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Contrary to popular belief, Mick can in fact be precise. For fuck’s sake, he restores artwork as much as he does his own pieces. But, y’know, whatever. Long as he’s getting paid and the art’s done properly—so many people get it wrong and it pisses him the fuck off—you won’t hear complaints from him.
Central City Museum’s got a fresco that needs fixin’. Mick’s carefully built his reputation over the years, so he’s the first one they ask. (When he gets the call, he definitely does not high five his cat. Shut the fuck up.)
He arrives through the specified side entrance with Vulcan on a harness and his paints in a duffle bag. The curator eyes these, then looks at his FUCK BITCHES GET MONET t-shirt and tattered jeans. Mick can almost feel the level of respect plummet to the ground.
Ah, well. Ms. West’s loss, if you ask him.
Nevertheless, she sucks it up and says, “The fresco’s this way.”
Mick knows exactly where the thing is; he’s visited the art in this place for years. Years. He drags Vulcan after him like a reluctant snake.
This one’s odd. Taken piece by piece from overseas, it depicts the Fire of Alexandria. Knowledge weeps among the people, clawing at her chest amidst her desperate sobs. The paint has faded, and every shape is losing its vivid touch, but the ghost of its darker colors can be seen.
Mick won’t lie; frescos ain’t easy. But he’s got plenty of time and a rent to pay.
Vulcan’s charcoal fur and yellow-green eyes are made prominent against the fresco. Mick gives him a scratch between the ears.
“Will your cat,” Ms. West starts, “um…I trust he won’t be a problem?”
“Nah,” Mick says affectionately, “I got food and stuff for ‘im. He’s always around when I do a job.”
If there’s one thing Mick’s learned over the years, it’s that he hates doing art without company. That company’s gotta be silent, without trying to help him, so an independent cat it is.
Ms. West sighs, “Well then. I guess I’ll leave you to it.”
Mick gives her a two-fingered salute. Her heels click away.
The muffled conversation of museum-goers creates a nice background sound, so Mick can forego his iPod. This area’s closed off for him, so he doesn’t have to worry about interruptions. All in all, pretty damn good.
He clips Vulcan’s leash to his belt loop and gets to work.
Vulcan’s been pawing at a specific spot in the fresco for the last twenty minutes. Mick’s gotta ask.
“What’re you doing, buddy?”
Vulcan nuzzles the spot, putting his whole body into it. Mick can’t see why he’s so attached; it’s just Knowledge’s left foot.
Still, it’s past one. Good time as any to take a lunch break. Mick sets his supplies aside, wiping his hands on a washcloth he wets with one of his water bottles.
“Alright,” he grunts, crouching beside his cat, “whatcha got here, huh?”
He prods the spot. Maybe there’s a mouse? There’s definitely more building behind this wall; Mick’s seen it from the outside.
Wait a minute…is that…?
Mick hisses a curse as he pushes the foot up. Did he just fucking break a fresco from 1624—
The foot replaces itself, and a mechanism clicks.
What.
Suddenly, the whole thing’s rotating. Mick snatches Vulcan into his arms and scrambles to his feet, following it—partly because he has no choice with his position, partly because he’s real fuckin’ curious.
What greets him is a chamber with a vaulted ceiling and polished hardwood floors. A dim light hands on a chain overhead, wrought iron and dusty glass. Expertly rendered paintings litter the place, barely making room for a wardrobe, a mini-fridge, an easel, and a—
“Fuck me!” Mick shouts, clutching Vulcan closer, much to the cat’s chagrin.
For there, on the far wall, is a pale ass face-planted in a coffin, arm dangling on the outside. A pencil’s on the floor below the limp hand.
In a blur of motion, that pale ass is standing. And Mick can’t believe who he’s seeing.
Fucking Leo Ivanovich.
No way. There’s no fucking way. That guy painted the fresco Mick’s supposed to be restoring—but the artwork around him has that undeniable style of—but—
Okay, Mick knows Central City’s weird. The night life’s not somethin’ that he, as a human, wants to experience. This, though. This is Mick’s favorite artist of all time.Of all time. There’s just…it’s impossible. It’s impossible!
Yet Ivanovich’s portrait burns in Mick’s head, painted by his sister, who’s often considered his artistic rival by many historians. The sharp blue eyes, the short cropped hair, the lithe frame, it’s all there. Identical.
“Who are you?” the man asks. His voice is pitched low, resonant as it echoes off the stone walls; Mick shivers, dread creeping up his spine even as it washes over him like a comfortable blanket.
He’s only had one encounter before, but there’s no doubt. Vampire.
Fucking. Vampire. Behind a fucking fresco. Who looks like Leo Ivanovich.
What the fuck is Mick’s life.
“I asked you a question,” says the vampire, stalking forward a couple steps. Mick, frozen in place, can only make sure Vulcan doesn’t jump out of his arms. “Sir.”
That wrenches Mick back to himself. Furrowing his brow, he snaps, “I ain’t telling a vampire my name! Are you nuts?”
Probably shouldn’t’a said that last part. Mick just hopes this monster spares his cat.
Instead of sudden death, however, the vampire gives him a scoff. “That was a courtesy,” he says, a bare hint of an old Russian accent lacing his words, “I know you’re Mick Rory.” Mick stiffens. “I’ve heard much about you, just as I heard you attempting to restore my work.”
Mick blinks. “You’re actually Leo,” he says flatly.
The vampire gestures to the chamber, “Don’t you recognize my work? You’ve often spoken of me when you visit this museum.”
Fuck. Mick glances at his squirming Vulcan. “You uh…you don’t by any chance eat animals, do you?”
Ivanovich tilts his head. “No.”
Probably shouldn’t take his word for it, but…Mick finally lets his cat down. Thankfully, Vulcan stays at his leg, engaging in a grooming session of all things.Cats.
Ivanovich raises his eyebrow, deadpanning, “‘Fuck Bitches, Get Monet’?”
Mick coughs, rubbing at the cat hair on him—until he sees what Ivanovich is wearing and smirks.
“Didn’t know vampires liked Anne Rice,” he retorts.
Ivanovich, who is most definitely wearing The Vampire Lestat shirt, crosses his arms with a glare. Somehow, finding out that he’s a dork sets Mick at ease.
“So,” he says, “you’re really Leo Ivanovich?”
“I go by Leonard Snart now, but yes. And never say my patronymic again; your American tongue butchers it.”
“’Scuse me,” Mick mutters, before asking, “Why Snart? That sounds like snot.”
Leonard’s hands clench on his arms. “Does it now?”
The air goes cold. Mick wisely changes the subject.
“This your lair?”
The temperature rises back to non-suffocating levels. “My lair?”
“Sure looks like it, Drac.”
Leonard huffs. “It’s my room.”
Mick glances behind him. “Smart, I guess—buildin’ it behind one of your pieces. How’d you do it?”
“Is this an interrogation?”
Mick smirks, “An interview with a vampire.”
Leonard growls low in his throat. His fangs glisten in the dim light, pearl white and menacing. Mick shuts his trap.
After a moment, the vampire seems to have calmed himself. “You’re awfully forward, Mr. Rory.”
“Mick,” Mick corrects, “Mr. Rory’s my asshole dad. And I’m just tryin’ to make conversation. I don’t know how to get outta here; I ain’t had my lunch yet; and I’m trying to restore one of the greatest frescoes I’ve ever seen. Kudos, by the way.”
Leonard accepts the comment with a stiff nod. “I’m not usually one for fire, but I did hate learning about that event in history. All of that literature and culture, lost.”
Mick mirrors Leonard’s pose. “I read that you liked to paint stuff you hated.” he’s talking to Leo Ivanovich, holy shit.
Leonard shrugs, “I find it easier to channel negative emotions. It’s…” looking at the nightmarish images surrounding him, “cathartic. As I’m sure you understand.”
Mick chuckles, “Actually, I happen to love fire. S’why I paint it all the time.”
“And that frozen landscape?”
“Okay, no, I didn’t like that one.”
Leonard smirks, “I thought it your finest work.”
Mick clamps his jaw so it doesn’t hit the floor. “You…what?”
“I follow your work, Mick. The passion behind your brushstrokes is palpable.”
Mick can only reply with an intelligent “Oh.”
“As for getting out of here,” Leonard says, “I obviously have a way. Allow me.”
He stalks forward, causing Mick to instinctually cringe. To the human’s irritation, the vampire smirks at the reaction on his way to the wall.
Once there, Leonard reaches to the side and pulls at something carved into the surface. Another click; with his supernatural strength, he easily stops the fresco from turning all the way, giving Mick ample time to recover himself and exit.
“Well,” Mick clears his throat, “uh. Nice meeting you?”
Leonard’s smirk widens. “Be seeing you, Mick.”
As the fresco closes behind him, Mick realizes two things: one, his wallet’s missing, and two, he is undeniably fucked.