We're all broken after this week's episode, but if you haven't seen it, no worries, this is a what if, instead, fix-it scenario of how things could have gone differently at the end of the week while they waited for Rip to give them a new destination.

My first ever ColdWave, as a diehard ColdFlash lover, but damn it...they got to me and I woke up having to write this. How I honestly think a sexual relationship between them could be.

They're in some indeterminate place in space and time to wait out Rip's next orders on where to find Savage. Mick avoids him, just like he did when finding a seat for that next trip—leaving the seat beside Len empty.

Shouldn't matter. They all sit haphazardly, in varied pairs, someone different each time having to put up with the empty space Carter left behind. This is different. This is deliberate. Mick sits next to Ray, and Len thinks, good, this'll be good. Mick needs to find something, someone other than just him to keep him on this boat.

But it doesn't stick. They jump, they stop to regroup, Rip closes himself in his room to research into their next endeavor, and the others scatter, Mick included. Needs space, needs time, needs to cool off. Fine. But meals go by, and days go by, and Mick won't acknowledge him. This is a special kind of angry, with something more at the core of it that Len can't decipher—and he can always read Mick; he's the best at reading Mick.

But Len still knows one thing that always shifts Mick's perspective, calms him down, eases his sparking nerves. So it's not quite a weak of Rip barely being a shadow to the rest of them when Len corners Mick in his room before lights out—which is never anything official anyway—and closes the door behind him.

"You want somethin'?" Mick growls with barely a sideways glance.

"'Bout to ask you the same thing…boss," Len says, drawing out the title. He raises his eyebrows when Mick looks at him, small challenging smirk on his lips.

It's always like this, that lone word a blatant and familiar invitation. Started as a joke once, years ago—Mick calling him boss. Coz Len was always calling the shots.

But the first time Mick reached for him, sixteen years old and full of youth and fury, Mick took the lead, and every time since it's been the same. Every other situation, Len is the boss, but not like this.

Mick surges up from where he was sitting on the bed, staring at his lighter. The lighter clicks closed and lands on the floor with a forgotten clink. Mick's all up in Len's space the next moment, slamming him against the door. Len expects to have several new bruises when he leaves the room later, but Mick'll be better then. It'll be better.

Mick doesn't kiss him. Len can count on one hand the times they've done that. For them it's always hard edges and rough surfaces—grasping hands, rocking hips. It's like a trigger—Mick has many of those—but that word in particular, Len calling Mick 'boss', always ignites him.

Mick attacks Len's neck with teeth and tongue, scarred and calloused hands pushing up beneath Len's shirt and pinning him that much more roughly in place. Len gasps and takes it, let's Mick have his way, his own hands limp at his sides unless Mick tells him to put them to good use.

It's not always often—being like this. More so when they were young. Fits of ramped up cycles where they have each other every night, then months of nothing. Then years of nothing, usually when locked up at different times, or in different prisons. But it always comes around again.

Nothing exclusive or so juvenile as love. Respect. Kinship. History. But Mick has his boys and girls on the side. Len less so, less options, less desire for companionship outside his small circle. But when they do come together it's always the same, like a geyser, high pressured steam with fire and ice meeting in ravenous, angry contention.

"You got supplies on this bird, or am I fuckin' you raw?" Mick rumbles into his ear, pulling Len's pants open and shoving them down his hips like they got a time limit. Wouldn't be the first time they actually had a ticking clock, but Len knows this desperation, how much Mick needs something to lose himself in right now, and if the option for setting something a blaze isn't presented, then a hard fuck often does the trick.

"Turns out the Fabricator has all sorts of uses," Len says, moving his hands for the first time to reach into his jacket for a bottle of lube and a condom.

When Gideon asked him what she should say to Captain Hunter concerning what Len would be using the items for—of course the bastard inventories everything they have the ship make for them—he told her without mincing words that he'd be putting them to the exact use they're intended for.

Mick tears the items from Len's hand, digs his fingers into the scruff of his shirt, and drags him from the wall toward the bed. Len struggles not to trip with his pants and underwear tangled at his thighs, but it happens too fast for that to matter. Soon he's on the bed, clothes ripped away from him without care at causing any damage. Len is naked, uncaring of the scars laid bare the way he would be with anyone else, lying back patiently waiting for Mick to finish undressing.

Then the larger man is upon him, rutting against Len's thigh, gripping Len's cock, and panting in his haste to get them both hard before undoubtedly ordering Len to flip over before long.

"Yeah, boss," Len gasps, head dropped back on the stiff, simple mattress as he watches Mick's face twist with want and impatience, "…just like that…you know I need it rough."

Mick grunts, spreading his fingers to grip their dicks tighter, and shoots out his free hand to hold Len down with a loose but insistent hand at his throat. It isn't enough to stifle Len's breathing, just a show of power without ever pushing too far, something Len knows he fails at often enough when he's the one in the position of boss.

But he has to. He has to. Mick might have gotten himself or others killed a dozen times over if Len didn't abuse their trust in the right situations. He refuses to regret that.

"Should make you suck my dick before I fuck you," Mick says, face a sneer as he looks Len right in the eyes, "fill those pretty lips with something better than all those words you spout."

Len runs his tongue across those mentioned lips. "Whatever you want, boss."

A growl again. In the bedroom, Mick is all beast and masculinity, even though he's so much more than that otherwise, so much more than others think of him. Len doesn't' say it enough. Doesn't know how to say it. Affection isn't something they exchange. Instead it all comes out like this, messy and vicious. And that's fine, because that's life. That's who they are. Even if somewhere along the line, Len started to want something more, and he just wishes…wishes Mick would come along on that ride with him.

Len relishes in the feel and taste of Mick when his partner crawls up his body, straddles his shoulders, and lowers himself into Len's mouth. Len can do little more than open wide and take what Mick gives him. But Len's used to this. He can swallow Mick down without a single cough or choke on his impressive thickness. Len loves the heady scent, the way Mick's hips bob up and down as he holds himself up leaning forward against the headboard.

It's only a few minutes of this before Mick pulls away and flips Len over roughly without so much as a word. Len knows this dance well, gets into the position Mick loves best, shifted up onto his knees, legs spread, weight on his forearms, gripping at the sheets for purchase even before Mick's first meaty finger presses tight and slick inside of him.

Len's surprise Mick even bothers to stretch him. He doesn't always. Knows Len can handle it. Mick isn't gentle tonight but he isn't brutal either, thrusts inside Len deep, deeper still when the second finger joins the first, until Len moans into the mattress.

"Louder, Snart. Like you want the whole crew to hear ya."

Len would have complied even if he didn't know the walls are soundproof.

"Yeah," Mick says, hand retreating and the sound of the condom wrapper signaling what comes next, "all tough and in charge, but you like this, doncha? Like letting me drive."

It's not merely appeasement when Len answers, "Only you, boss. No one else could fuck me so good." And he means it. Always has. Letting someone else have power over him churns Len's stomach, makes him think of his father no matter the situation. But not with Mick. Never with Mick.

Mick is so hot—always searing—and so thick as he presses into Len. Len anticipates a single hard stroke home, but Mick goes slow, slower than Len is used to. It makes his thighs tremble and he fists the sheets tighter. Mick reaches around him once he's seated, snakes his right hand around Len's chest and forces him to arch his back, passing his rough palm over each nipple and every scar.

Len whines because it's so good, always so good with Mick, so freeing. He misses this when it winds down, when they're apart, when they're at odds. Can't ever admit it though. Can't show that weakness. He just wants Mick to stay. Wants Mick to want to stay. Len's so tired. Of all of it. Of himself. But this—Savage, this mission—it's a chance to do things differently. He doesn't want to give up everything he's been the past thirty years…but a few things. Why can't he be a rogue and a savior? Why can't they do this together?

"Please, boss…" Len says when Mick's thrusts remain slow, and it must be driving him mad too, because Mick always runs hot and fast. He hasn't touched Len since he flipped over, other than the hand at his chest. "Please…"

"What you want, pretty…?" Mick whispers hoarse and close at Len's ear. "Wanna come? Or wanna play hero?"

"Fuck," Len huffs as Mick picks up the pace at those bitter words, pounding him into the mattress so that his arms shake with the effort to stay upright, and he has to give in and and fall forward until his face presses into the sheets as well.

Len doesn't have an answer, so he doesn't give one, just rides out Mick's anger, that even as Mick fucks him harder, never spikes, never lets this be anything but good for Len.

When it's almost too much for Len, Mick's hand drags down his chest and grips Len's cock to stroke him in time with his pumping hips. Len comes with a choked off cry. Mick pumps his hips once, twice more, then he's grunting into Len's shoulder as he comes too. They're sweaty and panting for a solid minute before Mick pulls away.

Len can't quite move yet, hopes Mick lets him lie there just a bit longer, and is surprised at the feel of a soft cloth wiping him clean, turning him over gently with those large hands to wipe his stomach too and dab at the slight wet spot left on the sheets.

Mick tosses the cloth to the floor with less caring, and for a moment his harshness returns as he grabs Len's neck again and yanks him upright. Len tenses as if waiting for a blow, unsure what Mick means to do, but Mick just hovers there, breath heavy…before finally kissing him.

Len's too shocked to fight, mouth opening in surprise to meet Mick's eager tongue. Mick's mouth is as warm as his cock, his hands, his entire expanse of skin. In any other situation Len hates the heat, but not when it's Mick. Not unless there's an actual fire blazing around them. If the fire is Mick himself, well, Len doesn't mind the occasional burn.

Mick can be ruthless. Mick can be gentle. Len's just not used to both so close together.

"What do you want from me, Snart?" Mick growls against Len's lips when the kiss breaks, still holding his neck firm.

There are so many things Len could say. But Mick doesn't care for his 'winning speeches'. Len's started to realize how wasted they are on his friend. Mick knows too well when he's being bullshitted. He knew the moment Len opened his mouth about stealing across time that the real reason Len wanted to come on this mission…was to help. Plain and simple. Be a legend, sure. Enjoy the thrill of a new adventure, absolutely. But also…also…to maybe prove that someone believing in him, in his ability to be more than his father, isn't in vain.

Maybe Len does want to be a hero. He's been a lousy villain, after all…for a lot longer than he wants to admit.

"You'd have gotten bored in 2046," Len says.

"Maybe. Maybe not. Who are you to say so?"

"Mick…"

"It's always your way, your orders," he tightens his grip on the back of Len's neck so hard it hurts. "When do I get a say?"

"Thought you just got one," Len smirks.

Mick growls at him and all at once…releases his hold, shifts to sit on the edge of the bed, and slouches in frustration more than defeat. Len sits up, legs spread out behind Mick's back. This should be easier after thirty years, but talking's not what they're good at.

Len musters up the strength to say the one thing he really needs from this. "Stay. I just want you to stay."

"Why?"

"Coz it's you and me, Mick. Always has been."

"Sure seems like it's you and Sara lately. Or you and Palmer. Or you and Rip, even, not you and me."

"We're a team, Mick. Kinda gotta play nice with the other members to make that work."

"And leave me hangin'?"

"What about Raymond?" Len shoots back. "I had a plan. Tucked his suit in nice and cozy, waiting for when he woke up, so we could have a better chance at escaping, but you insisted we drag his ass out of there."

"So what?" Mick wouldn't look at him; it was really pissing Len off.

"So…is it really so awful to want that? To want to help, even if it doesn't help you? You're just sore that playing hero made you feel something you're not used to feeling."

"Yeah, pathetic!" Mick finally turns to him with a roar, eyes alight. "What happened to you, Snart? Ever since this mission—nah, ever since Flash came into the picture, you've been pining after something men like us don't get."

"You want to call it quits then?" Len spreads his hands to encompass the room, the ship. "Have Rip drop us off and fuck the future?"

"Why not? Never gave a damn about it before."

Len clenches his fists only to open them with an outward gesture to try and plead with Mick rationally. "Think of the potential here, Mick, all the things we could—"

"Enough of your bullshit!" Mick flies off the bed, spinning around with fists clenched, an imposing figure no matter what he is or isn't wearing. "You wanna play hero, go right ahead, but that's not me. It won't end with this mission and you know it. Won't end at all. You got this taste for it now, and you're gonna crave it even after Savage is dead and buried. Then what's left for me?"

Len cools and calms as more of the truth reveals itself between them. Slowly, he drops his feet over the edge of the bed and sits, taking Mick's vacated spot. "You could be there with me. Like we've always been."

Mick scoffs and turns away.

"You get one look at something new for us, and you run scared," Len challenges him. "Ready to throw everything in for some Mad Max bullshit in 2046. So I'm different. So I want more. So what? That still includes you, Mick. But if you're saying it won't, that it can't…then I'll leave it."

Mick glances back at him, not fully, just his eyes flicking over his shoulder.

"I mean it," Len stands, though he doesn't move closer to Mick yet, knows he needs to play this cautiously, "but I need you to wait it out. Finish the mission. See what happens. You really hate all this at the end as much as you think you do now, we're done with it. We get back to 2016, we do things your way."

That gets Mick to turn, though he hangs back, eying Len skeptically. "How do I know you're not just lyin' again, tellin' me what I wanna hear?"

Len smirks. "Coz if I lie to you again, Mick, lie about something this big, I doubt I'll walk out of that next conversation alive." Len's playing it coy, but he means it. He knows they're at a crossroads, that if things end that way in some distant future and he can't give this new side of himself up for Mick's sake, one or both of them will fry or freeze.

But Len's always been a gambler at heart, and deep down he believes Mick can do this with him. He's seen the change, the sparks of interest and surprise at how much Mick actually enjoys this gig. He just needs to believe he belongs here, that he's needed, and useful, and part of the team. Eventually, he'll crave it too, if he can accept it. Len believes that. He has to.

Silence passes between them as Mick thinks over this new arrangement. Mick is still restless, but now he has a goal—to prove Len wrong. While Len hopes he can prove Mick wrong instead.

Finally, Mick crosses the room to meet Len and reaches for his neck once more, not as harsh this time, not quite gentle either, just present. "You got some place to be tonight?"

Len cocks his head at him. "Besides my own bed?"

"Could stay here. Might wanna fuck you again come morning. Figure you owe me."

Len laughs. Mick grins. It's a companionableness that's been missing lately, in their exchanges, in their glances. One of those rare times when it doesn't matter how much has happened in thirty years, at the core they will always be the hapless teenagers they were when they met.

Mick tugs Len close, and Len leans in willingly. They kiss—again. And again. And Len tells himself it isn't love. This bond is stronger than that, so much weightier than romance. This is partnership, plain and simple, as solid and insurmountable as a storm, and he hopes more than anything else that he never, ever loses it.

"Whatever you say, boss."

THE END