a job as security for one of the Families again.
Not if it means killing three men and cocking his gun one more time to stop short when he meets the eyes of the person standing in front of it.
Mickâs bigger. Heâs been working out. Leather jacket and gloves and Lenâs pretty sure he killed one of Lenâs crew with just his hands.Â
Itâs just the two of them left after that small carnage. Small favors.
âWell well, Mick,â he says, a lot more confident than he feels and isnât that nice?Â
Mickâs eyes look dangerous. âOutta my way, Snart.â
âCanât do that.â
âI gotta job to do.â
âAnd this is how you accomplish it? Getting yourself killed breaking in the backdoor of one of Don Santiniâs storage facilities?â
âIâll go through you if I have to.â
âIâm the one with the gun.â
âYouâre still a punk kid, Snart. You wonât use it.â
He tightens his grip on it, finger moving from the side to the trigger. âTry me.â Mick shifts his stance and Len realizes heâs going to try him and thatâs all sorts of a disaster because Len isnât bluffing.Â
It doesnât matter because a second later the door is opening and Lenâs backup has arrived. He almost wishes they hadnât.
âWhoâs this?â Nicky asks, Santiniâs nephew. Heâs an idiot but his gun and all his securityâs guns are drawn and Len thinks fast and lowers his.
âOur messenger.â
âOur what?â
âLeave one alive to deliver the message. Isnât that how it goes, Nicky?â he asks, droll, like leaving Mick alive wasnât an accident caused by the seizing of his heart.
âWhat message?â
He really doesnât catch on quick, does it? But Mick does, because heâs looking at Len with outright suspicion but Len can see he gets it and he wonât fuck this up.
âThat Mr. Santini sends his regards.â Len pops the ammunition out of his gun and drops the bullet out of the chamber. He presses it to Mickâs palm, whoâs nostrils flare.Â
Behind him, Nicky laughs like the threat on Mr. Darbynianâs life is a good idea for a joke or a message. Itâs not. Lenâs gonna have to get the hell out of dodge if this goes sour. Or else make sure Nicky takes full credit for the idea and kill his entourage at some point so no one contradicts it with the real story. That might work.
Mick looks at him, looks a the others, and steps back, palm closed. âIâll give him the message.â
Nickyâs boys think itâs a riot. Theyâre clapping Len on the back. Len wishes he could enjoy having not-died and not having killed Mick but heâs sure it was a bad idea.
At least, heâs sure until five hours later when a form stumbles in the window of his shitty second-storey apartment with a bitten off curse and a knocked over lamp.
Lenâs out of bed in a second, gun up, but he sees itâs Mick when the light flicks on and thatâs⌠something. He lowers the gun but doesnât turn the safety on. Mickâs squinting against the sudden light and from his disordered lookâŚ
âAre you drunk?â Len asks. Itâs as good of opening as any.
âWhat the fuck is wrong with you, Snart?â
âYouâre in my apartment, jackass.â How Mick found out where he lived is beyond him. It might be time to move.
âYouâre gonna start a gang war.â
Oh. That. âSo sue me.â He drops his gun on the counter as Mick stumbles further into the bachelor style space and finally rights himself once he detangles from the lamp cord.
Len manages not to smile at the sight. He almost would but the situationâs a little too tense.
âIt was a damn soft move.â
Len glares at Mickâs accusation, crossing his arms. âDidnât you just accuse me of starting a war? Donât see how thatâs soft.â
âGonna get yourself killed.â
âNow whoâs being soft?â
âFuck you.â
Len snorts. But heâs relieved, or warmed, or⌠something. Mickâs still Mick. Theyâre still⌠something. Maybe not friends anymore. But their history didnât disappear.
âYou broke into my apartment to tell me not to save your life if it comes up again?â
Mick holds his stomach, âgonna â â
Len points at the bathroom. Mick really was drunk. Peachy.
He gets him some water and a bucket and directs him to the couch. Itâs been a rollercoaster of a fucking night and sleep is the only real remedy for crazy that he knows.
Mick grabs him by the arm when he moves to retreat, glassy eyed but intense as ever. âDonât get yourself killed, Snart. Youâre too good for it.â
Itâs raw and honest and not like heâs proud but like heâs desperate.
Len swallows, feeling suddenly opened out and exposed. Mick was always good at making him lose his footing.
âRight back at you, buddy.â
Mick laughs. âIâm just the muscle.â
âYouâre better than that.â
âOh yeah?â Itâs like a challenge but Len swats it aside with a simple,
âYeah. Youâre my partner, asshole.â
Mickâs eyebrows draw together for a second and then he lays back down onto the couch. âJesus this got sappy.â
Len could smack him upside the head for that. Instead he steps back and glares down at his⌠partner. âAt least itâs not a heart to heart.â
Mick laughs. âYeah. Those ainât for guys like us.â
âHeartless,â he agrees with a smirk.
âYeah.â Mick sounds sleepy, finally, eyes drifting closed. Lenâs already sure heâs going to snore. He sighs and flicks off the light.
[ ⌠]
âI need a crew for a job.â
âWell hello to you too, Mick.â
Mick gives him a short look. âI got a job. I need a crew.â
âI heard you the first time.â
âAnd?â
âAnd I got out of the Heights three days ago.â Heâs thirty-three and has vowed to never, ever, get sent back in there. It was for a robbery he was caught in the act of. With the aggravated assault charge on top of it, heâd had to hire a damn good lawyer to sweet talk the DA down and get him a half-decent plea. Thank god for good behavior and early parole.
âWhatâs your point?â
âMy point is that maybe I donât want to do another job right now, Mick.â
Mick stops and looks at him. Heâs older now, they both are. Len hasnât seen him in years, doing time at different times, not until yesterday when he walked into the bar. Theyâve changed. Theyâre harder. Len sure as hell is, and he was hard to start.
He wonders if this time when Mick pulls his gun, thatâll really be the end of it. But Mick doesnât pull his gun, at least not yet.
âItâs a good one,â Mick says instead. âBank job.â
âBank jobs are high risk â high security, high contingency expectations, dye in the cash.â
âI got a line on some money in transport.â
That â that could change things. Butâ
âIâm not interested.â
âYou saying youâre out?â
Ah, now the gunsâll come out. Heâs really glad he had the steak last night, but a little sad he didnât splurge for the nicer cut.
âIâm saying,â he responds when Mick hasnât pulled his gun yet, âitâs too soon. The heatâs on me right now. Parole.â
âThe heatâs always on.â
âNot like this.â
âIâve got seven warrants out for me right now, Snart. Whatâve you got? A whole lotta clean ticket outta town?â
âFuck you. Iâm not going anywhere.â
âBut youâre out?â
âNo.â
âThen whatâs going on, Snart?â
âThought you didnât like heart to hearts, Mick.â
It cuts through the tension.Â
âGotta have a heart for that to work, buddy.â Mick gives him a half-grin. Itâs dangerous, it always is now, has been for a decade. But itâs Mick, and heâs not about to kill Len, so heâll take it.
âSo drop it.â
âTell me what youâre doing if youâre not doing this job.â
He shouldâve known he couldnât bluff off with Mick. âIâm still in the game. But Iâm changing this. I have to up my game.â
âWhatâs that mean?â
âIt means I never plan to go back,â he snarls, and even Mick looks surprised at his sudden ire. And then something slides into place on his face.
âLewis?â
Len glares at his workbench. Mick stays quiet. The bastard can be more patient than Len when he needs to be, not that anyone gives him credit for it. Eventually, he sighs.
âAggravated assault. Assault with a deadly weapon. Attempted robbery. He got locked up eight months ago.â
So much for no heart to hearts,but Mick just whistles. Len purses his lips, more calm.Â
âIâm not going back in there.â
âYou wonât have to, buddy.â
âNo. I wonât. Not if we start doing things my way.â
âYour way?â
He nods, and thinks about the job he really wants to do. Itâs gonna take months to plan, he knows. But he did just admit how patient Mick could be. Time to test that.
âYou familiar with the Central City diamond exchange?â
[ ⌠]
Heâs forty-two and fucking tired.
Mickâs locked in the brig and everything is so fucked up in this brave new world of metahumans and time travel and so much shit that Len can hardly believe itâs his life anymore.
The one thing that was supposed to stay solid was him and Mick. He fucked that up ten ways to Sunday though and he knows it. So does Mick.
âWhatâdâyou want?â Mick growls as soon as he sees Len. Len canât really blame him. He schools his own nerves. This wonât be pretty.
âPeople seem to think we should have a heart to heart.â
âWe donât have hearts. Where does that leave us?â
Itâs automatic, but thereâs no warmth in it. Mick remembers, but he doesnât care. That might make this easier, really. Len pushes on. âIâve got a dozen reasons for killing you.Youâve got a dozen and one for killing me, so.â
âAll the talk in the world is not gonna change a thing.â
âExactly, hereâs my proposal. I open this cell, we let our fists do the talking.â
It wouldnât be the first time, but this is different and they both know it.
âWhen I kill you?â
He doesnât hesitate, ready with that answer. âYou take the jump ship, make your escape, live out the rest of your life anywhere you like.â
âHmm.â Mick looks to be considering it. âAnd if you kill me, well, itâs better than being locked up in this place like some kind of circus freak.â
Itâs a courtesy and they both know it. Lenâs never been able to beat Mick in a fair fight.
âI take that as a yes?â
âSound the bell.â
Theyâve never been good at talking. They never did figure it out, how to have a real heart to heart. They werenât built for it.
So itâs strange to try and figure it out now, when Lenâs taken the beating of his life, ready to die on the cold and unforgiving metal of the Waveriderâs floor under Mickâs ever-steady (but not now, theyâre shaking now) hands.
âItâs what you wantedâŚâ
He could cry but he canât remember how, most of the time. He was ready to die. To do anything to make things right again. Heâs been ready for Mick to kill him for a decade, for longer maybe. Always thought it might come down to it, one day, the margin razor thin.
But Mick doesnât know what he wants and Len canât fix that. He knows. He wants his partner back. Heâd turn back time if he could. The irony doesnât escape him.
[ ⌠]
Their destinies arenât their own, their lives havenât been their own, and Mickâs knocking out Raymond Palmer, of all people, to take his place at the Occulus.
Because thatâs the kind of man Mick is, has always been, underneath it all. Not a puppet, not a bruiser, not an arsonist. The kind of guy to help a scared kid at juvie not get shanked just because he happened to walk by at the right time. The kind of guy to take a hit for someone else and not think twice, just because.
Len doesnât have the time, and if he did he still wouldnât have the words. Still hasnât learned that skill, though here at the end, part of him wishes he had figured it out. It wonât matter soon.
He says goodbye to his old friend and proves, here at the end, that at least he deserved some of it, what Mick gave him. At least he could earn it here.
He was always sneaky and mean, but he always had a heart.
I've got Metallica stuck in my head now, thnx L. I have no ideas, so let's see what comes out~
~*~
Bele, for the thousandth time, was grateful he didn't sleep. The shadow of Castle Ravenloft looming before them was nightmare material, all dark shadows and craggy ravines.
Honestly? He appreciated the devotion to aesthetic, but he was over it.
Memir sat down next to him on the bedroll, following Bele's gaze. "Copper for your thoughts?"
"Just thinking about that asshole," Bele admitted, jerking his head toward the castle. "He's so fucking dramatic. There's only room for one dramatic asshole in this place, and it's me."
Memir hesitantly took Bele's hand and rubbed his thumb over Bele's knuckles. "You can be the dramatic asshole at home. Leave this place to him."
Bele glanced at their joined hands, and then back up at the castle. He could hear rustling in the trees--the fucker was probably listening in, as usual. "I know I'm not all that reliable, but as long as I can get you and the rest of the group home, nothing else matters."
Memir frowned and looked straight at Bele, a rare enough occurrence that Bele found himself mirroring the motion. "You matter to me. You're coming home, too."
"Yeah, you're right." Bele didn't say anything more, cautiously reaching out to push Memir's dark hair behind his ear. He tried to say it, to make sure Memir understood, but the simple fact was that Bele loved Memir with everything he had in him, even if he was bad at showing it.
He would do whatever it took to get him out of this demi-hell. If he had to sacrifice himself to do it, well. It was a small price to pay.
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The empty grave in front of her was uncared for and forgotten, the marble headstone covered in moss and the patch of grass filled with weeds. Pema couldn't help but feel her heart squeeze in her chest at the sight. While she and Tarrlok hadn't been the best of friends after... what had happened, she still cared for him, even in death.
She placed the flowers tied with the thin ribbon she had worn on their first and only date next to the small plot and sighed. "I'm so sorry."
She had been so rude to him for so many years after such a petty argument. She hadn't responded to any letters or calls or attempts to make things right. She had been terrible, and he was only kind to her.
And now here she was in front of the empty grave of her missing friend bearing flowers and an apology, much too late.
