"Yeah, this way you don't have to pay for the slightly dirty room and you get decent service! I'd say that's a step up." Plenty of rest, so long as Ethan doesn't do what Ethan is prone to do and make a move. Here's hoping he can at least keep it in his pants for now. Chances are, though, he's so enamored with making an actual friend that won't be a problem. It's a rare thing for him, and…quite honestly? Mick is already shaping up to be the closest thing to one he's ever truly had. Ethan can bare his soul and not be worried…at least, everything but the darkest corners of his mind. Some of those he hides even from himself.

Ethan leads the way up the stairs and past a broken elevator. The housing complex is dingy and old, but surprisingly free of graffiti. He has a habit of catching as many partaking as possible and forcing them to clean it, which has spread rumors about the crazy guy who does exactly that. People tend to stay away.

Fourth floor, fifth door on the left. It opens to a sparsely furnished space, but it's clean enough. The dudebro has his weight set, of course, over against one wall, bench and all.

He's been in worse.

Hell, it's a lot better than his car, smells nicer too (he has John to thank for that, he's still be unable to get the smell of cigarette smoke out of the seats). Least it looked clean.

He felt awkward as he walked himself in, setting down both his duffle and case just so he can get into his back for more files. "I don't have much, only what I could carry with me. There's a few other files in there if you wanna look at 'em, couple run o' the mill jobs that were low priority versus our man Danny."

He finally got the chance to look around, not impressed but it's good enough, clean enough, and comfortable enough. He can see why Ethan chose it, quiet, roomy. Mick liked it.

"'M not exactly the type to just assume, where you want me to move my stuff?" he just felt awkward, no doubt about it. Kinda realizing the situation has him a bit nervous. Bump into good looking guy, said guy invites you back to his place…

He wasn't uncomfortable, though, so that counted for something.

Ethan can tell exactly what has Mick nervous, but he's too enamored with the concept offriendship! right now to add the benefits part onto the end. That comes later. Maybe. Hopefully. He'll make it happen, knowing him.

"The couch is a fold-out. It's all yours, unless you really have an urge to share my bed." There's definite humor in his voice, but, hey- he isn't saying no. Whether the offer was meant to be real or not is up to Mick's interpretation, but Ethan doesn't expect him to do more than laugh. The Traceur does exactly that and then moves away to the kitchen. "Can I offer you water or something? I don't…really have anything else. I'm sober and I've got, like…almond milk."
How exciting.

He snorted. "You offerin'?"

He smirked, eyebrow raised and brown eyes quickly scanning up and down. Maybe some day. Hell, maybe this was what he needed to move on from Prophet. A new friend, that was. Or boyfriend. Or just friends. Just friend. Friends. Friendship, right.

But that was still a raw sort of spot to rub out. Even after all these years…

"'M fine with the couch," he looked around before rubbing his face and making his way over before just nearly toppling over on it, not even bothering with the pull-out and not caring that he had to roll his feet up against it.

"I don't drink much anyway, s'it's fine," he waved him off and yawned, arching back until he was relaxed. He could use a few hours, honestly. All he hoped was that Ethan had some brand of coffee. Caffeine addictions didn't exactly do so well when you were deprived. "Mind waking me if the phone rings? Might not hear it. Deep sleeper, y'know?"

Friendship. Benefits are possible. But friendship is important. God knows they both need it. Ethan, quite frankly, craves it like a drug at this point. Talk about one way to get him addicted.

"Yeah, I've got it covered. Knock yourself out." Ethan slips off to the closet in his bedroom and returns with blankets, sheets, and a clean pillowcase, all of which are set neatly folded on the surface of the couch itself. "The lever thing is on the side…right there." He leans over and flicks it to show, popping the mechanism loose. "You're smart. You've got this. I'll be in my room. Mind if I take your phone and files in there? Promise I won't rack up overseas calling charges." His grin is small and his joke is just that, but somehow it doesn't seem beyond something he might do.

"Take all you need," he muttered, not even really caring what Ethan did with his stuff so long as he didn't break it. A yawn, stretch, and a roll over had him so comfortable he even let out a small hum in satisfaction.

It felt good to close his eyes.

But then that usually wonderful and once very well received tone of the Divinyls had forced him to sigh softly, knowing very well who could be calling.

"Mind getting that for me, mate?" he called out, not even wanting to really deal with it.

But then again, money was always a good thing.

Still, fucking ridiculous. Of all the fucking times to call, it was the time he was about ti finally nod off. Fuck. Oh well, least it was finally time to work. And build more~*friendship*~!

Nice…ringtone." Ethan snorts in laughter and then reaches for it, flipping it open to answer with a casual greeting. "Hello- you've reached Mick Rawson's number. He's currently in a disheveled state of dress on the couch. Can I take a message?" His tone is light and airy, like that a secretary might have.

"I meant give it to me you plonker," Mick grumbled, flinging his arm around in an attempt to get Ethan's attention to hand him the phone. Though he has to admit, the voice Ethan use was kinda funny.

But work was very important. Just as important as friendship. Rolling off in a messy heap and nearly toppling over, sighing through his nostrils before taking his phone back. "Allo. Mmm. Never said anything about a bird. 'F you want 'er it'll cost extra, mate. Right. cheers."

Flipping it closed he smirked. "Says the old man'll be out 'round the corner of 5th and 6th, contact's boys'll be drawin' 'em out. We just take the shot, boom, get the quid."

"You ready to kill Danny Devito?"

"Yes. Let's." Ethan grabs Mick by the elbow once he has his gear and simply yanks him out of the door, just shy of skipping, honestly. Ethan grabbed no weapons, but assuming the man is unarmed would be a horrific mistake. Eventually he sees the necessity of slowing his pace, but it takes until the ground floor for that to happen. Hopefully Mick doesn't mind running down stairs. The hitman glances at his hands, curious for the moment in a blister to see how close to healing it is. Unsatisfied, he reaches for a pocket on his cargo pants and removes gloves, very specifically made for his art. The index and middle fingers are complete, but all of the others only go to the last knuckle. The grips are smooth and the brilliant red accents run along otherwise black surfaces. They suit him well. Mick has his gun, Ethan has his…parkour. So be it.

"Really, though. You ever watch Always Sunny?"

"Have I watched-" Mick wheezed, finally managing to slowly catch his breath. He ran down the stairs. four. Flights. Of. Stairs. "Thought you'd…know by now. I 'ave a…a thing for Danny Devito."

That sounded better in his head.

"What you doing there?" he asked as he watched Ethan…suit up. "Waitaminute are we running there? 'Cause I can list a coupl'a reasons why we can't do that."

Mostly it was because he just hated running. The whole out of shape thing plus a lack of coordination well, that didn't make for a good jogging buddy. But then again, Ethan knew these streets. If he knew a way to get there by foot, well…

"Fuck it. Lead on."

"A thing for him? Hope you don't like roleplay in bed, then." Ethan quips right back without hesitation or remorse, moving on to the next subject as easily as if he had never diverted to an awkward topic at all. "Come on, bro! Let's get moving!" Not very happy with having to walk, the Traceur puts up with it for Mick's sake. Ethan is quick and smooth in motion, the grace with which he maneuvers a product of practice and care more than an attempt to look beautiful while doing it. It's like a leopard balancing on a branch to get water and then jumping across a stream- while it's gorgeous to watch, the animal isn't concerned with how they look when doing it. They want the practicality, and it's the same with any true Traceur or Traceuse.

He keeps a brisk pace, though, already plotting how to get up the building. The blocks pass quickly, and if Mick doesn't beg him to stop he isn't going to slow an inch. Soon, the building is in sight. Now, how to get up? Ethan has an idea, but he looks to Mick incredulously.
"Ok, Mr. Sniper. This is my shit, but…how the fuck do you do your job if you can't get up there?"

"You can take the stairs like a normal person. Or you can take the fire escape. Either way is fine, but you're alone in it." Ethan gives a little wink before abruptly turning his back, eyeing the fire escape…and running forward with a bounding leap that isn't quite possible. His stride is long and his range large, the first bound forward covering distance over height but the second sending him shooting up as if he had springs in his heels. His hands snag the raining of the first platform of the fire escape, and he draws himself up and over without an issue to snap down the ladder so Mick can reach it and climb up. The acrobatic display doesn't even draw a sweat.

Soon, he's scurrying up the building as only he truly can, quite like something out of a video game. His motions are fluid and smooth as he uses the railing of each level of the fire escape to draw up, forgoing the stairs for an outside approach as if stairs were lava and the only option were to get creative. There's no doubt that he beats Mick to the rooftop.

"Fuckin' show off."

Still, it was kinda impressive. But there was no way Mick would have ever been able to do that. That took a bit more effort than he was willing to give.

Least Ethan dropped the ladder. Having a partner did seem to make things easier. Usually he'd have to figure out how to get the damn things himself, which usually involved embarrassing amounts of boxes. Climbing the escape wasn't his favorite thing either, the world would be a much better place if there were no stairs.

Still, better than no building at all.

When he finally clamored up to the roof he wasn't surprised that Ethan had easily beaten him. Dude was fast. "Right, let's set up, yeah?"

"Yup." Ethan is sitting cross-legged near the proper edge of the building, apparently having either an internal compass going on or a very good idea of direction in this city. For a man who has only lived here for a few months, it would take a lot to be that good. Then again, Ethan is hardly the normal subject.

"So…you said there." Ethan stands and points down at the building's entrance across the street. "There are no A/V feeds in our way here, so nothing will record us unless some kid with a camcorder pops out a window. We can't control that shit, anyway, so it's best not to worry, right? No security cameras up here, and none that work down there. They'll figure out the angle with forensics, so we wipe up here and on the railing to destroy fingerprints…unless you remembered gloves?" Ethan has his own on, but it's worth noting that only two fingers are covered completely. The others are free. So what's his beef about fingerprints, then? Not really thinking ahead, is he?
Well…it isn't like they're going to expect someone to get up the way he did, anyway. He'll take his chances. He's a dead man, anyway.

Mm, his SD was a beautiful little piece of metal and gunpowder.

It takes him less than a few moments to set up. scope, barrel, magazine, each piece assembled with a professional sort of dedication that makes Mick a little bit more than prideful. There were snipers, and then there was Mick Rawson. And damn if it didn't still make him feel good.

"Prints we wont 'ave to worry about," he said as he set his rifle meticulously on the edge of the building, admiring the beautiful gun for a few moments before flashing a hand at Ethan to show him the faux leather gloves. "Great thing about long range, don't 'ave to worry 'bout GSR either. Was once part of the FBI, generally picked up a thing or two on 'ow to run my business."

"As far as getting seen, generally, people don't look up."

"…See, this is why I don't do what you do. With the guns, and all that shit." Descriptive, Ethan. Descriptive. But the man has his own trade, so it isn't like he's completely in the dark. He does well in his own fields of choice, and with both respecting the other's expertise they'd quite honestly be a very effective team. Rawson and Krieg? Sounds alright together. Ethan hums in amusement at the idea, then kicks at a fast food cup lying empty on its side near his feet. He then positions himself to the right of where Mick is setting up, dropping to rest nonchalantly in a crossed-leg position like an eager grade school child.

"You were FBI, huh? Shit, bro. Those fuckers had a hand in what happened to…oh." Mick…doesn't know about the whole cyborg thing. He'd better play that off fast. "I got shot bad. Went to prison. They took me down." That works.

"I wasn't in the whole hunt down shoot shoot sort of portion. Was a profiler, analyzed behavior, rarely used my gun unless it was needed, you know? My ah, boss was a bit of a pacifist. Religious bloke, preferred our unsubs alive ad unharmed. Was Interpol before that, s'where I went through training." He was more or less surprised Ethan didn't question a Welshman in an American federal bureau. Generally that was the first thing anyone every questions. Honestly, it was nice not to get that question for once.

Satisfied with his set up he finally sat down, relaxing as best he could against the smell wall and let out a huff. "S'Just what I'm good at, y'know?"

He looked at Ethan with a frown. "M'sorry. Musta been rough for you."

Ethan knows that what he needs to find out will be told to him. He's also pretty pleased Mick hasn't made a racial jab or attempt at stating what he is yet, like basically everyone has proven themselves prone to do. At this point he tends to just let out a barking laugh and then pop a piece of gum in his mouth, chewing intently while staring down whoever it was until they grow so uncomfortable they generally mutter an apology. Whatever works.

"Ah, I deserved it. I'm a fucking prick, bro." Ethan snickers under his breath before tapping the spot on his back by reaching over the shoulder with his opposite arm. "Nice scar, back there. I've been shot twice, but that one almost killed me. Just a few inches from my heart, apparently. It…was not a good situation. But I did my time and I got out…and here I am." Getting out might not..mean what it sounds like. And that timing wouldn't make sense. If he did something bad enough to get shot and "did his time," he wasn't exonerated or acquitted. So…how, exactly?
Probably not something to ask.

"What works for you, I guess."

Mick had no room to judge. Not with how dark and dirty his life had gone over the past couple of years. 2011 was still a raw time for him. But it wasn't important now.

If he had to be honest, he didn't really care what Ethan had done in his past. Okay, maybe he was a little curious, but why did it matter to him when there was a job to do? Maybe because Ethan was his friend (his friend, woo, that made him all tingly). But it wasn't his business.

If Ethan ever brought it up, he'd listen. But Mick's time dealing with behavior and building up a profile told him Ethan had barely scratched the surface about him. Still, best to let him open up on his own time, if he ever did. And well, Mick wasn't a flaming asshole.

"Somehow I've kept myself from bein' locked a good thing. Most of what I do I don't even get to keep. The quid? Most of it goes to my sister back 's all I've got now, really. Gives me ah, a little bit of a feeling that what I do isn't just some bloody last resort for a fuck up."

That sounded a little bitter. Calm down, Micky.

"We've all got our ghosts. No problem with that."

"Yeah." Ethan doesn't have much to say, but the words have told him enough. Living where he does, he hears and witnesses a lot of rough domestic situations. He's considered leaping in a few times, but he's never actually done so. That might be a weakness of character or it might be his inability to do anything without drawing too much attention to himself. His one-man crusade to keep his building graffiti free does enough of that, God knows. He taps his fingers on the rooftop's cement in silence for a moment, then points.

"Incoming. Hey…Jesus, bro, are…are you sure that ISN'T Danny Devito? It looks just LIKE him! Man!" Ethan pulls a scope out of his pocket, flicking to daylight settings before holding it up to one eye, the other closing. He trails in and studies the figure before whistling. "I swear, that's his double."

"It's not fucking Danny Devito!" He almost shouts it, slapping a hand over his mouth and cursing himself for being an absolute moron. "Bollocks."

Grabbing his rifle and holding it like a newborn child, he nearly stumbles over to get to where Ethan is peering out with the scope, squinting down at the target the other man points out before whistling. "Well maybe. Shit. Even from here he looks like friggin' Devito."

"Right then. Y'wanna take him now or give it a sec? 'Cause I can't see if 'e's alone or what and if I take the shot 'ere's a chance some bloody ah, body guard or somethin' will catch 'em. Y'never know. S'your call, Spotter."

Ethan snorts in unabashed laughter and lowers the scope to look at Micks' face just to gloat for a moment. He pauses before taking a second look, raising the small handheld scope again and trailing in.

"I swear to God, bro, that's gotta be him. Let's wait, like…twelve seconds. He's on the phone, look. He's calling a ride, maybe? Yeah- I bet so. He doesn't have a car waiting for him. Why else would he be out front?" He bites his lower lip, then gives a nod. "Danny Devito or not, shot's open, Sniper."

"Shot's open" were probably the Welshman's number one favorite set of words.

Kneeling down and resting his stand on the low wall, brown eye peering through the scope, Mick took a second to orient the gun before pointing it right at "Devito's" back.

Three.

Two.

Inhale.

One.

Bang.

Solid shot through the back, clean, quick, dead.

"Yes," Mick mutters, though it almost sounds like "yas" with how excited he is. In a small celebration Mick smirks, lifting his rifle and bending back the stand. "That's the dog's bollocks right there, mate. Bloody brilliant."

Ethan lets Mick revel in his victory before grinning and punching the man lightly in the shoulder. "WELL done. That's a damn good shot, bro. I'm impressed." He raises the scope to take a closer look…and he mutters. "Uh…Mick?…I think this might be a bad time to bring up the question of…why Danny Devito would be in gangland Detroit. Because that's fucking Danny Devito. Look at his wrist. On the watch, engraved." Jesus, his scope is strong. He passes it over so Mick doesn't have to use his rifle again, and sure enough, engraved around the rim is a very specific name.

"Bro…I think we just killed Danny Devito. Oh my fucking god. RUN!" He nabs the scope back and slides it away into its built-in case in his pocket (he's prepared for this kind of thing frequently- it's his favorite tool) and motions for Mick to move quickly. "We just killed a film icon!"
And this is how the best partnerships are formed.