Chapter Text
the adrenaline junkie
They stumble back to Mick’s place, drunk on adrenaline and lack of sleep.
“They never saw it coming,” Len says, so smug and pleased with himself that the skin near his eyes wrinkles. He’s not walking as much as he’s swaggering, hips sashaying with each step and his boots thumping confidently against the ground. His coat’s open, despite the cold wind, and it billows around him like he’s on a movie stage.
It’s all so over the top that it ought to look ridiculous. Yet somehow Len makes it look good.
And Mick’s only too happy to march alongside him. The street, long and empty, unfurls ahead of them, lit by sparse street lights and the occasional passing car. To a country boy like him, the city’s never quiet and the air never fresh but tonight it’s close enough.
“Perfectly planned,” Len continues in a sing-song voice, “and perfectly executed.”
At the praise, Mick takes a mock bow then reaches into his pocket to fish out a lighter and a battered pack of cigarettes. It’s a rare treat to see Len so stripped of his normal reserve and Mick basks in the unexpected warmth, much in the same way as he’d once savored the first few days of summer.
“Very professional,” he hears himself agree, his voice rough and gravelly even before he lights the cigarette. The end of it glows hot and bright in the dark night. He inhales deeply, hollowing his cheeks and filling his lungs. Next to him, Len wrinkles his nose in theatrical distaste.
“Passive smoking kills,” he informs Mick, in that prudish old grandma voice that he uses to remind Mick to fasten his seat belt and wash his hands before tucking into a shared pizza. Mick grins, blowing a mouthful of smoke in Len’s directions.
“If it's gonna kill you, then you might as well enjoy it properly,” he says, offering him the cigarette, saliva-dampened end first. Nobody's more surprised than him though when Len actually plucks the cigarette out of his hand. His eyes widen further as Len takes an obscenely slow drag. The glowing ember illuminates the planes and angles of his face to make him look, for a moment, like a stranger.
Then, because Len’s a contrary bastard even when riding the high of a successful heist, Mick's partner lets the cigarette butt fall from his hand into a puddle of murky water. Now Mick wouldn't normally let that kind of bullshit slide. But there's something about the curve of Len's smile and the glittering mischief in his eyes. Something that makes tonight different. Sighing at his own foolishness, Mick digs through his pockets for another cigarette.
xxx
They make it home shortly after midnight.
The hallway’s too small for the two of them so Mick shoves past his guest, trailing mud behind him on his way to the kitchen. Dirty plates wait for him in the sink and the ash tray’s overflowing. But there’s beer in the fridge, whiskey in the cupboard next to a pack of stale crackers and a half-empty bottle of vodka kept chilled in the freezer. There might even be a bottle of red under the sink, kept next to the roach killer and the bleach. Stuffing a handful of crackers into his mouth, he considers his options.
“Beer?” he eventually calls over his shoulder, only to receive a non-committal grunt in reply. Wiping crumbs off his chin he grabs a six pack and steers his steps towards the living room. There he finds Len fiddling with the remote, zapping through the channels so fast that just glancing at the screen gives Mick a headache. In Mick’s absence Len has sprawled across the entire couch, his coat draped over the back of Mick’s armchair and his mud-stained boots piled inelegantly under the side-table.
“I thought I was the one raised in a barn,” Mick complains as he steals back the remote and shoves Len’s legs off the couch to make room for himself. He kicks off his own boots and plants his feet on the table. Twisting the cap off his beer he switches to the nature channel. A few fox cubs tumble across the screen, the grass high and green around them. The narrator drones on, but Mick’s tuning out the actual words as he sinks back into the pillows and sets to work emptying the first bottle. After a while he gets tired of Len’s legs dangling awkwardly over the edge of the couch and picks them up, draping them over his own thighs.
“Your feet stink,” he lets Len know without taking his eyes off the screen.
“I’m amazed that you can tell over the stench of your own foot-rot,” Len mumbles. Now that they're safe and sound in Mick's apartment, he’s coming down hard, skin pale and eyes barely open. All the energy that’s been humming under his skin for the past few days has disappeared, leaving him loose-limbed and mostly asleep. Mick hides a smile behind his bottle. He praises himself on having made the right call by not bringing in the whiskey.
Many years ago, back before he knew better, he’d attempted to cure Len’s inevitable post-heist adrenaline crash with a few stiff drinks. The result had been amusing for the first hour, then suddenly very alarming for the rest of the night. It's not a mistake he'll be repeating.
On the screen, the mother fox brings her cubs the mangled remains of a forest bird. They cheerfully rip into it, their little snouts turning bloody and feathers sticking to their wet fur. The biggest cub pushes its weaker siblings to the side, greedily swallowing down big shreds of meat without chewing. The narrator speaks, very quietly, of the approaching harsh winter and Mick raises the volume.
Far from disturbing his partner, the drone of the television tends to lull Len to sleep. It’s a neat trick that he’s picked up from Lisa. Reminded of a forgotten task he digs through his jeans pockets until he finds his phone. Switching on the screen he types out a message to Lisa to let her know that her brother will be crashing at Mick's place. His phone dings just a few seconds after he hits send.
If he drools send pics. XOXOXO.
Mick chuckles but doesn’t make any promises. Yawning wide, he then reaches for his second beer, only half-listening as the narrator describes how most of the cubs won’t survive until spring. By the time the bottle’s empty, Len’s already asleep, head tilted back and mouth half-open. The side of his face may, or may not, be damp with drool.
“Fucking adrenaline junkie,” Mick mutters, softening the words by rubbing his thumb gently along the heel of Len’s stinky sock.