Chapter Text
Victorian London isn’t exactly Mick’s idea of a good time. Sure, it’s a filthy, corrupt city, full of bars, opium dens, and crime on every corner. But there’s also the ungodly stench of the streets, the smog in the air . . . what’s he forgetting?
Oh, that’s right. The serial killer on the loose. It’s 1888, Ripper is still slashing up prostitutes whenever he likes, and it doesn’t sit well with Mick.
It’s not the murdering part that gets him, really. It’s the undeserved, gruesome chaos of it. Nate, in one of his history lectures, tells the team a little too much about what Jack the Ripper does to his victims—throats cut, stomachs gutted like a fish, some were even plundered for organs or worse. The information is enough to make Jax lose his dinner, even before the time jump.
The aberration doesn’t have anything to do with the Ripper, though. It’s something else; someone trying to sell advanced weapons to a terrified police force that will do anything to maintain the appearance of control. It doesn’t take Sherlock to figure out that the culprits are most likely Darhk, Merlyn, and the speedster again.
So, naturally, Mick wants to suit up. He finds her in the fabrication room after they land, waiting for a crimson-colored gown and matching hat to be finished. She’s already dressed in Victorian undergarments (which, unfortunately, leave more to the imagination than their modern-day counterparts, except for her legs, which are fairly exposed). Her hair is fashioned into a similarly conservative updo, with bobby pins jammed in at every inch.
“Give me a hand with this damned thing?” she asks, gesturing to the corset, which is only partially laced up. Mick gives a nod, and she stands in front of him, hands straight at her sides. “Is there any era lacking in ridiculous and painful fashion trends?”
“Pretty sure it’s the one constant in all of time,” he mutters, lacing the ribbon through the holes, slowly, feeling like it’s a job suited to someone with smaller hands (and maybe someone who isn’t a little preoccupied thinking about the almost-kiss that happened earlier). “Let me know if it’s too tight.”
“You’re good, so far,” she says.
“You know, if you sat this mission out, you wouldn’t have to wear this crap,” he says, trying to ignore the way Amaya squirms when his fingers accidentally brush skin instead of ribbon.
“No chance. Rex’s killer is probably behind the aberration,” she says firmly. “I’m going.”
Mick sighs. “Look, Vix. Forget about the speedster. Even without him, there’s still a man running around London, killing whoever he likes. And no offense, but in this era, he’s probably going to care about offing a . . . a woman like you even less than a prostitute. And Sara probably shouldn’t be going out their either, but she’s the captain.”
“I can defend myself, Mick, totem or not,” she says, fingering the necklace. “And so can Sara, you know that. Have you seen the skirts women wear in this era? She can hide at least twenty knives in one of them.”
“Fine,” Mick replies, finishing the corset with a bow. “Just stay out of trouble, alright?”
“Words I never thought I’d hear from you,” Amaya says, walking over to get her dress from behind a glass case. She slips it on easily, despite the long sleeves and ridiculous bustle. Then she pins the matching hat on her head, and puts on a pair of slippers, although they’re barely visible under the hem of the dress. She actually spins a little when she’s done. “How do I look?”
“Like Beauty and the Beast, except in red instead of yellow,” he says, instead of what he’s actually thinking, which is Breathtaking. Honestly, Amaya’s pulled off every outfit she’s worn since getting on board, regardless of the era (though truth be told, the red dress she wore in the bar fight against the Nazis is probably his favorite).
“The French fairy tale?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
“No, an animated movie based off that story,” he says. “I used to babysit Sn—a friend of mine’s sister, and she always wanted to rent it. She loved all of it. The music, the characters, the story, but I think her favorite part was always the dress the main character, Belle, wore. It was kind of like the one you’re wearing, only yellow, and the sleeves are a little shorter, but,” He shrugs “It’s got that same princess-y look.”
Amaya gives him a sly grin. “Are you saying I’m a princess, Mick?”
“Would explain why you’re such a royal pain,” he shoots back, but his heart’s not really in the insult and she’s still smiling. She takes a step forward, pointing at the black tie that came with his Victorian-era suit (he accepted almost the entire outfit, with the exception of a top hat).
“You’ve got the cravat wrong,” she says, undoing the knot. Mick stiffens a little, having her so close. “It needs to be narrower around the neck and wider down the front.”
“Mhm,” is all Mick says, as Amaya carefully ties the cloth around his neck. Months ago, he’d have been worried that she’d try to strangle him with it. But now, that’s not what he thinks she has in mind (or what’s in his). Right now, he’s a little too preoccupied with how close she is, her hands just inches away from his neck, her breath mixing with his, everything just a heartbeat away and for the taking.
And for a thief, the taking part’s supposed to be easy. He should be able to lean forward, just like that, and kiss Amaya with no problem. Mick’s used to taking what he wants, sure, but in this case, it’s different. Does he want to move forward, to feel her lips on his? Of course he does. But that’s not all he wants.
Mick wants her to reciprocate. He wants her to kiss him back, and not just see it as a joke or a one-time thing. He wants to know that this . . . thing between them hasn’t just been imagined on his part, and that it won’t fall apart with something as simple as a kiss.
He decides to make a compromise between action and inaction. He leans forward, about to kiss her on the cheek, when Amaya reacts, turning so her lips are directly over his, drawing him closer, her hand wrapped tight around his tie. It doesn’t take long for him to get overwhelmed, noticing just how wonderful it tastes and feels to have her so close. He grips her arms tightly, pressing her against the wall. She removes his lips from his, and for a beat, he’s disappointed, before she makes her way from his throat to his jaw, kissing every inch of skin, going further up, even to his ear.
She pulls back to look at him, pupils dilated and breathing heavy. It takes him all of one second to lean forward and kiss her again, savoring every bit of it until he lets go. She relaxes a little, releasing his tie, and wraps her arms around him, turning it into a hug. Mick wonders if she can feel his heart, beating like a jackhammer.
After a few minutes, he lets go of her, and they step apart.
“We should get to the bridge,” he says, checking his watch. “They’re going to be calling for us any second.”
“Yeah,” she replies, heading for the door. Then she turns to look at him. “But you’re showing me Beauty and the Beast later.”
“Okay,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Besides, I might need help with my tie again.”
Amaya gives him a smile, reaching for his hand. “I’d be more than happy to help.” And with that, they head to meet up with the rest of team. Somehow, Mick thinks, things are looking up. Against all odds.
So, naturally, it takes all of five minutes for the mission to go to shit.