Whiskey Cupcakes and Flustered Heroes
by Sandrine Shaw
I.
3am, and the gentle hum of the Waverider's engines is driving Mick up the wall.
He used to be able to drop into sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, before Snart dragged him on this fool's mission. Legends – right. Instead, Snart's dead and Mick's stuck with a bunch of do-gooders, playing hero.
It makes him want to burn something, makes him want to hold his hand to the flames until he can't feel the pain anymore. Not a good idea, because Gideon's got a fire alarm too sensitive to sneak around on. It's something Mick found out through trial and error, getting himself drenched to the skin for his troubles. He'd rather do without a repeat performance, even though the scandalized, disapproving look on Hunter's face was almost worth it.
With fire not an option, Mick does the second best thing, heading down to the kitchen to find himself a drink or twenty.
It's just his luck that the room's already occupied when he gets there. Palmer looks up with a half-eaten cupcake in his hand, face lighting up like a fucking Christmas tree when he spots Mick. The kid's worse than a masochistic puppy dog, begging to be kicked. Somewhere between Mick carrying his stupid, unconscious ass out of a Russian gulag and Palmer appointing himself to be Mick's getaway driver without asking, he seems to have set his mind on the idea that they're friends.
Mick meets his smile with a sour look, hoping it'll be enough to silence any friendly chit-chat before it leaves Palmer's mouth.
"Mick! Can't sleep either? I'm afraid I finished the cupcakes, but I can have Gideon make you new ones if you like."
No such luck, then. For someone who's as smart as Palmer claims to be, he's certainly not very observant. Or maybe he's just being stubborn, who knows.
"I don't think so, Haircut. Only if they're made of whiskey."
Palmer frowns, dipping a finger into the bright pink frosting and staring at it with a contemplative look. "I'm not sure if that would work. Obviously, the alcohol would evaporate during the baking process, though I guess you could still taste it. We could ask Gideon to give it a try." He seems to think it was a serious suggestion.
Mick rolls his eyes. "Don't bother."
He busies himself dragging out a bottle and two glasses, pretending not to look at Palmer sticking his finger in his mouth and licking the frosting off, sucking the thick, sugary coating from the digit with a blissed out look on his face and a slurping sound. Jesus fucking Christ, it's obscene.
So who can blame him if he sets the glasses down on the counter with a little more force than necessary, and pours out a more generous amount than he intended.
He shoves one at Palmer. "Drink."
To his credit, the kid doesn't try to argue with him. "What are we drinking to?"
"You need a reason?" It's not like they're lacking incentive to get drunk. But if Mick started making a list, they'd still be at this tomorrow morning. Besides, he doesn't want to talk, he wants to get fucking lit.
"Well, when you put it that way, I suppose we don't."
He takes a tentative sip from the shot glass while Mick throws his head back and downs it in one go, immediately filling it up again before the burn in his throat has faded.
"Gotta drink faster if you want to keep up, Pretty Boy."
"If we're getting drunk together, you should at least call me by my name." Palmer empties his glass, scrunching up his face at the taste. "That's horrible. Did you ask Gideon for the cheapest thing it could produce?"
Mick shrugs. "Gets to your head faster than the fancy shit. You gotta swallow it, not swirl it around in your mouth like you're at a fucking wine tasting."
Three shots later, Palmer's a little glassy eyed, chewing his lip in a way that makes it obvious that he's dying to say something but doesn't know how to avoid getting punched in the face for it. His silence is so loud that it's making Mick antsy just to look at him.
"Spit it out," he grunts.
"Why did you stick around? After Savage, I mean."
"Not like I had anything better to do."
Palmer accepts the non-answer without digging any deeper, and perhaps that's part of the reason why Mick grudgingly adds, "Didn't feel right to leave, after everything." After Snart died to save us all, he doesn't say, but he can still hear it echoing around the room.
He expects the kid's bright, dopey smile to make a return, maybe accompanied by a smug little dig about how much Mick would have missed the others. Already has the scathing reply on stand-by. He never gets a chance to use it. Unexpectedly, Palmer's face turns sombre and a little sad, and he takes another drink without prodding.
When he sets down the empty glass, he reaches out and puts his hand on top of Mick's on the table, giving it a little squeeze.
Mick's too taken aback by the gesture and his reflexes are dulled by the alcohol – at least, that's how he justifies not shaking the kid's hand off until Palmer pulls back, flustered and unable to meet his eyes.
II.
Everything's fun and games and hunting down immortal psychopaths until the fucking Flash accidentally changes the timeline. Goddamn heroes and their savior complex, always making a mighty mess of things.
They wouldn't even know that nothing was quite right anymore, their lives erased and rewritten within the blink of an eye as well, if the Waverider hadn't been out of the time stream when it happened.
"Think about it," Ray says, sounding way too excited. "We could be evil now too. Or we'd already have died years ago. Or perhaps you'd live on a little farm in Idaho with a wife and five kids, and I'd be a Nobel prize winner."
Mick doesn't particularly want to think about it. Despite his extensive stint with the Time Masters, time travel and its consequences are still making his fucking head ache worse than downing a bottle of moonshine. At least with alcohol, you wake up in the morning and the world's still the same, minus some puke on the floor and a few scorch marks on the carpet.
"Less talking, more shooting," he growls, dodging another blast from the cold gun his former partner, who's alive and apparently a supervillain now, fires in their direction.
It's not that Mick has any objections to Snart dropping the hero act and going back to his thieving ways, even if he aligned himself with a bunch of megalomanic assholes along the way, but this Leonard Snart doesn't even know him and clearly doesn't care to, which puts a bit of a dampener on Mick's relief to see his friend back from the dead.
When they round a corner, Mick pulls Ray through a door on their left. It turns out to be a narrow storage room, pitch dark once the door falls shut behind them. Not quite the escape route Mick was looking for, but it'll have to do for the moment.
"What are we doing in here?" Ray whispers.
And Hunter acts like Mick's the simple one. "Hiding."
"Why?"
"Because Evil Snart and his buddies are shooting at us."
Ray's silent for a moment. "Right. And even though he's not exactly our Snart, you don't particularly want to kill him."
He sounds too fucking sympathetic, making Mick want to raise his gun and burn him instead of Snart. He only grunts in response, leaving it to Ray to take it as affirmation or denial, relieved when no further comment is forthcoming.
Outside, footsteps pass by, growing louder and then quieter once again when Snart walks down the corridor. "Come out, come out, wherever you are," he drawls.
Mick snorts softly. It's weirdly comforting that Snart's unable to leave the silly theatricals behind, even if his entire life gets rewritten.
For a while, they stand in silence, waiting, both of them aiming at the door in case Snart comes back. Reluctant to kill the guy or not, they're hardly going to let Snart ice them because they're nostalgic for the person he used to be. Would be. Would have been in another life. Whatever. Fucking time travel. Fucking Flash and his stupid backfiring heroics.
Mick curses under his breath, probably a bit too loud, and suddenly there's a hand clamped over his mouth.
He tries to glare at Ray, but it's no good. They're standing close enough that they keep brushing against each other, but the lack of light makes it impossible to see anything, and Mick's angry look is swallowed by the darkness. He twists towards Ray, grabbing his wrist and pulling it away.
It's intimidation he's aiming for, so he registers the stutter of Ray's breath with a sense of satisfaction, flashing a brief, sharp grin that he knows Ray won't be able to see and that's entirely for his own benefit.
The beat of Ray's pulse is racing furiously under his thumb, but he doesn't try to dislodge Mick's grip, doesn't move away or closer, no indication of fight or flight response. Huh. Interesting.
Mick experimentally takes another step towards him, closing the distance until his breath fans hot across Ray's face, until he can feel the heat radiating from Ray's body and the sound of Ray swallowing hard is loud and clear in his ears.
The tender inside of Ray's wrist is impossibly soft against the rough, callused pads of Mick's fingers. He wonders if the kid has any scars, or if he's soft, unmarked skin all over. Itches to find out. Wants to lay him out and press pretty finger-shaped bruises into him.
"Mick..." His voice is hoarse and thick, so quiet that Mick can barely make out his name.
He doesn't find out what Ray was going to say. The door flies open, bright light flooding the room and blinding them. Mick turns towards the light, letting go of Ray's wrist, and his finger almost tightens around the trigger of the heat gun when Sara's amused voice comes from outside. "Did you actually lock yourselves in a broom closet?"
"It's not what it looks like," Ray says from behind him, instinctively aiming the most stupid comment.
Sara chuckles. "You're not hiding from Snart V2.0 and his friends?"
"Um. In that case, I guess it is what it looks like."
"What did he think it looked like?" Jax asks the Professor, sounding way too intrigued, and Mick pushes out of the small room, shouldering past them before Ray spots the chance to dig himself in even deeper.
III.
"I really don't like the fifties," Ray says, apropos of nothing, looking miserable.
It's hardly Mick's favorite period either. Gideon put him in a gray flannel suit that looks ridiculous and is easily the most uncomfortable, constricting thing he's worn since the Chronos armor, and the fact that Hunter didn't allow him to bring the heat gun because it would make him stand out like a sore thumb doesn't endear him to the era either. That's hardly Ray's problem, though, who can pull off 1950's fashion with such an ease that he might as well be born to it, and the A.T.O.M. Suit's safe and sound in the inner pocket of his jacket.
Mick isn't stupid. He can put two and two together, and he's heard plenty of what happened when Ray, Kendra and Sara got stranded. Doesn't mean he has to coddle Ray over his bout of nostalgia.
"You lookin' for sympathy, kid? While you were playing house with your Egyptian priestess, I was getting tortured and brainwashed by the Time Masters."
Ray winces, a look of contrition passing over his features. "Sorry. That was... insensitive of me. I apologize."
Mick shrugs it off. It's not even about that, not really. It was a long time ago, a lot of water under a bridge that's been burnt to the ground anyway. But Ray's pining touches a nerve. He isn't sure why the idea that Ray's still hung up about Flygirl bothers him so much, but he surely doesn't want to hear any more about it. Which, of course, means the kid's about to blabber on.
"It's just... I was happy. I built a home here. And then it was gone. That's what happens every time I find something worth settling down for. Something happens that turns my world upside down and it's torn away."
Suddenly his eyes are on Mick, burning with an intensity that seems out of place for someone as mild-mannered and easy going as Ray, and Mick starts to understand that maybe this isn't about Kendra at all. "So how can I trust in anything when I might end up losing it all anyway?"
"Don't feel so special. Happens to all of us. You think you got it all figured out, stuff happens, and you gotta start all over again. That's life. Can't let that get you down."
"That's very philosophical, coming from you." Ray's smile is a bit brittle, but it has a teasing edge, and Mick assumes he's done wallowing in self-pity. Good. It always pisses Mick off when decent people keep selling themselves short like that; reminds him of Snart when he was a kid, always doubting himself because his old man had told him he wasn't worth shit.
"Fuck philosophy. I just call it like I see it. I'm a survivor. I pick myself up and whatever knocked me down better be ready for one hell of a fight when I'm back on my feet."
There's something in the way Ray looks at him that makes Mick want to wrap his fist around Ray's tie and pull him in, crash their lips together and replace his mushy, domestic memories of this decade with different ones.
Impulse control has never been his strongest suit, so he does precisely that.
Ray's lips are as soft and smooth as they look, yielding easily under the rough pressure of Mick's mouth, but the grip he has on Mick's lapels is strong, and if he's surprised at all, he doesn't show it. His hat gets knocked off when Mick pushes him back against the wall, tumbling forgotten to the floor.
"Been wanting to do that for a while," Mick says between kisses that become gentler and less hurried as they progress. Truth is, he wants to do a hell of a lot more than make out, but they've got a job to do and the faster they get it done, the faster he gets his gun back.
"Oh God, yes. I mean, me too." Ray mutters something under his breath that sounds like "since Russia, really", except that makes no sense because Russia was... a fucking long time ago. Before Kendra, before Chronos, before a hell of a lot shit that went down in those past few months. Ray must feel the weight of the admission too, because a pretty crimson flush rises up his cheeks. Visibly twitchy, he babbles on. "I didn't think you wanted to. Frankly, I wasn't sure if you even liked me, half the time. Not that you necessarily have to like me to want to... you know. I mean –"
Amusing as it is to listen to him stumbling over his words, Mick decides to take mercy on him. "Trust me, kid, if I didn't like you, I'd have shot you a long time ago."
"Oh. Well. That's... good to know, I guess." Ray's face goes through a series of emotions, as if he can't quite decide on whether that's a good thing or not. It's hilarious.
Mick grins and leans in to steal another kiss, quick and deep and a little dirty - half-tease, half-promise. "Come on, let's find that guy Hunter sent us for. Quicker we finish the mission, the quicker I can ditch that stupid suit."
"I like the suit," Ray says. Mick raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to catch on. It takes a moment or two, but when he does, his blush darkens and he sharply draws in breath. "Right. Let's get going."
IV.
"So, you and Raymond."
Snart isn't even looking at him, fiddling with wires as he's disabling the alarm system. The task at hand obviously doesn't demand his full attention if he can spare the time to stick his nose in things that aren't his business. Fucking 1980s. If they were back in present day where the technology's a little more challenging, there'd be less time for idle chit-chat.
Mick grunts in response. It wasn't a question. It doesn't demand an answer.
Of course, that's not how Snart sees it, turning towards him and fixing him with a penetrating stare and a raised eyebrow. His hands still, obviously waiting for Mick to react.
"You knocked me out and got yourself blown into pieces, Snart, and then your alternate timeline version was an evil asshole who tried to kill us. Way I see it, it's your own damn fault you missed a lot of shit that went down. I don't think I gotta justify my love-life to you. So get on with the alarm, will you?"
"Already dealt with." He gives Mick a speculative look. "And I'm not saying I disapprove. Just surprised, that's all. I didn't think you'd go for the hero types."
Mick snorts. That's rich, coming from Snart, who's only alive right now because of that weird thing he and the Flash have going on where they flirt up a storm and save each other's lives while pretending to be enemies, and the Flash cared enough about Snart to get him out of the Oculus when he fixed the timeline.
"There you are," Ray hisses, interrupting just as Mick's about to offer a scathing comment to make Snart shut up. He was supposed to wait for them out front, standing guard, but clearly he's lacking the patience for the job. "What took you so long? You said getting around the alarm system would be easy."
"Don't get your panties in a bunch, Raymond. Just as I said – child's play." Snart makes an effusive gesture to the door, looking too smug for his own good, and Mick can't have that.
"Don't worry, doll, Snart here just took a moment to have a jealous fit because I'm getting some while his boyfriend's busy flashing around in 2016 and trying not to mess up the timeline again."
The reactions the comment earns him are too satisfying not to enjoy.
Snart narrows his eyes, his gaze turning flat and hard in a way he probably thinks is some kind of poker face when in fact it gives him away. Ray, on the other hand, gets all flustered - a spluttering, blushing mess Mick would call adorable, if he was the kind of guy who thought of other people in terms like 'adorable'.
"I don't think this is an appropriate conversation for when we're breaking into a high security lab to steal a deadly virus." He's clearly aiming for disapproving, but he mostly sounds high-strung and fussy.
"One, much as I loathe to agree, Lover Boy here is right. Two, I don't know what gave you the idea, but the Flash's not my boyfriend. Three –"
"Um. Guys..." Ray interrupts Snart's rant, pointing to the two guards rounding a corner at the far end of the corridor.
"Finally! I was getting bored." Mick throws Ray a grin that's just a little wolfish and dangerous before powering up his heat gun and blasting a stream of flames at the guards.
Nothing quite like a nice, flaring fire to spice up a little B&E.
V.
Gideon's shot him full of high-quality painkillers from the future that make him feel all dopey and high without that stupid, sluggish cotton-mouth sensation 21st century meds bring along. If Gideon was a real person, he'd give her a big, fat kiss.
"Can we please agree that you're not allowed to let yourself get shot for me?"
Mick feels too mellow for the unhappy expression on Ray's face. It's ruining his mood. It's bad enough that he had to endure Snart's reproving glare the entire journey back to the Waverider.
He shrugs as best he can while lying down and wrapped in bandages. "Dunno what you're complaining about. It all worked out alright, didn't it?"
"Sure, yeah, if we ignore the fact that you're on the med bay because you almost bled out."
He reaches out and touches Mick's chest where it's wrapped in clean white gauze with gentle, almost uncertain fingers. The way he looks at Mick, like losing him would have wrecked him, makes Mick ache in places he didn't know could ache, makes him feel raw and hurting in a way not even those fancy painkillers can fix.
He wraps his large hand around Ray's, offering a little squeeze that he hopes expresses what he doesn't know how to say.
Some of the sadness melts away from Ray's face. Without taking his hand back, he twists around and produces a plate. "I had Gideon make you whiskey cupcakes."
They look pretty sweet, all fluffy sponge and golden-brown sugary coating. "There is no actual alcohol in them, Mr. Rory, since it might have adverse effects on your recovery," Gideon chimes in. Maybe she doesn't deserve a kiss after all.
He dips his pointer finger in the frosting, the way Ray did all those weeks ago in the kitchen, after Savage, and makes a deliberate show of licking it off. It tastes as good as it looks, candy-sweet with just a hint of whiskey flavor to round it off, and Mick wraps his tongue around the digit until it's nice and clean, keeping his eyes fixed on Ray.
Making the kid blush has become one of his favorite pastimes, right after burning stuff and stealing things. There's a unique appeal to watching the flush creep into Ray's cheeks, all rosy red, watching him bite his lips in a display of embarrassed desire.
"Mr. Palmer, are you feeling alright?" Gideon asks. "I'm noticing that your heart rate has increased and your blood pressure is elevated. I can call for Captain Hunter if you want me to."
Ray drops his head on the mattress in an effusively dramatic gesture of mortification. "You're the worst," he whispers, presumably to Mick, though he has an inkling that Gideon's having them on and Ray might well be addressing the both of them. The deep, roaring laughter that's wrenched from Mick's chest is worth every little ache it causes him where his skin is stitched together entirely too close to his heart.
End.