[Len moves one hand again, this time slower to abandon the movement. But he does, his hand wrapping around his own arm instead. This isn't a shoulder he knows he can touch. He can't know whether it'd be welcomed.]
No. Though it might depend on how long you're looking at what.
Indian, sure. Guessing you like it hot?
[There's that bit of heat between them. Literally. Oh, the power of literal puns, ever so convenient. Leonard watches the air flicker with heat and then it just dies down again.]
[ He noticed the movement; to be honest even he's not sure if he'd welcome it or slap Len's hand away. It's probably better he didn't follow through. ]
What was that? [ That was weird. Someone hasn't been clued into Len's powers yet. ] Uh. Yeah, the spicier the better.
[ He moves away a little, to rifle through a stack of junk mail and other things unceremoniously deposited on the counter by the fridge.
It keeps him from thinking about Cold catching him lost in the flames. Though now that he's more in the present, he's thinking about how easily Len seemed to know what to do. ]
[ Mick's mouth twists as he bristles a little. ] I know better than to get help from the freaks like Scarecrow running around. I like people, I ain't denying that. But that don't mean I can't tell who's bad news.
[ He pulls out the flyer for a local Indian restaurant. As prickly as he's feeling, those words are good to hear. ]
I know I can.
[ Said in the voice of a man trying to convince himself of that. ]
Maybe you can. I can't even wrap my head around the 'liking people' concept, so what do I know.
[He holds his hand out for the flyer, trying to push down on how domestic the moment feels, even with the pyromania talk. Especially with the pyromania talk, if he way honest.]
Do they have youtube around here?
[Wait.]
Right, I forgot, you wouldn't know. Ever used the internet?
[The same yet different, as always. Len catches himself looking at Mick just a little too long in the wrong way, so he lowers his gaze to study the menu instead. At least Indian takeout seemed to be cross-universal.]
Food is food, even if it's delivered by hover car.
[ He looks back at Leonard. He's surprised how easily he's become comfortable with him. While somehow never quite being comfortable at all. He reminds him of his Captain Cold, to be sure, but the good parts -- the parts of Len that he actually liked. They were getting along. And that irritated him. ]
[He knows that's not what he's saying, but whatever. He looks for the items that wouldn't be hot, figures out what would be hottest and decides that Piper and James are probably already taking care of food for themselves, so he won't have to worry about them.
However, he finally lifts his head again, bracing himself and thus not changing his expression as he looks right at Mick.]
I've been pretty good at taking care of myself for a while now. You don't have to worry about that.
[ Calling Cold out on things is something he's used to.
And he's not buying it. Well, then again... it does sound like the sort of logic Cold would have. And Mick probably wouldn't question it if it weren't for the fact that he suspects his alternate self means something more to this particular Leonard Snart.
He holds his gaze a moment more, before he looks away. ]
[Just a reminder. Perhaps mainly a reminder to himself.
His chest is too tight and he lowers his eyes quicker than Mick does. At least he keeps his face composed.
He wishes they looked nothing alike and yet.
Deep down he wants his composure to break, but he's learned a long time ago not to let anything touch him. At least never to let anything show. So instead he simply keeps his head down and finally dials the takeaway place.]
No, you're right, I don't. [ The emphasis pointedly intended.
It did come out harsher than he meant. It's difficult for him not to bristle around him. Mick leans against the counter with his arms folded. He should probably say something else. Break the ice.
He knows he has a problem. But he really doesn't like feeling that he needs a version of Len to keep an eye on him. What bothers him the most is how easy it feels to slip into that role. ]
I'm not going to burn you if you don't give me a reason to.
[What he really wants to say is 'Fuck off.', with quite a bit more heat to it than normally rises in him. Instead all he allows for is a glare, which says about as much.
It's all he can do to push back unbidden thoughts that well up and order Indian food instead. What a thing to do while trapped between crumbling and simply punching Mick, as if that would help anything. He ends the call, no longer looking away but staring right at him.]
You don't want to start this, because I can tell you who'd finish it.
[ It's strangely more comforting to be on the edge of a fight; it's territory Mick can understand. (Now who's projecting.) He reaches for his gun, but he's in civilian clothing which doesn't have his holster. This at least gives him pause and makes him remember where he is. ]
[He sees where Mick is reaching and arches his eyebrows. There is no gun, so he doesn't have to tense, but the move alone is definitely worth a look. Projecting indeed.]
This whole fucked up place marks the first time people guilt me for not being hateful enough.
[ That deflates him. He breathes out through his nose and looks away. He is not doing well today, it seems. ]
Shit.
[ This isn't the Cold he knows. He needs to put aside all his unfinished business with Len, and their history -- and the part Mick finds so hard to admit to himself: that he doesn't hate the guy. That the idea that this version taking care of him puts him on edge so much is because he doesn't want to let his guard down. Cold being a dick was never the dangerous part of knowing him.
Maybe that's unfair. He doesn't know. ] Not your fault, this one's on me.
[And he's very much done here. Pushing past Mick with as much space between them as possible without looking ridiculous. Part of him wants to slam the door to his room, but ultimately he just shuts it gently and turns the lock. Not as satisfying, but a lot less immature.]
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No. Though it might depend on how long you're looking at what.
Indian, sure. Guessing you like it hot?
[There's that bit of heat between them. Literally. Oh, the power of literal puns, ever so convenient. Leonard watches the air flicker with heat and then it just dies down again.]
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What was that? [ That was weird. Someone hasn't been clued into Len's powers yet. ] Uh. Yeah, the spicier the better.
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[He doesn't raise his hands for air quotes, since he's not a total dork, but they are there in his voice.]
I think we had a flyer somewhere.
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[ He moves away a little, to rifle through a stack of junk mail and other things unceremoniously deposited on the counter by the fridge.
It keeps him from thinking about Cold catching him lost in the flames. Though now that he's more in the present, he's thinking about how easily Len seemed to know what to do. ]
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[How are these powers supposed to be useful? Not that he really fancies himself having any powers.
He looks behind himself at the water remaining in the pot, his voice quiet.]
You're doing therapy?
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Under his breath: ] Shit.
Yeah. Yeah, I'm... shopping around. Signed up with basically everyone who offered.
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[Is that concern? Indeed it is. Whatever. It's Mick, so that justifies that. Even if it's the wrong Mick.]
You can control it. Control yourself. I've seen that.
[More or less. In a way. Mostly he's shifting the truth to be reassuring. He's a liar, sue him.]
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[ He pulls out the flyer for a local Indian restaurant. As prickly as he's feeling, those words are good to hear. ]
I know I can.
[ Said in the voice of a man trying to convince himself of that. ]
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[He holds his hand out for the flyer, trying to push down on how domestic the moment feels, even with the pyromania talk. Especially with the pyromania talk, if he way honest.]
Do they have youtube around here?
[Wait.]
Right, I forgot, you wouldn't know. Ever used the internet?
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He frowns at Len in response to the question. ] I've used the internet before, I'm not that outta touch. [ Beat. ] ...That's a website, right?
[ He's not THAT well-versed. ]
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It's a website, yeah. They've videos on there, they have ones that are just a burning fire, for several hours.
[In Mick's defence, Youtube is relatively new.]
Not sure if that'd make it better or worse for you, but it's an alternative to the real deal.
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He tells himself that a video would be kind of like the real thing. ]
Might work. Nothing to lose by giving it a try, right?
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[The same yet different, as always. Len catches himself looking at Mick just a little too long in the wrong way, so he lowers his gaze to study the menu instead. At least Indian takeout seemed to be cross-universal.]
They really do have the same stuff everywhere.
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[ He looks back at Leonard. He's surprised how easily he's become comfortable with him. While somehow never quite being comfortable at all. He reminds him of his Captain Cold, to be sure, but the good parts -- the parts of Len that he actually liked. They were getting along. And that irritated him. ]
You don't have to do this, you know.
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[He knows that's not what he's saying, but whatever. He looks for the items that wouldn't be hot, figures out what would be hottest and decides that Piper and James are probably already taking care of food for themselves, so he won't have to worry about them.
However, he finally lifts his head again, bracing himself and thus not changing his expression as he looks right at Mick.]
I've been pretty good at taking care of myself for a while now. You don't have to worry about that.
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[ He's watching Lens steadily. ]
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But then, he wouldn't have to. It'd be understood. Mutual.]
All I'm doing. I don't like to burn.
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And he's not buying it. Well, then again... it does sound like the sort of logic Cold would have. And Mick probably wouldn't question it if it weren't for the fact that he suspects his alternate self means something more to this particular Leonard Snart.
He holds his gaze a moment more, before he looks away. ]
Right.
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[Just a reminder. Perhaps mainly a reminder to himself.
His chest is too tight and he lowers his eyes quicker than Mick does. At least he keeps his face composed.
He wishes they looked nothing alike and yet.
Deep down he wants his composure to break, but he's learned a long time ago not to let anything touch him. At least never to let anything show. So instead he simply keeps his head down and finally dials the takeaway place.]
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It did come out harsher than he meant. It's difficult for him not to bristle around him. Mick leans against the counter with his arms folded. He should probably say something else. Break the ice.
He knows he has a problem. But he really doesn't like feeling that he needs a version of Len to keep an eye on him. What bothers him the most is how easy it feels to slip into that role. ]
I'm not going to burn you if you don't give me a reason to.
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It's all he can do to push back unbidden thoughts that well up and order Indian food instead. What a thing to do while trapped between crumbling and simply punching Mick, as if that would help anything. He ends the call, no longer looking away but staring right at him.]
You don't want to start this, because I can tell you who'd finish it.
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[ It's strangely more comforting to be on the edge of a fight; it's territory Mick can understand. (Now who's projecting.) He reaches for his gun, but he's in civilian clothing which doesn't have his holster. This at least gives him pause and makes him remember where he is. ]
Forget it.
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This whole fucked up place marks the first time people guilt me for not being hateful enough.
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Shit.
[ This isn't the Cold he knows. He needs to put aside all his unfinished business with Len, and their history -- and the part Mick finds so hard to admit to himself: that he doesn't hate the guy. That the idea that this version taking care of him puts him on edge so much is because he doesn't want to let his guard down. Cold being a dick was never the dangerous part of knowing him.
Maybe that's unfair. He doesn't know. ] Not your fault, this one's on me.
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[And he's very much done here. Pushing past Mick with as much space between them as possible without looking ridiculous. Part of him wants to slam the door to his room, but ultimately he just shuts it gently and turns the lock. Not as satisfying, but a lot less immature.]
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