[ 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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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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He doesn't watch Cold go but he listens to his footsteps. He sighs, leaning on the counter. He fucked that one up, didn't he? ]