Work Text:
Geoff is halfway through sleeping the entire Sunday away when a knock on his bedroom door wakes him up. Must be Gavin or Michael. Geoff rolls onto his side, hiding his face from the faint daylight slipping in under the curtains. He's earned a lazy day. There's always someone who wants his attention.
"Hey, are you in there?"
Definetely Michael, then, his voice showing no sign of urgency. Can't be that important. Back to sleep.
"I just want your help for a sec."
...Or maybe it's a little bit important? Michael sounds a little upset, actually, in that way where you can't tell unless you know him well enough to imagine his exact expression while he speaks. A thin line between his brows, his clenched jaw and perhaps even clenched fists by his sides, though he isn't as violent anymore as he used to be... Geoff can see it all with his eyes closed.
Fine, then.
He throws aside the blanket, straightens and stretches his back. He reaches for the ceiling, then slumps, body falling into its usual posture as he crosses the floor barefooted.
"Yeah, yeah," he mumbles, opening the door. "I'm here. What's up?"
Michael does not look worried, just impatient, standing with his leather jacket in his arms. He looks Geoff over, pajama pants to punk t-shirt, and says, "Jack said you liked sewing." His tone suggests that he doesn't think this is true. "I need some needle and thread and it's not like the rest of us keep any 'round. Do you?"
Geoff huffs. "You woke me up to ask me that?"
"Yeah," Michael replies, "because this is bothering me." He turns the jacket over to show a long tear stretching from the left shoulder down the sleeve. Geoff knows Michael's understatement for what it is; The jacket is a symbol of sorts for him, more important than he lets on.
So Geoff doesn't hestitate, but takes the jacket out of Michael's hands and says, "I can fix it."
He retreats into the bedroom again, and Michael follows with one eyebrow raised. The younger man soon opens the curtains, letting the daylight fully in at last. The lads usually don't mess much with Geoff's room, but that doesn't mean it isn't still messy: There are books strewn about and too much boring paperwork unsorted on the desk. Yesterday's clothes are slung over the back of a chair. Michael plops down on the unmade bed and Geoff suddenly feels like the morning was wasted because he could've woken up with Michael right next to him - but right now, there's more important business than that.
"How'd it happen?" Geoff asks, taking a seat by the desk.
"Y'know." Michael rolls his eyes. "Gavin bet me and Jeremy 50$ we couldn't climb a metal fence out by the airfield."
Geoff inspects the damage. "Spiked fence?"
"No, just old and shitty. It broke."
"You jacket didn't deserve that."
"No," Michael replies, and Geoff can feel the way he's watching like a hawk. The jacket is Michael's whole story tied up in a garment. It smells like danger, like smoke and gunfire, like the chemicals he mixes into explosives and the polluted water in the habour. There are patches in the front and a large decal of a snarling wolf on the back, an image that Geoff so loves seeing across the room when they're in a fight.
“It might be simplest to just hide the tear with another patch." Geoff turns the jacket over, inspecting the lining. All frayed. He keeps talking without knowing why, blaming the fact that he was half-asleep mere minutes ago. "You looked surprised before. What, you didn't think I'm the sewing type?"
"I wasn't expecting there'd be a sewing kit anywhere in the building," Michael replies.
"Well... I fixed my own leather jacket when I was younger. Fixed my only suit myself, too, back before we made it. I've sown more patches and tears and bullet-holes than you'd think. Hey, do you have one?"
"A what? A patch?" A thoughtful pause descends on Michael before he continues, speaking fast and walking faster. "...Yeah, I might have something. Be right back."
Geoff hears his footsteps down the hall, and he absentmindedly traces the hem of the jacket. It's one of those small blessings, he supposes. A chance to sit back and do some arts and crafts with Michael beside him.
When Michael comes back, he carries small round emblem that he presses into Geoff's palm, a smile playing on his lips, his fingers warm as they slide across skin.
Geoff turns the patch over and studies the simple white-on-black eye staring straight at him. It looks like it’s been drawn in marker or something, or painted sloppily, and he hopes for Michael’s sake that it can last despite a beating or two. (In the back of his head is a plan for a heist that'll involve a lot of swimming, but-)
"It'll probably do."
Where did he put his sewing kit? It’s not a lot - a couple of needles, a pair of scissors, some fabric glue and two spools of thread inside a plastic bag - but it’ll probably do, like always. Geoff finds it jammed into the bottom drawer between pairs of woolen socks. It takes him back to a time when he still felt like a punk boy out of his depth, wearing a big jacket just to look less lost. Now it's often a suit instead, though he can't feel confident that it isn't just serving the same purpose.
A little bit of glue, a little poke here and there with the tip of a scissor-blade. It’s a poor man’s hands that know how to do this. But still. It makes the rest of the world go away so all that remains is this room, this jacket.
“You look like you’re remembering something nice,” Michael says. “Spill it.”
Geoff realizes that he’s been smiling. Eyes still fixed on the work, the black-on-black fabrics difficult to tell apart, he doesn’t say that he thought about the first couple of months with Jack. He mended her horrible shirts, and she put azaleas in his chest pocket in passing. For a while, it was all hiding and treating small wounds and working their way up from dumps to more daring crimes. Michael doesn’t need to know about that time before they got their shit together.
As if reading Geoff’s thoughts, Michael speaks up again: “Don't get sentimental on me. I’m not used to thinking about what you did before the crew.”
Geoff hums in reply. Maybe he is sentimental, but when Michael approaches him and Geoff’s sees how much broader and stronger he’s gotten, he can’t help but feel that there’s something uneven between them – he has seen where Michael began, struggling on the street with a knot of rage and anger issues, and he has seen that youth burn into a wild and admittedly still kind of immature manhood. Geoff’s past is his alone. Michael doesn't know it all. Never will.
Needle. Thread. Glue, a final adjustment.
Michael is close, his shadow falling over Geoff as he leans in. His face is lit by light reflected off a full-length mirror.
“There we go,” Geoff says, turning the jacket over to show off his finished work.
Michael doesn’t reach for it. Instead, he straightens up and draws back –
“Put it on me,” he says, eyes darting towards his reflection.
And Geoff stands up, that smile back on his lips again as he shakes the jacket until it hangs straight. Just so. There’s room for the both of them in the mirror when he stands behind Michael and drapes the leather around the younger man’s shoulders. Like putting a mantle on him. Now Michael looks more like himself again, proper intimidating.
He turns a little, showing off the new patch from different angles.
“Perfect,” he says.
The word gives Geoff a little burst of pride swelling in his chest, and before he knows it, his arms are wrapped around Michael from behind, pulling him into in an embrace. This pride is too big to come from something as small has needlework; it’s something else, too - something that has to do with the way Michael tilts his head back and kisses Geoff ever-so-briefly.
The embroidery on the back of the jacket isn’t just for show. Michael’s made himself into a wolf in the streets of their city. Geoff’s made him into that. His hands leave Michael’s waist, the movement clumsy and slow. He breathes in deep.
“I could swear I’ve seen the symbol before,” he mumbles, pointing to the new patch, the only one not yet frayed all over.
“Really? You didn’t recognize it at once?”
“…No?”
Turning around, Michael grabs Geoff’s shirt and pulls it up. Geoff stands still, not quite understanding why he’s being undressed, although he certainly won’t complain if putting on a bit of leather got Michael that much in the mood. He gets one arm through a sleeve before Michael places two fingers on Geoff’s bare skin, by his ribs, and oh.
“So that’s what it was,” Geoff muses. It's the same simple eye-design. The mark on Michael's patch is a tattoo on his own body. “In my defence, it’s early – “
“It’s twelve thirty in the middle of the goddamn day, Geoff.”
“- and it’s not like I inspect my chest that often. After a certain point when you've this many tattoos a man can’t be expected to keep track of all o-“
Michael shuts him up, lips against lips, and he’s laughing when they part. His laughter is so loud. While Geoff stumbles back and falls onto his bed, shirt still half undone, he wonders if anybody else hears them. If Jack is standing in the kitchen tending to budding azaleas or making coffee for them.
“Did you make that patch to make Gavin jealous?” he asks, an eyebrow raised.
“…I’ll admit I am fucking with him a little bit.” Michael puts his hands in his pockets and admires himself one last time. “Might be fun. We'll see what he says about it, right?”
“Right.”
And Geoff admires Michael too, as he leaves, headed for whatever the afternoon has in store for him.
“It looks good on you,” Geoff says, but what he means is I look good on you. His money and handiwork, his fucking legacy on Michael’s shoulder, a perfect fit.
It’s all he can think of when he lies back down on his bed, as smugly satisfied as he’s ever been on a lazy Sunday.