Frantic footsteps pound against moist boards on the aging Boston dock. Krieg is sweaty and exhausted, a gash on one arm speaking of his slip up and the very reason he's being pursued now. The hitman was hired to take down a city-level politician. A blade to the spine, or a shot to the neck. Either would work in a crowded setting like that. He knew it sounded like easy pay, and he knew easy pay means trouble. But he took it anyway. He took the job, and as soon as he got close, he realized just how easy it was.

So easy it was a setup.

The weapons were turned on him in a heartbeat, cries to get down and surrender flooding the air. A man in lightweight body armor barreled forward to tackle him down and wrench his arms back. He struck back with a powerful kick, and he ran. He vaulted a barrier stopping traffic, slicing his arm on a temporary metal roadsign as he did so.

The chase has lasted for twenty minutes, and he's absolutely exhausted. Straight-up sprinting can only push him so far, and now that the half hour point is being reached he's running out of places to go. They've cornered him. He's got no transportation and nowhere to go but to hide on the docks or slink into the water, hoping he can evade the coast guard and get out.

It's night now, the lights coming from overheads at the dockyard and helicopters above, neon signs and billboards, city lights and the flashlights officers carry or wear on their shoulders. The FBI is here, and the local cops wonder just what they've stumbled into to bring in a team this heavy-duty.

It's raining. The boards of the dock are soggy and damp, sending sharp impacts up his legs with each exhausted step. The young man is fighting for breath, sweaty, weakened. His arm is covered in blood. This is it. He makes it off the end of this dock or he's history, prison fodder.

He's not going to stop now.

"This boy's one of the best. He'll get your man."
"One of the best snipers in the BSF. The best sniper in all of the UK."
"He's the best shot you've got."

If it weren't for Sam Cooper he wouldn't be here. A run in with a few SEALs and saving a washed up Cooper kept Mick and the American in a tight circle, even after leaving for the FBI, it seemed Cooper kept Mick's name and number. Would be the only reason he was told he was being shipped off to the US first thing in the morning for a manhunt. Little time to prep, little time to get his information, he didn't care. This was just a job. He was just taking down another criminal.

He's told their man is wanted, that he'd needed alive. If they didn't want him dead they wouldn't have brought a sniper along, that's his thinking. Most people that came in contact with his gun didn't usually make it out alive. He's positioned on the back of a billboard, the buildings aren't tall enough for a good shot and with how narrow it is it means only one American has to sit up there with him to act as an unexperianced spotter.

It's a while before the sub is spotted, and Mick makes his preparations to take his shot. Bastard's fast. Mick's eyes and rifle are faster. Scope is pulled up to a brown eye, long hair kept out of his face and rolled into some kind of knot to keep from distracting him and flying into the scope. Mick calculates how fast he's moving before he gets ready to take his shot. Five seconds.

His SVD is angled on the bipod, cheek resting against the rubber band covered butt before he smirks. Four seconds. His target is in sight, nearing the end of the dock. "Makin' the shot now. You got a second to call it off gents," he mutters into the radio, so focused on his job that he doubted he'd even hear a cease fire if it was made with the blood pounding in his ears.

Three. No order is made.
Inhale.
Two. "Take the shot."
Hold it.
One.

His bullet hits home, muffled by the sound of rain and thunder overhead. If the unsub fell like he was supposed to, he'd be face first on the docks, right where the wood would end, inches from freedom. There were snipers, and then there was Mick Rawson.

"Is he dead?" Stupid question from a stupid man. Mick snorts, pulling up his rifle and and glaring at his American partner.

"Course 'e's dead. Solid shot 'n' I don't miss."

Certainly full of himself. Then again, he's got reason to. He wouldn't have been called in if he wasn't the best. Still he waits, wanting to know what the results were.

The bullet strikes inches from his heart, and he goes down hard. All breath leaves his body and in that moment he knows he's dying. Actually, he's probably already dead. But if he were dead, could he feel that excruciating numbness that is abruptly replaced by a flood of raw pain? Shouldn't the pain fade out to nothing but white now, before it all ends? Shouldn't he not feel this?

He gags on his own blood and stretches an arm out, nails digging into the wood at the end of the dock as he makes a useless attempt to try and crawl forward. He's alive, alright, and while bleeding out he's still in motion as best as he can be. Yells and shouts follow until a booted foot plants on his back. At this point, he's going into shock. His body shakes weakly and his eyes close tightly, teeth gritting together and mind in a whirlwind of pain and fear. He's going to pass out soon, and probably die. He knows it.

Mick hit him, alright, but he's anything but dead.

"Oh Bollocks."

There was something wrong. Mick could sense it. Shit, he could see it. Yanking his spotter's scope and ignoring the American's complaint he peered down, hearing the sounds of sirens and and other cars pull up outside the docks. " Shit ."

"What?"
"I fucked up, obviously. Shit."

Someone wasn't happy. Had to be a tough son of a bitch to make it through a shot like that. Guns surrounded the subject, if he tried to fight back he'd end up dead faster than he'd bleed out. It was almost ridiculous watching them crowd around, ordering him not to move and allowing a stretcher and a couple of paramedics to break the line of armored guards.

It was only a moment later that Mick's radio buzzed. "Rawson? Get down here." Wonderful. He wanted to go home, not spend more time yapping after work. Someone better buy him a drink.

He climbed down the side of the bilboard, lighting a cigarette the instant his feet touched the floor and ignored the annoyed looks of the Americans around him. If they had a problem with it, well, they could sod off for all he cared. Mick wasn't part of their team; their comfort around him didn't matter. Except Cooper's of course.

"'E's not dead. Might that cause a bit of trouble, Yeah?"
"That's what we wanted," the head muttered, hearing reports on his radio as his men dealt with the suspect. "Your Brit did good, Cooper. Despite nearly killing our suspect."
"He's Welsh. And I told you he was the best. If he couldn't get Krieg he'd get damn close."

"Right. What about 'em? What you gonna do with 'em?" Mick asked, somewhat confused about the events going on. "I mean, s'not like 'e's very useful. Would've been better if I just shot two inches to the left."
"We'll take care of him," Cooper assured him. It didn't even dawn on Mick why he was concerned in the first place. This guy was just another criminal. No one important, no one would care that he'd just been shot down, right? That's how it always was. "You shot fairly close to his heart. There's a chance he might make it. Makes him good for questioning if they save him. Tomorrow we'll go over the details. Get some rest. You did good, Mick."

Watching the paramedics lift the suspect into the back of an ambulance, more upset that he fucked up the shot than anything else. At least now he had time to rest, the ten hour flight and non-stop action had him exhausted. Wasn't like he was every going to see that suspect again. There was no way he'd survive the abulance ride.

If only.

If only he had died, if only he hadn't ended up living through that ride. Of course, they put him in a medically induced coma as soon as he's in the ER, and he won't wake up for days. To him, it feels like hours.

But when his eyes do crack open all he knows is there's a cool, numb pain about him that sends aches and throbs running down his spine. It feels exposed to the open air, too, and it's sickening. He groans, but his voice is muffled by a tube down his throat and a bit in his mouth to keep him from biting down on his tongue or grinding a hole through his cheek. Wearing down his teeth too, no doubt. He doesn't have the energy to get up, anyway. There are voices, a pinprick in his ribcage. That hurt pretty badly. He can't shift, but he grunts in protest. There are quick voices.

"Oh, he's conscious. Take him down again." Bloodstained gloves move to inject a syringe into an IV, and all fades out again.

When he comes to this time, a voice is commanding him to move an arm. It doesn't register at first, and he just closes his eyes again until a voice speaks firmly and states that he needs to. With pain, he does so. He feels so heavy. All fades again.

This cycle continues for longer than he'll ever be aware, until after the fact when he's awoken to the horrors that have befallen him, falling into a blind panic attack of rage, disgust, and fear. It has been a month and a half of surgery, small operations nearly every other day. He's been on the table that long, and when it's finally done and he's left in his cell, strapped once more to rest on his stomach so he doesn't hurt himself or tear stitches, he sobs blindly into the pillow, eyes bloodshot and hurting from their modifications and the pressure in his head. Even when the initial shock no longer hits him, the pain leaves him miserable and longing for death.

Death he can't have, and death that's completely out of his reach. Why? He can't move. Even when not strapped down, he can't fucking move.

It was just a job. Just a gunning down of some asshole who deserved it, and in a few days he'd be back in England to be shipped off somewhere else.

He's assured that his man died in the ambulance, and that he'd be paid around the time he landed back home. Still, something didn't seem right about that, but he accepted it and moved on. Mick was a soldier, it wasn't his job to question anything. His job was to shoot what he was told to shoot, kill what he was supposed to kill, and then report to his supervisor.

Soon though, he jobs would evolve.

Much like the job he was on right now on a tall Detroit rooftop.

Bumping in to Ethan wasn't the worst thing that could have happened. Frankly, Mick was ecstatic to find someone with the same profession who didn't treat it like a competition. That made it easier. Just some small time dealer, and an agreement to split the outcome seemed to win over the other hitman, and seemed to form them a small partnership in the long run.

Armed with his now new spotter, Mick set up his gear and got himself prepared, almost excited about having a spotter that wasn't a short sighted prick with an attitude problem. If anything, he was interested in seeing how he worked, it wasn't often Mick actually got to work with someone much anymore anyway.

Busy with his things, he let Ethan do as he wished while he set up, twisting on his silencer balancing the rifle on it's biped before finally being completely satisfied in his set up.

Ethan settles down beside Mick once he's ready, munching on a gallon-sized ziplock of cereal as he does so. He's shameless in how much of it he eats. He pops another mouthful of the Chex and crunches happily as he settles in, legs drawing in crosslegged before him. When he's swallowed, he glances to Mick, grinning.

"So. Tell me about this guy again, what we know? Let's go over this shit, 'cause I forgot. I want to make sure I do this right, you know? First big hit together. First time I've worked with ANYONE else, to be honest." Ethan pulls his scope from his pocket, adjusting it and raising it briefly to take a peek down before it lowers and his other eye opens again. He waits patiently for his response, rocking back and forth somewhat like a kid might.

He shrugged, adjusting his rifle a bit. "Some big face drug dealer, killed an undercover agent a while back. 'E's been on our list for a while but killin' one of us was the last straw," he leaves it to Ethan's imagination what "us" exactly is. "Nothin' too big, s'not like 'e's a celebrity or somethin'. Can you imagine that? Downin' a celeb in the middle of the city? Would be a riot."

He's glad Ethan's making conversation; too many times he was stuck with grumpy and unimpressive idiots for work. This guy, there was something about him Mick liked. He had a personality, for one thing. "S'like the most routine of routine you could get, eh? S'not that bad. Y'mind if I smoke? If you really wanna know about the guy, the dossier's in my bag over there."

Usually he wouldn't ask, but Ethan doesn't seem the smoker type. Maybe he'd just polite.

"Smoke it up, bro." Ethan waves a hand dismissively. He doesn't partake, but he can bear it. He sets down his cereal and shifts, wincing uncomfortably as he does so. Without a word as to why, he abruptly peels off the sleeveless shirt and dabs at bandages Mick wouldn't have known were in place on his side. "Got in a bar fight. Well…it wasn't even at a bar. It was a brawl including two drunk idiots, and one of them had a busted bottle. I'm healing up. I think I just popped stitches, maybe. Thought so, anyway. Do you see blood?" There's none, although the wound was clearly extensive. None of that, though, stands out at all compared to those odd, thin, white scars down his arms and across his shoulders. Just what the fuck are those? But that pales in comparison with the well-placed bullet hole in his back. it's smaller at the entry point, bigger on the exit as it should be. That was a damn good shot, and it's a miracle he's alive at all. It's old and healed well, although white.

It obviously doesn't bother him any.

He does indeed light up, settling for one of the cheapest he can buy. Not the best smell and not the best taste, but that keeps him from wanting too many.

"I can take a look." weird request, but then again, it showed how much Ethan seemed to trust him already. Crouching down, he looked around, brown eyes scanning Ethan's strange physique before shrugging. "Nah, see no blood. I can 'elp you fix those up later though. You do 'em yourself?"

He prepares himself to stand before the scars catch his eyes. Weird looking things, a contrast in color to the rest of his skin and almost looking…too strange. Like surgical scars instead of the usual things people in their profession would normally have. His eyes finish on the scarring on his back, thinking nothing of it.

But wait a minute.

That's a bullet wound. A very, very specific bullet wound.

Oh God.

Mick's been in the military. He knew wounds, even if he wasn't the medical type, he saw all kinds of things. That's why he stares, unblinking. A few inches closer it would be over the heart. It's a very specific size too, the perfect size of a rifle bullet belonging to a beloved Dragunov. Couldn't be right? He got paid for that hit. He was told the subject died. Just a coincidence. But Mick can't stop staring, remembering the best shot of his career. Oh shit.

Ethan knows Mick's staring now. He can feel it as much as he can see it. He laughs somewhat quietly and rolls his shoulders, stretching out obvious stiffness in his form. "I know. I'm pretty marked up, between the scars and the ink. This new one shouldn't leave much, I don't think. Maybe a thin line. My skin color helps hide a lot of it, so that's nice." He sits back down, remaining shirtless for the time being. Soon, he's back to his cereal again. "It's ok. I know they're striking. I get that a lot." He reassures the sniper and flashes a grin.

Ethan knows nothing about identifying wounds from rifles. Shotgun versus handgun he can do, but that's about it. He would never suspect the rifle that's feet away from him. He doesn't seem on the attack, either.

He…doesn't know.

"I'm…'M sorry. Just ah, got…I'm sorry for staring," he appreciates Ethan's lack of agitation at his rudeness, but it still troubles the fuck out of him. "Sgriw fi."

The exact same spot.

Swallowing down that panic and taking a log drag from his cigarette, he calmed himself. There was no way. It couldn't be. They told him his hit killed him. That there would be no way this could ever haunt him. Maybe he was just off his rocker. Wouldn't be the first time Mick's thought himself insane.

"They suit you, actually," he said once he got his voice back, trying not to let it shake. "They look kind of badass, really."

If this was the same man, could Mick tell him what he did? Were those other scars his fault? Too many questions, too much worrying. Shoving it aside, Mick stretched and tried to keep himself focused. "I'll help you tighten those up when we can stay in one place. The target should be pulling up soon. You ever see a Dragunov in action?"

"Hey, thanks, bro! I like 'em. They're part of me now, part of where I've come from. I couldn't see myself without them, scars and ink." He grins and gently rotates his wrist, causing a few quiet pops as he does so. He takes another mouthful of cereal and peers over at the rifle before his eyes narrow and he shrugs.

"Nah. Never. Don't know much about rifles, bro. Good vision, though. I'll help you line up anything, guaranteed. Scout for target, other problems…you know, backup. We get attacked, you've got me." He settles down next to Mick now, positioning himself exactly the same as if mocking him somewhat, now ending up with them side by side.

"Show me this big gun you're so proud of." Oh my god.

"Usually I wait until 'bout the third date but sine you asked so nicely…" well now, this was a way to distract himself. Grabbing the guna nd showing Ethan the contours and mods, he shows he obviously takes pride in the large black rifle. "This is a Russian SVD Dragunov, modded with a silencer an' modded scope, thing can see up to a mile when I get m'self in the best spot. Six hundred twenty barrel, fires 'bout thirty or so rounds a minute, no money in for a cheek pad so I've settled for the rubber bands. 'Ad this thing for years, since my early military days. Things a bastard, I love it."

And I probably shot you with it.

Feeling sick just at the thought of that, Mick set it back down on it's bipod and sighed. "S'all I 'ave left now, really. Don't get to 'ave much in this line of business. So I guess a fancy gun and a nice car is about all I can brag about. What do you use?"

He wants the conversation off him and the rifle. Really, he doesn't even want to look at it. All it does it make him feel guilty for this near stranger.

"I don't really go for guns, bro. Not that often, anyway. Handguns, if anything. I've got a few toys." He reaches into a pocket to remove a fancy push knife, passing it over. "Great for between the ribs, or even a little scratch if you poison it right. I've got…" He removes a garrote next, followed by a small little .22 just for a close range bite if he's cornered and needs a moment to break free. There's a utility knife and knuckledusters, but that's surprisingly it. Just how does he do his job? Simple.

"I prefer nobody to know a third party was involved in the death. I take 'em out, nobody knows I was there at all. Clean, smooth. Like a hot knife through butter." He rolls to his side now and grins at Mick as he remains situated there, somewhat posed, injured side off the ground. Show off.

"I'd say we should get a drink after this, but I'm sober. Settle for a movie?" Did…he just…?

Tread lightly, Mick. Then again, they both have the same jobs, the same sort of mindset. He should just say no. Just tell Ethan he couldn't stay, they he had his sister's wedding in a month and that all of this would be too much. Bring up the PTSD, tell Ethan about how his ex couldn't handle it and ended up leaving him behind. Bring up the ex fiance. Just do whatever he could to keep from saying-

"I'd love that, really. I ah, ha. Wow. I mean, I guess it depends on what's playing, eh?"

Ethan grins and sits up again, obviously ecstatic at the idea. "There's that new thriller out, No Good Deed. Looks interesting. I heard it was actually pretty good." He offers it with a shrug and then drops something else. "I mean, if you're hungry, we could eat first. Or we could eat after. I could grill something, back at my place, maybe?" Oh, Ethan. You smooth motherfucker. He slides his shirt back on, but it's slow and deliberate. Wow, what a douchebag.

What a handsome and completely endearing douchebag. Maybe hot is a better word. Pleased, he takes another bite of cereal before he reaches for his scope again and takes a look down through the window they're watching. Nothing so far.

"I ah…"

Ah shit. Shit shit shit shit shit-

"I'd love that. Should've mentioned it but I'm not exactly the go out type, y'know? So I mean, yeah, dinner could work."

Oh God what was he doing. That was it. He'd have dinner and leave. Never see Ethan again. Nothing could do wrong, right? It wasn't like he was purposely trying to fuck himself over. Ethan was incredibly charming. That was a problem. If he let himself get in too deep, he'd fuck himself over.

He couldn't fuck himself over. He'd have to come up with every excuse. There's no way their partnership could go on if Ethan was infact the man he shot. And well, Micks on sanity about it was on the line. He's not even sure, yet that guilt is there. Yeah, love what you've done with the place, mate. By the way, remember that bullet wound in your back? Yeah that was me. Suprise. Fuck.

"Great. Sure, we can do that." Ethan is pleased at the response and doesn't seem concerned about Mick not wanting to head out on the town for anything. He can adjust quickly, and to be quite honest what he's most excited about is the fact the man said yes to him at all. He was positive he'd be turned down. After all, they've only barely met. It's a bold move to make, but he knows for a fact that he's got butterflies in his stomach, and sometimes that's worth exploring. It isn't the kind of butterflies that constitute a one-night stand, either. Maybe he's getting ahead of himself.
You are so getting ahead of yourself. God damn it.

He doesn't express that thought and the fear that comes with it, only settling down and taking a peek through his scope again.

"Ah. There we are. Line 'em up when you're ready to go. Up for two birds with one stone, bro?" His words become clear with a glance to aim. The target isn't quite in sight yet, only the lower half of his body visible. But when he moves, its' clear there's a second set of feet. There's a possibility Mick could take them both out at once, should it line up. "Ahah…kidding. Mostly. I know this isn't the movies."

"Heh, yeah doesn't exactly work like that. If you're lucky and the trajectory's right and you can 'it the right spot. But once they get in my line of sight, I can take 'em both down without much effort," he smirked, peering down his scope and lining his rifle up, waiting for the two of them to walk out in the open. Legs weren't the best places to take someone out, of course. "Wonderin' who our second man is, yeah? I only got a dossier on the one."

Good point. Mick didn't like shooting a second subject he had no information on. Maybe he'd wait, see if Ethan knew this one. It fell into his civilian thing, innocents weren't to be killed and if either of them weren't his target, he didn't take the shot.

Things used to be much simpler in the BAU.

"Keep an eye out, yeah? S'your call, spotter."

Wow, that felt like deja-vu.

Ethan waits, curious to see what will come of this. Finally, after what feels like an age, the man walks closer to the window. Bingo. The shot is clear. The other, though, remains curiously out of reach. He's got a choice to make. Wait and see and let the guy run, or wait to take them both. He takes the chance, and he holds his breath.

It pays off. The other figure moves to the window, and Ethan abruptly inhales so sharply it hurts his throat. His pulse is racing instantly, and he's clearly spooked. What the fuck is wrong with him? He speaks plainly and without so much as a moment of hesitation as he makes it clear exactly what he wants to happen.

"Take the shot. Both shots."

"You got it boss."

A second of adjustment, a quick inhale, and a single shot is fired before he clears the barrel, letting the second panic for just a moment before he meets his end nearly a second later through his head. Three seconds is all it takes to take down two targets, and he's quite proud of his skill to work so fast. For a semi-automatic weapon, Mick seems able to easily compensate for that time.

Pulling back the rifle, knowing full well that both bodies are cold on the floor, Mick feels incredibly proud of himself. For a moment anyway, his internal celebration was cut short by general panic, fear he's fucked up again. Ethan doesn't know him, but he'd gotten himself face. What if he didn't kill them? There's very, very few Welsh snipers in the US, especially ones as good as he is. What are the chances he could be found?

Shoving all that aside, Mick waits a few moments before picking up the shell and sliding it into his pocket, he glanced around a bit before disassembling his rifle. "Ah. We should go. Could be any chance someone will guess a sniper and come investigate if he 'as boys with 'em. I rather live tonight, y'know? I gotta call my boss soon anyway. Thank you for the 'elp."

At least that nervousness could be shoved aside for now. He's report to his boss and fly out of Detroit tomorrow anyway. Not like Mick has anything-

Oh, Ethan. He'd have to figure out how to leave as soon as possible. Then why did you accept a date with him you fucking plonker? No way this was going to go well.

When the second man falls, Ethan mutters something under his breath in another language. It sounded like German, but it was aspirated and hard to hear. He stands and dusts off his knees, giving a nod at the statement. He knows they need to get out just as badly, and it shows on his face. "Right. You need my number, too, don't you? Let's get out of here, I'll pass it your way. Let's say…tomorrow for that date, huh? If you're still on for it. I mean, if you change your mind tonight, that's fine." Ethan kind of gets the feeling he'll be stood up. He's ok with that, honestly. He can handle it.

He heads towards the building's ladder to slide back down to the fire escape, but he hesitates, waiting on Mick.

Oh thank God. Now he just needed to say the perfect thing.

My boss needs me back in Virginia tomorrow. Sorry.

I'm sorry, I can't come. I need to leave.

As much as I liked the work, mate, I need to leave. Tomorrow I'll be gone.

"We could do tonight," oh God. Shut up! "If that's alright? I mean I…I was just gonna stay in my car. I couldn't afford the hotel this time around and I'm kind of hungry."

He was setting himself up. Why was he doing this? He should leave, take it back, something, but instead he only walks over to the escape, letting Ethan down first and then he slowly makes his way down, literally beating himself up for being stupid. He has a fucking crush. A crush on the man he probably shot and nearly killed. and what's worse is that he's ignoring the guilt and letting himself jump headlong into something he doesn't understand. What the fuck was wrong with him?

Oh. Ethan won't let that happen. He's not set up in the best of situations either, but it isn't a car, and he has food. "Well, fuck, you have to come with me, then. I'll grill us something. You vegetarian or anything like that? If so I've got you covered. Whatever you need. How do shishkabobs sound?" His favorite, hands down. As they climb down, he brings up a few more things. "You're welcome to stay the night. Really, don't sleep in your car in a town like this, please! I'll be worried whether you ever woke up at all if you forgot to text me or call or something." He's cheery and bright, clearly enjoying himself with no remorse.

"The bed's comfortable, too." The bed. One bed. That isn't surprising, really, but that's also an invitation.

"That sounds fine, but I should let you know I'm not vegetarian. S'at a problem? He'd dated enough women to where it was. Male partners never seemed to care. Partners. Christ. What was he getting himself into?

"I appreciate it, really. This place doesn't seem very safe," that's a good assumption. There was a chance even leaving his car out would probably attract someone into trying to tamper with it.

Fixing up his gear and swinging the case on his back, Mick assessed himself for a moment before he was ready to go. "Lead the way then? Really though, mate I appreciate it. Though I think the decidin' factor's gonna be what kind of bed you got."

Oh, now he was flirting back. Great. Digging himself into an even deeper hole seemed like such a good idea.

"Not a problem. I'm not really one either. I like chicken. A lot." He admits it with sheepish little grin, but it's obvious he isn't even sorry. "Not being safe is a mild way to put it, Mick. This place? It's a shithole. It kills everything within it, slowly. It's already suffocating me, but I'm a tough bastard and I think I can last a bit longer before I have to move to avoid being swallowed."

Once on the ground, his landing soft and light, he indeed does lead the way, not truly having to be told. The quip about the bed gets a droll grin right back. Oh, flirtatious, is he? Two can play this game.

"The kind of bed won't matter so much if I'm in it."

…Oh my.

"I'll hold you to that," he's serious. Why is he serious? Shut the fuck up Mick.