"I can drive. I'm good at driving. I have licences in five countries," Martín said, folding his arms across the silk shirt he was wearing. The angle at which he turned his head to look at Mirko was not reassuring.

"No."

Martín's eyes narrowed, which always made his pretty scars look so much sharper, and Mirko stood from his chair, knowing he hadn't won yet. Making himself taller was never enough to intimidate Martín, though.

"I've been the getaway car plenty of times, you know. I can certainly drive down to the grocery store. Or anywhere, for that matter."

"No. Look at me."

Mirko took Martín's chin in his hand, and the other man scowled, one eyebrow raised confrontationally. Mirko held his hand up by Martín's head, about a foot away and parallel to his right ear.

"How many fingers?" Mirko asked, and when Martín's eyes tried to flicker away he squeezed him slightly. "No. Look forward. Tell me."

Martín's expression bordered on thunderous for just a second, but then the clouds drew back inside, covered up by something sneaky. Well, that was the usual.

"Two," Martín said sweetly. "A peace sign for you, gentle Mirko."

"No," Mirko said, and he pulled his hand back to the center of Martín's vision. "Thumbs up."

He let Martín go, who looked away, saying nothing. His eyes had never recovered from the Bank- from the botched removal of deeply buried shards of glass in a tiny, complicated, and very fragile set of organs- but he always tried to pretend this wasn't the case. Mirko saw how he bumped into things too far into his peripherals, how he had to turn his head this way and that to see what lay before him. He was alright. It wasn't dangerous. But in a car...

"It's okay," Mirko said, and he embraced the smaller man, kissing his forehead. "I'll drive you wherever you need to go."