Archive of Our Own ^beta

“I don’t need a damn bodyguard,” Len growls.

He’s leaning in the doorway, tapping his foot, too irritated to bother to hide it.

He can often be found here, between Lisa’s center of political activity and the hallway. The bright lights of the mayoral office are her domain. She fits into it all so well - the performance of the job, the persona. Len prefers it here in the shadows.

Lisa hasn’t even looked up from her papers. “We’ve talked about this, Lenny. Your past plus my present makes this job a serious risk for you. I need to know you’re safe.” 

She’s started doing her paperwork standing. She claims it’s good for her fitness, but Len suspects she’s just too busy to sit down. Len’s tired just watching her buzzing from one end of her desk to the other. He can’t help admitting it, though - she looks like she belongs behind that desk.

Lisa doesn’t often talk about why she does this job. About what possessed her to stand for mayoral office in their once-quiet city now lousy with meta-heroes, supervillains and, for a while, that freak of a speedster trying to run the whole show. These days the city probably does okay for ghastly tourism, what with that creepy STAR Labs and its creepier mad scientist, but it’s still one hell of a place to do politics.

It’s not like Lisa was even born on the right side of the tracks for politics. They’d grown up in a tiny third-floor apartment in sprawling Danville, with a mother - stepmom to Len - who’d tried her best, but was always working at least two jobs to keep Lisa in school and ice skates. Len was just grateful that she’d kicked their father to the curb before he’d had the chance to raise Lisa the same brutal way he’d treated Len. There are worse things than growing up without a dad.

But, turned out, Lisa hadn’t been oblivious to that. She’d been young when Lewis was knocking Len and her mother around. For years after they left, Len thought she’d forgotten. Then, one September afternoon, she came home from school with a flyer. “We get extra credit if we volunteer, this year,” she’d announced, with her head in the fridge. “I’ve been over to the shelter on Fourth Street. You know, where they help battered partners and kids,” she added, her tone casual. She removed her head and four cheesestrings from the fridge. “They’re letting me come every Thursday. I don’t have classes that afternoon, so it works out. Also, I wanna be a social worker. Or maybe a therapist. You know, something with people in trouble. Mom, you’re getting pasta sauce on the floor.”

Len and his stepmother shared a look, but said nothing. It wasn’t Lisa’s worst career idea.

Then there were a few years when she flitted between dead end jobs, easily distracted by parties, drinking, and pretty things of all genders. Still, Len hadn’t been surprised when she had hit 25, sobered up, and went back to school to be a social worker. Nor when, a couple of years later, she’d talked her way into an internship with some hot shot local politico. “The problem, Lenny,” she’d said, swinging her legs under the kitchen chair just like when she was twelve, “is that it’s the system that’s fucked up. I can’t fix that with just a bit of tea and sympathy.”

“So change the system,” he drawled, aiming for sarcasm.

She’d only gone and taken him seriously. First she’d got herself elected to a local council office, and then to the office of the deputy mayor. She kept going, till she was the youngest person ever to hold Central City’s top job.

Len has a bet on that she’ll make Senator before she’s forty.

And sure, he’s proud that one of them worked their way out of the slums, all the way to the top. But being the big brother of the mayor doesn't have a single perk that Len can think of. He’s a selfish shit for thinking that - of course he is - but he can’t even get away with petty theft anymore, with all this mayoral security on his back. And sometimes he wonders if Lisa’s ashamed of her ex-con brother. If that’s part of why she’s been trying to control his every move since her campaign started.

“Lenny, are you listening to me?”

He slouches a little more deeply against the doorframe. “Listening, Lise. Tell me why you need to get me a babysitter, please.”

Lisa puts down her paperwork. “I just did. Apparently your head was somewhere else.” She shoots him a look that makes him squirm a bit. When he tries to look away, she steps around the desk, crosses the office in heels with an intimidating click to them, and stops in front of him. Just looking at him, with love and concern mixed with real fear. 

Oh, dammit.

She cups his cheek with her hand. “Do we need to talk about last month?”

He shakes his head, for once having trouble finding words - not that any are needed. They both know what could have happened to Len, if that Santini bullet that hadn’t ended up in his leg. 

“You know what it would have done to me if you’d died, Lenny,” she says. “I need to know you’re safe. Don’t make a fuss, ‘kay?” 

Len looks into Lisa’s damp eyes, and every objection he can think of evaporates on the spot. He sighs, but it’s just for show. “Fine,” he drawls. He meets her eyes again and grins. “Whoever you pick better be cute.”

She snorts, sauntering around brightly - the vexing moment of feelings quickly forgotten - and picking something up from her desk. She waves it at him. “Here’s the list the agency sent over. Choose the guy yourself, if you want.” 

Len grabs the list, making sure to roll his eyes again in another show of reluctance - he can’t show too much weakness, now, can he? “Guy or girl, I think you mean. And fine, I will.”

“Good.” She smiles that artfully sweet smile of hers. “And now would you mind getting out of my office, brother dear? Unlike some people, I’ve got work to do. And unlike your future hot security guard, I don’t get paid to babysit you.”

He fires some rude words behind him as he leaves, trainwreck among them.

“Jerk,” she yells back down the corridor after him, and he grins - once he’s sure she can’t see him.

The interviews take all day. By the end of it, Len is left contemplating whether death by Santini would be preferable to spending the rest of his life being looked after by any of these bozos.

He lounges in a chair in the corner of the room while Lisa’s own bodyguard does the hard work. Len just watches the parade of people, mostly ex-military, who’d all be a total liability in any of the places where Len spends his time. He tries to imagine one of them - a tall, serious-looking woman, Ava something - in one of the bars where he hangs out. Sure, she looks capable. She’d also get Len barred from Saints and Sinners within two minutes of walking in the door. And if Family types started shooting again, she’d kill the lot of them and bring fire raining down on Len’s head. Same goes for most of the people they see that day.

Len jerks himself awake at about 5pm, as the last guy walks in.

Lisa’s irritating French bodyguard Pierre - no one’s allowed to call him by his last name - starts firing off useless questions, like he has been all day.  “Mr… Rory, yes? You have, shall we say, a spotty record, hmm?” He looks disdainfully down at the guy’s resume, practically holding it by one corner. “Very… spotty.”

Pierre used to be something impressive in the French army, the arrogant fucker. He never stops going on about it.

Rory mumbles something in reply. He looks decidedly  uncomfortable in this setting - maybe it’s the political thing. He definitely doesn’t look like he’d fit in around here. Shaved head, leather jacket, burns on his hands all the way up to where they disappear under his sleeves, and the most interesting face Len’s seen in ages. He’s kinda terrifying, but there’s something thoughtful just beneath the gruff exterior. 

Len’s trying not to stare, but he can’t look away. The guy’s got such nice eyes. Sad, but… nice.

“And, tell me, Mr. Rory, how would you deal with a shooting such as that in which Mr. Snart was involved some weeks ago? What procedures would you follow, and what experience do you have that would be useful?”

Len’s not listening to the guy’s answer. He’s watching those sharp eyes taking everything in. He wonders what this ‘spotty record’ thing is about, and whether it’s an interesting story.

And suddenly, he really wants to know - even more than he wants to avoid this bodyguard nonsense.

“Can I take you for a test drive?” he interrupts, from his corner. It’s the first thing he’s said all day.

Rory coughs, apparently catching on to the innuendo. “I, uh— What, like a car? Sure, I guess...”

Len gets up, walking over and offering the guy his hand. “Good. Subject to a successful ride - metaphorically speaking, of course - you’ve got yourself a job, Mr. Rory.”

Rory smiles. It’s a good smile. It doesn’t make his face any less terrifying, but it lets a bit of light in. “Call me Mick,” he says.

Pierre splutters something about procedure, but there’s no way he’s overruling the mayor’s brother, and Len’s entirely willing to take advantage of that. Sitting back down, he ignores Pierre’s hissed whisper about how the guy’s an idiot. It only makes him more sure he’s gone for the right guy. He focuses on enjoying the first rush of adrenaline he’s had in a year. And on Rory.

Yeah, Len thinks. A good choice.

He’s only doing this for Lisa. But maybe he can have some fun in the meantime.

Len takes the guy to Saints and Sinners. Just for a test drive.

He fits in so well, he could have been a regular there all his life.

“Hey,” says the cute twink in the AC/DC t-shirt. 

Len is making a five-step plan. If he follows it to the letter, the final step will see the guy falling into bed him with by the end of the night. Len should probably learn his name at some point, just to help that along. He makes a mental note. 

“Is that guy with you?” asks Cute Twink.

Len looks up. Mick Rory is at the bar, fitting in with a girl. She’s pretty. Len gets a strange twinge of… something. 

Whatever. He’s got a plan to execute. He turns back to Cute Twink. “No.” He takes a cool sip of his beer. “So you were saying - you’re in imports?” It’s very obvious code. The little guy’s a fence. Which is fine, Len’s not picky, doesn’t need him to be rich for a good night in bed. It’s not like he’s looking for anything more than that. 

It’s not like Len wants a relationship.

They settle back into conversation. Len buys the guy a third beer, and he proves to be an excellent kisser. Len’s just got him to the ‘tongue in ear’ stage of the plan when—

“HEY!” 

Len winces at the yelling. 

And again, when he gets shoved away from Cute Twink. 

Who is currently being held up against the bar by Len’s fucking bodyguard, who looks ready to tear him to pieces.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Rory?”

Mick doesn’t let go of the poor little guy, who he’s got suspended in mid-air, his feet dangling an inch or two above the floor. He half-turns to glare at Len. “He’s Family.”

“What?” The guy’s a nobody. Len knows the type - they’ll work with anyone for the right price. 

“Santini,” Mick growls in the guy’s face. “Tell him.”

“I’m sorry!” Cute Twink whimpers. “I’m not anyone important.” Mick slams him against the bar. “I’m not!” He splutters. “I’m just Vincent Santini’s third cousin twice removed. I’m no one - just a fence. I promise.”

“I don’t care,” Mick rumbles. “You get away from him now, and maybe I’ll let you keep the family jewels you were about to show off to him.”

And, oh fuck. The staff at Saints and Sinners don’t usually get excited over brewing bar fights - there’s someone being threatened there at least once a night. But Maggie is strolling over with a dark look on her face. The last time Len saw that look, he was barred for a month afterwards. “You wanna put my customer down?” she asks, in an accidentally sweet voice that belies her ability to kick the asses of people twice her size. “Or do you wanna leave? Now.”

Len grabs Mick’s arm and pulls. He doesn’t trust his ability to overpower this big lump of a man, but he does trust his ability to fire him. “We’re leaving,” he reassures her. “Sorry, Maggie. Won’t happen again.”

Mick puts the twink down with a thump. (He squeaks.)

“It better not,” Maggie says, with a thin smile that says don’t ever expect to come back here if it does.

Len has Mick out the door faster than that Zoom guy who used to piss off his sister so much. Once they’re safely out of the Saints parking lot, he spins on his heel to glare at his bodyguard - who is at least looking appropriately apologetic. “What the fuck,” he hisses, “was that?”

Mick is wide-eyed, apparently only just figuring out that he’s one stupid move away from losing his new job on the same day he started. Good. “I told you,” he mutters. “Santini.”

Moving a safe few paces away down the sidewalk, Len throws up his hands. “Rory, every other person in this town is related to a Santini or a Darbinyan or a Sullivan. If you’re gonna threaten them all, you’re gonna kill my dating life stone dead. And given that pretty boys are all I’ve got to do right now—”

He pauses, turning away and muttering a curse at his own temper. That was more personal information than his bodyguard needed.

“Sorry, boss,” Mick says. He really sounds contrite now.

Len motions to a low wall at the edge of the street and sits down. A wary-looking Mick joins him, shoving his knees up against his chest to fit his lumbering body on the damn wall. Len reminds himself that this is not cute. “Rory—”

“Mick.” 

“What exactly did my sister tell you, Mick, when she shortlisted you for this job?”

Mick side-eyes him, apparently working out what’s appropriate to say. He’s really not good at the ‘soft skills’ side of this job. “She said to do anything it took to keep you safe.” His eyes flicker to the ground. “She’s scared for you,” he says, quieter. There’s something oddly wistful in his voice, but Len doesn’t know nearly enough about the guy to guess what that’s about.

He ignores the stab of guilt in his chest. It’s Lisa’s fault. All of this. She can go screw herself—

He sighs. “Yeah, I know,” he admits, just as quietly.

“You gonna fire me?”

Len shakes his head. “Guess there are worse bodyguards. And you were fitting in pretty well there - until you tried to beat up my date.” He shuffles around to look at Mick. “But we need some ground rules.”

Mick nods, quick and hopeful.

And, hey - maybe Len can turn this to his advantage. “You’re gonna need some background, on all of this.” He narrows his eyes at Mick. “You like Chinese?”

“...Huh?”

“Chinese food.” Len emphasises the words. “Wanna get some?”

“Uh. Sure?”

Throwing an arm round a very confused Mick’s shoulder, Len leads him the two blocks to Wing Lee Loi, the best Chinese restaurant in Central. Which is also not a bad place to find a date. Maybe Len can still get lucky.

“Here’s the deal,” Len mumbles through a mouthful of shrimp fried rice. “My sister’s too fucking protective, and she’s feeling awful guilty right now.” He shrugs at Mick’s question of a face. “She was even before I got hurt... She persuaded me to give up some of my more illicit activities when she decided to run for mayor.” He scowls at an invisible electorate. “A good politician can answer all kinds of questions about what her family used to do. It’s a lot harder to make excuses for what they’re still doing.”

Mick doesn’t say anything, but those sharp eyes are taking Len in.

“She’s also—” He sighs hard, trying to figure out how to say this in a way that doesn’t give away their entire family history. That doesn’t require him to mention words like triggered or control freak. He settles for a defensive-sounding, “She’s just pissing me off, okay? I like my independence.” He liked what he used to do, too. Having a career, illegal or not. Having a purpose in life, beyond getting guys into bed. But there’s no point complaining about that now. Not when he volunteered to change. For Lisa.

“Why’s she so protective?” Mick asks, twirling noodles around his fork. “I know you got shot, but she’s being... Would the mayor fire me if I called her insane?”

“Yes,” Len says, distracted by the stab in his chest. “She saw me get hurt a lot when she was a little kid.” The truth slips out before he can cork it back in the bottle, mostly thanks to the three beers he’s had tonight. “This mayor thing, and the shooting… that’s just made it worse.”

Mick nods silently like he gets it.

After a minute of quiet, Len waves a fork at him. “And what about you, hmm? How d’you get into the bodyguard game?”

Mick shrugs. “Not much to tell,” he says, in a voice that suggests there’s rather a lot to tell but he doesn’t want to be the one doing the telling. “I grew up doing martial arts. To distract me from… other shit I could’ve been doing.”

“Ah,” Len says. He doesn’t ask. 

He wants to, though. He wants to know a lot more about this stoic bodyguard with the blazing temper and the sad eyes, and he doesn’t know why. Or if it’s a good idea, when they’ve gotta get used to a professional relationship. There’s no room for anything… more. 

So he doesn’t ask.

All things settle down in time, even Leonard Snart.

Eventually, he gets bored with giving his bodyguard the slip while they’re out, with forgetting to tell Mick where to meet him, or giving him an address that turns out to be Pizza Hut, and he decides they might as well make the best of this forced proximity. 

So he shrugs and signs Mick’s permanent contract. “He’s not so bad, really,” he grudgingly tells Lisa over lunch one day.

An oddly smirking Lisa, who keeps looking between her brother and Mick - standing at the counter, ordering food - like she’s waiting for something.

Sometimes Len’s in a bar, schmoozing someone who looks like an easy lay, and he’ll catch Mick’s eye across the room. And, always professional, Mick smiles that thoughtful smile at Len - the one that lights up his face. Len smiles back. And then Len turns back to his intended conquest… with less enthusiasm, somehow.

One morning, Len wakes up - alone, for once - and reaches across his nightstand to checks his phone. There’s a text from Mick, complete with smiley face and coffee and croissant emojis and a big, bright question mark. Len snorts. Mick’s been getting into emojis, recently. He’s very proud of himself.

Fumbling with his phone, Len blearily manages to reply with a smirk emoji. Let the bastard figure that out.

“Be there in 15,” comes the reply, followed by another, beaming smiley.

Len chuckles and sits up. While he’s groping around the nightstand trying to find his glasses, it occurs to him that the warm feeling in his chest is something he hasn’t felt for a long time. Maybe not since the last successful heist he pulled, over a year ago.

He kinda likes it, he decides.

He kinda likes Mick.

And it’s just a whim… but he’s been indulging a lot of whims since Lisa persuaded him to give up the only thing he was ever really good at.

So he shoots off another message.

Is this a date?

The winky face that Mick sends back isn’t exactly confirmation, but Len still can’t stop smiling all the way to the diner.

Breakfast turns into brunch, turns into afternoon drinks at a bar, turns into drinking till late, and then…

And then Len wakes up next to Mick, and the warm feeling in his chest hasn’t gone away. 

Mick is breathing deeply, his face soft in sleep. Len can feel the heat radiating off him, and he gets the urge to curl against him and cuddle. He hasn’t wanted to do that with anyone for a long time.

“Good morning,” he says when Mick starts to stir, rolling over to kiss him. Morning kisses aren’t something Len usually does with his hookups either, but then he doesn’t often wake up next to them at all. 

Mick’s different.

For a minute, Mick looks up at him with a sleepy smile, and Len damn well melts.

Then Mick blinks at him... and stiffens. 

In one breath, the warmth is punched out of him, replaced by a much more familiar sinking dread in his gut. Len pulls away. “You okay?”

“Sure,” Mick mumbles. He slides out of bed, starts pulling on last night’s clothes.

Len’s feeling oddly shitty about the dozens of people whose beds he’s hightailed it out of, after countless one-night stands. He’s not sure he’s ever had it done to him.

It sucks.

“Mick…” he tries.

Mick is grabbing his bag, his eyes averted. “Sorry, boss— Len. Got things to do. Day off and all.”

The dread in Len’s gut is a treacherous little snake, coiling up into rage. Mick was supposed to be different.

At the bedroom door, Mick pauses. In a moment, Len’s up and leaning against the wall beside him. Not too near, so Mick can make a safe exit if he wants to. “Stay,” he murmurs. “Let’s talk.” 

Len’s not exactly fond of talking, but whatever was starting between the two of them - it’s worth it.

“Sorry,” Mick says into the darkness of the hallway. “This was a mistake.”

And then he’s gone.

Len doesn’t know what’s come over him when, a minute later, the empty glass from his nightstand is shattering against the wall.

“Just another fucking one-night stand, Snart,” he mutters to himself, as he’s cleaning up the mess. “Get over it. Not important.”

It sure as hell wasn’t important to Mick.

Two weeks later, Mick Rory opens the door—

And finds himself staring at his old employer. 

She’s looking at him like she’s about to rip his heart out via his throat. It would be only fair, really.

He coughs. “Mayor Snart. What can I—”

“Oh, don’t even start, Mick,” she snaps, pushing past him to get inside. “And you know my name’s Lisa.”

He rolls his eyes. “Please come in, Lisa.” 

Mick grins as he shuts the door right in her bodyguard’s face. He never did like Pierre. Elitist bastard who thinks Mick’s nothing but a street thug who makes bad decisions.

Maybe he isn’t so wrong about the last part.

Lisa has planted herself on his couch already, her sleek pantsuit and sparkly shoes jarring against the threadbare carpet and cat-clawed secondhand furniture. She’s looking around thoughtfully at Mick’s mess of an apartment. He’s never been ashamed of his living circumstances before, but this is the fucking mayor .

“I, uh—” he starts, and tries again. “Sorry about...” He gestures around the tiny space.

She shrugs. “I was just thinking it’s homely.” She gets a strange smile on her face. “I grew up in a place no bigger than this. Three of us, crammed into a one-bedroom apartment. Lenny slept on the couch.”

He can’t help it - he raises his eyebrows. “Seriously? You?”

She raises hers right back at him. “Hasn’t my brother told you anything about the kind of start we had in life?”

Mick’s curiosity dissolves, making space again more for the guilt he’s been drowning in for two weeks. “He ain’t told me much of anything about himself,” he mutters.

Lisa’s eyes have narrowed at him. If she was angry, she seems to be simmering down already. She motions for him to sit down in the chair opposite - the one that’s worn so thin, the foam is poking through in six places. Mick knows the ancient chair is a fire risk, but he just finds that ironically hilarious.

He sits obediently. It’s his chair, but she’s the mayor.

Lisa draws in a long breath. “Lenny’s not really cut out for this life, y’know,” she says, and that constant worry for her brother is back in her voice. “I tried not to drag him in, I really did.” She shakes her head, crossing one leg over the other like she’s settling in to tell a story. Her gold shoes pick up a sparkle from the bare lightbulb above her. “The three of us - me, Lenny and my mom - we had to make it on our own, when we were… Well, I was real little. Lenny was older.” Her face darkens with something that makes Mick, with all his years of bodyguarding experience, a little nervous. “We should have gotten out earlier, but—” She breaks off, shaking her head and catching Mick’s eye with a pointed look. “You know why I stood on a platform of women and children’s rights, yeah?”

Mick nods. He’d done a bit of research on Mayor Snart before he took the job. It was what made him think about applying. He’d never wanted to work for some establishment politico, and Lisa’s campaign had been about more important things. Mick had his suspicions as to why. He hadn’t come from such a different background himself.

She sighs, her eyes turning distant again, as if she’s watching the past like a movie. “Lenny never wanted to follow our dad into a criminal life, but he didn’t know what else to do with himself. He was sixteen when we ran, and he’d already had to drop out of school...” Her face brightens into that professional mask again. She folds her hands together in front of her and sits forward, catching his eye. “Long story short - there was a lot I had to ask him to give up for me.” She frowns, a little of that real regret returning to her face. “If he hadn’t got hurt a few months ago, I would never have asked him to put up with a bodyguard. The one thing he had left was his freedom, and I took it away.”

And then she leans a little bit further forward, the mask falling, her eyes dangerous again. “And then I found you. And I thought, this guy’s different. This guy, Lenny can work with. I ignored your criminal record and the rumours of some kind of mess you’d caused in your last job, just so I could find him someone he’d be comfortable with. Someone he’d like.” 

Mick swallows at the false note of sweetness creeping into her voice.

“So, Mick. Do you wanna tell me why, after I took a risk on you, you left a note on my desk out of nowhere saying you were quitting, and wouldn’t answer my calls?”

For a second, he wonders if she doesn’t know. “I slept with him,” he admits, desperately hoping that he’s not betraying Len again.

Her smile is thin. “And then ghosted him. Yeah, I’m aware.” He must look surprised, because she adds, “I’m the mayor, Mick. And he’s my brother. I know what I need to know.”

He nods. The splintering arms of the chair dig painfully into his sides, like something he deserves. “My last job, at Palmer Tech - the one that went wrong,” he says. “You ever look into the details?”

She shakes her head. “Figured you deserved your privacy. You were doing your job well - very well. I didn’t need to know anything else.”

“My boss, uh, died,” he says, fighting the rush of images threatening to consume him. Guilt and rage and a blazing office tower, and Mick too lost in the flames to get him out in time. “An investigation cleared me, said it wasn’t my fault, but…”

Lisa’s eyes are fixed on his hands gripping the arms of the chair, at burn scars standing out more prominently than ever against white knuckles. “Do I need to know what happened?” she asks quietly, and - fuck. He’s not in the mood for kindness. 

“No. Just that—”

What? That Mick was in love with Ray Palmer? That he should have saved him? That it was only because he’s so fucked up that he didn’t? 

“It was three years ago. Bad wiring in an old office building we were working out of. It caught fire, and I was too— I couldn’t—” He takes a deep breath. “Fire department got me out. Not him.” To this day, Mick doesn’t know why that firefighter didn’t rescue Ray Palmer first - tech genius, CEO and the one who mattered -  and saved Mick’s useless ass instead.

Lisa’s blinking at him. “What am I missing here?”

Mick sighs. “I’m a pyro. Got treatment, after the accident, but it’s always gonna be a part of me, y’know?” 

And he feels something inside him clam up again. The rest is between him and Len.

...Len. Fuck.

“Are you still in treatment?” she asks, eyebrows raised.

He nods. “It ain’t gonna happen again.”

He gets a thoughtful nod back. “Good,” she says. He doesn’t want to look too closely at why she trusts him, or he’ll start thinking about how he doesn’t deserve it.

“I’m sorry I ran off without telling you why,” he says, and he means his job, but Lisa’s a smart cookie. She knows what else he’s talking about.

She’s half-smiling, a real smile this time. “Apology accepted.” She raises clasped hands to her mouth, considering him. “Now, I know this is none of my business, but could you talk to my poor brother? He’s been moping around like a black cloud since you left. I’m trying to pass housing reforms. He’s distracting me.”

He wants to call her out, because sure, Lisa, that’s why you’re asking, but he just grins at her. “I will.” 

There’s a banging on the door, loud and urgent.

“Ugh, Pierre,” Lisa says. “No patience.” And she gets up to let him in.

He’s waving a phone on the other side of the door. “Mayor Snart, we must go. Now.”

“What—?”

“Your brother,” he says, in a too-calm, insistent tone, gesturing at the phone screen, as though that means anything.

Mick has shot up - he’s already at the door. “What the fuck’s happened to Len?”

“He has been kidnapped,” Pierre says in his dull French tone, which is apparently incapable of expressing the fucking urgency of the situation.

After that, everything is a blur of panic and chaos.

Riding in the back of Pierre’s black van, temporarily reinstated, Mick catches himself praying - of all things. 

Please. 

Don’t let him— 

Don’t let anything happen to him.

It’s dark.

For a minute, Len thinks he’s in jail. There’s something locking his hands together. Maybe he’s been thrown in the cells and he’s just coming round from a night of drinking.

“Wakey-wakey, Leonard,” says the mocking voice of—

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Frank Santini turns on a light, and Len manages to bite down on a groan. At some point, he’s taken a hit to the head. Well, that explains the passing out thing. Possibly also the memory gaps.

He remembers being in… Saints and Sinners. Right. Buying drinks for a nice young guy - a little naive, but cute.

“He was grifting for you,” Len realises out loud.

Frank’s face draws into a tight grin. Two of his teeth are missing - must have just been in a fight, or he’d have got that fixed already. “Don’t be mad at Hartley. Just doing his job. Real well, too - that kid’s got a nice bonus coming.” Frank takes one slow step after another, each clack of his patent leather shoes echoing through the basement floor. “Always liked a pretty face, didn’t you, Snart? You’re just too easy.”

Len drags his gaze downwards. He’s chained, not handcuffed - solid link chain snaking around his hands and arms - to a radiator. He’s been given the dignity of pants, for some unfathomable reason, but he’s not wearing a shirt. The radiator is warm against his skin, and getting warmer. 

Frank laughs. “Sorry about that. It’s about to get real hot. I seem to remember you like things a bit colder. Needs must, though.” 

“What do you want?” Len says through clamped teeth. “I’ve settled my debts. We worked it out after you fucking shot me.”

“Yeah, well. Now we want a few more things, and you’re just the guy to encourage your baby sister to get ‘em for us.”

“So if you’re just getting Lisa’s attention, why torture me?” Len croaks, even though he knows the answer.

Frank crouches down next to him. Len smells stale cigars and whiskey. “Leonard, Leonard. You were a bad boy. People don’t just leave the Family. You got no loyalty. And then that big corrupt cover-up, pretending you never knew us, all to make little sis look a bit less like the walking trashfire she is.”

He focuses on the spot between Frank’s eyes where, if Len’s hands were free, he’d have hit the bastard. Hard.

“So,” Frank drones on, “we gonna get a little payback while you’re our guest. Just till sis comes and gets you.” He claps Len a little too hard on the back. “Don’t worry, Lenny. Nothing permanent… probably.”

Frank reaches down, twists the knob of the radiator up to the highest setting, and walks away.

The light goes out again. In the darkness, chains clatter against each other between Len’s shaking hands.

Right now, Mick is very grateful for Lisa’s very Snart brand of calm in a crisis.

“Call everyone my brother has ever worked for,” she snaps. “You have the list?”

“I do, ma’am,” Police Captain Horton says. She looks worried. “But you know who it’s likely to be, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” Lisa breathes. “I just don’t want to leave any other stones unturned. So please, go and do your damn job.”

Horton nods and sweeps out without another word. The CSI she brought with her - Allen, was it? - trails out just as silently behind her.

Hesitantly, Mick approaches the desk. “Lisa, he’s gonna be okay.”

“He won’t be, if I don’t do my fucking job right!” Her head drops into her hands, elbows on the desk.

He hops up on the desk beside her, laying a hesitant hand on her back. It’s not professional, but she looks like a scared little girl in a tailored suit, and he can’t just leave her alone like this. “This ain’t your fault, Lisa.”

“It’s completely my fault,” she says, muffled, into her hands.

He can’t help smiling at that. “You do know you can’t protect him from everything, forever, right?”

She looks up, red-eyed, and the confusion on her face is… really sad. “What do you mean?”

“This thing you’ve got with keeping him safe,” he says, as gently as he can. “It ain’t gonna fly, Lisa. You gotta let him be his own man.”

She sniffs, scowling like a kid. She looks so out of place behind the mayor’s desk right now - not that Mick would dare mention that. “He’s an idiot when he’s being his own man.”

He chuckles. “Then that’s what he’s gonna be.” He pats her on the back. “Listen, I, uh - I might be able to help.”

Hope slips into her eyes, just briefly. “Really?”

This time, when Len comes round, he remembers the hit that knocked him out.

Apparently, Frank is seriously pissed. Len doesn’t think he’s even sent the ransom note yet.

Idly, he wonders whether Vincent Santini is aware of this little grudge of his son’s. He probably doesn’t care, but Len’s scrabbling for any ammunition he can get, now that he’s tried and failed at his very limited escape options.

Rivulets are dripping off the side of his chest where it’s flush against the radiator. He’s still struggling to move away, but no dice. The chains around his wrists are getting painfully hot.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, but the aching emptiness in his stomach suggests a good few hours. 

His eyes cloud and sting. 

God, they haven’t given him any water…

Breathe, he tells himself firmly. This is old, useless panic. Passing out again won’t help him.

By the third time Frank returns, Len’s blinking so much stinging sweat out of blurry eyes, he can barely see him.

The fourth time, he can only see Lewis Snart.

Mick slams his hand on the captain’s desk. “Why the fuck not?” He manages to hold back from roaring it, but only just.

Cecile Horton blinks back at him, unimpressed. “Because, Mr. Rory, you’re not police. We’re gonna do this our way.”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Lisa gritting her teeth. “Fine,” she grinds out. “But I want my people on standby at the scene in case something goes wrong. Rory included.”

Horton nods. “I can do that.”

Mick’s spent time in Gotham. He’s known some shitty cops in his time, ranging from corrupt to damn lazy. Horton is one of the good ones. 

And it’s Len. Mick’s prepared to work with a lot of people, for him.

So when Lisa turns pleading eyes on him, he nods. “All right, Captain. What do I gotta do?”

“Please,” Len croaks. Something in him registers that he shouldn’t be begging, that it’s weakness, but only for a second.

For a while it felt like the skin was melting off his chest, but he can’t feel anything anymore. He stopped screaming a while ago.

“Please,” he whispers into the darkness again. 

No one comes.

He’s ten years old, handcuffed to his basement stairs.

No one comes.

He whispers one more thing - maybe just thinks it - hard to tell now - before he passes out.

Mick.

A detective called West-Allen leads the team. Mick likes her - for a cop.

He stares out the window while she walks them through scenarios. They’re across the street from the building where Len’s probably being held.

Probably.

West-Allen’s voice filters in and out of his awareness.

“...Santinis use for kidnappings… gotta take this carefully… avoid their attention…”

He’s been told the plan already, a dozen times. All he can see now is the dark, abandoned office building. Somewhere nearby, out of Mick’s reach, is the one person he should have been taking care of. 

He was right when he told Lisa it wasn’t her fault.

Pierre slaps him on the arm. “Pay attention, asshole.”

He stares at him. “It’s my fault.” 

“Yes, of course it is your fault,” the fucker snaps back quietly. “He was unguarded, no? You were not there to do your job, because you fucked him and ran away, because, on various levels, you are shit. And now it is time to fix that mistake, no?”

For a moment, Mick just stares at him.

Then a laugh explodes out of him, and he claps the asshole on the back. “I fucking hate you, Pierre.”

“The feeling is mutual, Rory. Now, let us help your boyfriend, hmm?”

The word hits like a fist to the gut, but Mick isn’t about to let that show. He just nods, turning back to catch the end of West-Allen’s speech.

That’s why he doesn’t see the smoke pouring out of the ground floor windows, until an officer behind him starts yelling into his radio.

Mick can’t move.

Everyone around him is yelling - codes and orders and chaos.

West-Allen puts a hand on his shoulder. “Well, you wanted to help if things went south.” She holds up her police radio.

Lisa’s voice, tinny over the radio but steady as a rock, filters through the noise raging in his ears. “Mick, we need you. Fix this. Please.”

He leans in towards the radio. “I’m on it, Mayor. You can trust me.”

After that, everything happens in a haze of light and heat.

It’s a bit like the dreams he had every night for a year after the fire at Palmer Tech. The ones where the colors were too bright and the sounds were too clear, where the tower was a wall of flame and he would walk right through it to get to Ray, and he’d still be too late. By seconds.

(Like in real life. Funny things, dreams, huh?)

A bunch of firefighters secure the building, which is good because Mick has refused to look at it till the fire’s out, and then—

—then he’s in the basement.

The flames hadn’t made as far as the back room where they were keeping Len. Mick realises - with the kind of rage that makes him want to hunt down those Family bastards on the spot and show them no fucking mercy - that they wanted Len to die slowly, knowing the fire was coming for him.

He gets in there, and Len’s screaming. Mick won’t forget that sound for a long, long time.

“Get away from him,” yells an ambulance guy. “We need to—”

Somehow, Mick ends up on the ground, on his knees beside the stretcher, running his hands over Len’s short, rough hair. Just like he did all night, that one night they had together. That night could have been their last - one way or another. 

Len’s eyes flutter open. “Mick?” he murmurs.

“Yeah, Lenny.” He whispers it. There’s something in his throat. “It’s me.”

And Len smiles the weakest, most beautiful smile. “You came.”

“Yeah, Lenny.” He stares down at the angry burns covering Len’s torso, being dressed by the glaring paramedic. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

Len coughs a bit, as if he wants to laugh but it hurts too much. “Like you could’ve stopped me from being an idiot.” 

And, yeah - fair point.

Len’s eyes droop and close a moment later, but he doesn’t let go of Mick’s hand.

Not till they carry him away to the ambulance.

“I am going to fucking kill you,” is the first thing Lisa says to him. 

“Yeah, love you too, sis.” Len is sitting up in his bed in the burns unit, eating ice cream directly out of a carton. One of Lisa’s aides brought it for him - a sweet guy called Curtis who just transferred from Starling City and clearly has a crush on Len. Not that Len’s taking advantage, or anything. He’ll let him down easy and introduce him to a couple of his hot friends soon. Maybe after another carton or two.

It’s been three days since he was rescued, and this is the first time they’ve let Lisa in to see him. And he’s never going to tell her this, but he was the one who asked for her to be kept away. As he watches her hovering by the bed, her eyes wide at the bandages across Len’s chest, he doesn’t regret that decision. 

She raises a shaking hand to her mouth. Standing there shivering in her blue-and-gold striped suit and platform boots - it’s an unsettling sight. 

“Lise.” He reaches out a hand for her. “Lise,” he says again, when she doesn’t answer. “I’m okay. It’s not been fun, but it was all treatable. I’ll be out of here in two weeks.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her hand clutching his. 

“Lisa, I’m gonna say this one more time, and then we’re never going near the subject again. This ain’t your fault. You got that, trainwreck?”

Her lips curl up at the old nickname, so far from her grown-up reality. “Can I hug you?”

He shakes a sad head. “Sorry, kid.” But he lifts his good arm around her, lets her climb into bed close to his side, like she used to when she was five years old and he was hurt and it was making her sad.

That’s where Mick finds them, an hour later.

With a sly look at him, Lisa climbs out of bed and straightens her suit. “Is that the time? I’ve got a city council meeting in fifteen. No rest for the wicked - and you know what they say about politicians.” She leans over to kiss her brother’s cheek. “I’ll call you later, Lenny. Be good.” 

He’s about to aim back some variation of “like hell I will” - and then he sees something pass between Lisa and Mick. The mayor is smiling a chilling smile, a mix of delighted encouragement and... a message. Do the right thing or there’ll be a six foot hole with you at the bottom of it. Mick’s wretched gaze slides to the floor, so he probably got the message.

“Your sister’s scary,” he says as soon as she’s out of earshot. “I like her.”

Len gestures at the chair by his bed. 

Mick sits slowly, warily down. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh my god.” Len rolls his eyes as far as they’ll go without seriously hurting himself. “Let’s get one thing clear, hmm?” He waggles a finger at the wide-eyed Mick. “I’m not doing this shit with either of you. You both wanna torture yourself with pointless guilt, be my guest - but there was exactly one person who put me in that room, and that was Frank Santini. Not helped by my own damn stupidity, going out at five in the morning to that bar his people snatched me from. Him and me are the only ones responsible for this mess. You got that, asshole?”

Mick nods like one of those bobble-head toys. “Did they get him?”

Len settles back against the headboard, feeling his face split in a grin. “Picked him up two blocks from that office building where he was keeping me. They’ve charged him. I’m very excited to see how it turns out.” He raises a hand to indicate a phantom headline. “Santinis kidnap, injure brother of Central City Mayor. Should be fun.”

Mick grins back at him. “Fun, huh?”

“Yup.” Len reaches over and, on a whim, takes Mick’s hand. He just keeps following these whims, with Mick. He could be chasing excitement, but maybe that’s not all he’s looking for. “I, uh.” He swallows reflexively - he’s not good at this. “I think there’s been some big things missing from my life, recently. I wanna take a shot at figuring out what.” He looks up, catches Mick’s eye. “Starting with you.”

Mick’s smile transforms his face again. He weaves scarred, calloused fingers around and between Len’s. “Sounds good, boss.” His face darkens a bit. “But we shouldn’t be working together if we do this thing. We’re gonna need to find you a new bodyguard.”

He watches Mick, and those sad eyes that were the first thing he noticed about him. “Sure, if that’s what you want.”

Mick nods. “Got a bit of a… bad history there.”

Len squeezes his hand. He glances around, into the quiet corridor of the burn unit. At the wheelchair in the corner of his room. “Wanna sneak me out of here? I could seriously destroy an iced latte right now. And then you can tell me all about this history. If you want to.”

“Sure, boss.” There’s a mischievous spark in Mick’s eyes. It’s the fire that’s been missing from them. Len thinks it’s beautiful.

Lisa’s in the hospital parking lot, just unlocking her car, when a noise draws her attention to the sidewalk just beyond the railings.

“What in the fucking hell—?”

Her brother is in a rickety wheelchair that looks seconds off losing one of its wheels, and he’s whooping. He’s being pushed along at terrifying speeds by Mick Rory, who’s laughing like he’s only just remembered how.

Shaking her head, Lisa climbs into her car. She can decide tomorrow whether her brother’s bodyguard is about to go conveniently missing. 

Tailed by Pierre’s black van, she does a loop around the block just so she can drive past them again. She hasn’t seen her brother look that happy since— 

Maybe ever.

For a minute, she just watches them clatter down the sidewalk towards Jitterbugs, an odd feeling gripping her chest.

Then the lights change, and she moves away. 

Maybe Mick Rory is safe for now. On a trial basis. 

She makes a mental note to write a memo.