Chapter Text
Mick feels terribly out of place here, in front of Jeremy’s house.
He let everyone else walk in the house first, he hadn’t showed up late, but definitely not the earliest. He practically just wanted to stall the entire thing, maybe pretend he didn’t know a single thing about this meet up, drive away in his van and go back to solidarity.
But once the last person walks in, he takes a longer look at the house. The white, snowy, pristine and perfect house. That’s Scout’s— no, Jeremy’s house. God, Jeremy owns a house, a nice house, with toys piled up in the yard and— toys?
Mick lurches forward, leaning to look at the lawn closely. He squints. No, that’s not working.
So, with a faint hesitance, he steps out of his van, locks the door behind him. He slowly walks, something Jeremy always got onto him about, down the sidewalk, up to Jeremy’s porch. Yes, there are toys in the yard, colorful plastic cars and slides and bikes, cheap playground equipment, baseballs. He feels his heart drop into his stomach in a way he can’t understand, and almost decides to just turn around, until the door swings open and he gets to view the shining face of the new Jeremy Willis.
The sharpshooter stares at him. It feels like an eternity, but God, he’s taking everything in. He’s no older than Jeremy, maybe by just a few years— and yet, he still looks a lot more youthful than him. If he’s gone grey, it certainly isn't showing the way Mick’s is, decorating the sides of his head like a stupid look at me, I look older than I am halo. A few wrinkles in the face, yes, but some could easily be taken as smile lines, and, there’s hardly a time Jeremy isn’t smiling.
Like now, for example, where Jeremy’s bubbly smile isn’t present. He stares, just as awestruck as Mick. Then, the scout drives his weight into him, into a tight hug. Mick wraps his arms around Jeremy, just the same.
They’re both silent, for a little. Jeremy nuzzles his face softly into Mick’s neck a way all too familiar for him, urging a soft sound out of the older. It’s almost too intimate.
“You made it,” Jeremy speaks softly, pulling away to look at him with a big, dumb smile. “You fucker! You’re never late.”
Mick lightens up a little. He’s allowing himself this, to lighten up a little. Jeremy is different, no doubt, but he’s… familiar. The same voice. The same shape, size. “I wasn’t late.” Mick responds, then looks around. Everyone’s here, and he knows that he’s the last. He also technically knows he isn’t late, but he’d better pretend. “... Right?”
“Naw, you’re on time, actually. I’m just playin’.” Jeremy pulls a bit farther away from him, a distance Mick hates. He hopes Jeremy misses it too, at least. Jeremy bites his lip, looking a little anxious to say his next words. “Y’look good, Mick.”
Mick stares back, he’s dumbfounded. He used to be better at this. He used to be so, so much better at this. He used to be the one who could fluster Jeremy, get him all sorts of red and defensive, covering his face and play fighting in a way all too cute. Jeremy is still cute, now, but… There’s something different. There’s something so insanely different, and now Mick is the one spiraling, red in the face, lost for words. “I– uh,” He starts, “You look good, too, Jeremy.”
Not a lie. Jeremy relatively looks the same, he hasn’t changed much in looks. A new haircut, sure. But he looks cute with longer hair. Mick fights the urge to comb his fingers through the new length. He always liked Jeremy’s hair. It was soft.
“Oh, I’m well aware.”
At least he’s still cocky, Mick thinks, as Jeremy grabs his wrist softly. He’s leading him, and Mick follows like a dog.
There’s no silence. Jeremy, like always, is able to make sure of that. “Let’s get ya situated in the dinin’ room, yeah? I hope you’re hungry, we ain’t got squirrels and alligators for you to eat,” Mick hopes to God he’s teasing him with that joke, as Jeremy continues, “But uh– Miss Pauling brought a turkey, I think? And—” They’re suddenly stopped in their tracks, and Mick leans to the side to see a girl in front of them, grabbing at Jeremy’s pant leg desperately. She’s got Jeremy’s eyes.
Jeremy lowers himself to her level. “What is it, Tanya?” He asks softly, and Mick— He zones out, just so he can’t pay attention to the rest of this conversation. For his own sake. He feels so— so stupid, there’s a feeling swelling inside of him he just can’t understand. Envy? Maybe envy, as he watches the man in front of him care for the girl, with such sweet understanding. A maturity he never quite knew the man to have.
He gets up as the girl— Tanya, Tanya, what a beautiful name— skips away. Jeremy looks back at Mick, and he snaps out of whatever trance he was just in. “Sorry, man,” He sighs, “They’re crazy today, all four of ‘em. Gotta be the holiday, I guess.”
Four of them. Four. Four children, four. Mick replays this in his head, over, and over, he’s practically driving himself crazy. He can’t believe it. He turns to look into the living room, and he sees one, two, three— yeah, that’s four… all playing, full of energy. “Wow,” He admires softly, “They’re a rowdy bunch, huh?” Just like Jeremy.
“Yeah,” Jeremy replies, with a sweet tiredness— he’s not upset with his kids, Mick can tell. “It’s a lot harder without another person around, y’know? But… What can y’do with deadbeats? Just gotta make do with what I got.”
Deadbeats. Deadbeats. The mother— or, mothers— they aren’t in the picture. Mick thinks one, entirely selfish, thing at this moment: He wouldn’t have left.
That jealousy burns inside him again— an anger, almost. Not at Jeremy, not at his children. Maybe, himself? But this burning, boiling anger festers as he daydreams.
If the time had been right, if Jeremy hadn’t left so abruptly, if… If he had gotten over Pauling sooner. Mick loved him, they had love. Jeremy couldn’t accept it fully, but they had love, for as long as they could. As long as Mick could savor.
He wouldn’t leave him. He wouldn’t have left. Not after the first kid, nor the second, he would stay for all four. Care for them. Provide for them. Take as many jobs as he needed to, kill as many assholes as humanly possible just so he could come home to them.
So he could hang his coat up at the door, right next to Jeremy’s, the kids’ coats below theirs. So he could take his boots off, place them nice and neat next to Jeremy’s running shoes. So he could bring dinner home, they could all sit together and watch television. And in the brief, tender quiet, he gets to look at his family and finally feel content. He gets to tuck his children into bed. He gets to hold Jeremy, close and tight every night— and feel like his life is normal. Fulfilled. Perfect. Fuck, perfect.
Mick swallows, then places a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder. It’s meant to soothe him, but his grip is just a little too tight. Jeremy leans his weight ever so slightly away from him. Mick lets go.
“I’m sorry,” he manages to choke out, within a sea of thoughts swimming in his head. An apology for so, so many things. “Still, you seem t’be doing a great job, yeah?”
Jeremy nods. He can’t seem to make eye contact with Mick, which usually was never a problem. Mick’s not very good at eye contact anyway, but today, it feels strange not to have it. “It’s… yeah, yeah,” Jeremy agrees, then gestures onward. “I’ll get you situated, then we can all hang out with the guys, yeah? Like old times.”
Like old times. Sure, sure, this can be like old times, Mick thinks, if you’d just let me kiss you. It’s a selfish, immature thought. It’s something he’s craved all these years. He never sent him any letters, never showed up to his door. Just a craving, burning inside of him— a yearning. He realizes, now, this feeling eating him alive is yearning.
He very seldom hung out with the guys back when they worked together, not if Jeremy wasn’t around. He didn’t even know what he was expecting, showing up here, other than a big emotional shitfest. He somewhat wished that when he showed up here, Jeremy would take him back. Love on him severely, just like old times. This isn’t like old times. Everyone’s different, everyone’s moved on. Except Mick. No, not Mick. He’s still Sniper. Jeremy isn’t Scout— not anymore— but Mick is still Sniper.
No matter who he is, what he is, he still will respect Jeremy. So, he nods, and follows Jeremy to the dining room.