Mick Rory

Let's talk!

".. so what are you telling me?"

Nate's voice is bright with excitement, the same earnest delight when he's uncovered another unknown facet of history. "You asked me to look into Lincoln, so I did. I started with the bigger stuff, you know, arrested for the murder of the Vice President's brother, later exonerated--"

"I know all that. I got that from Gideon. You said you had something new?"

"Just wait, hang on." There's a shuffling of papers before he pulls out the right information. "Here. Lincoln was adopted by Aldo Burrows when he was young. The adoption happened in Keystone." A pause. Nothing? Okay. "Mick, Lincoln was adopted when his family burned to death in a fire. The old Rory farm."

"What're you saying?"

"Mick. The reason Lincoln looked so much like you, like identical, is because he was your brother. Aldo Burrows adopted him out of Keystone right after the fire killed your family. Not everyone died in the fire."

Brother.
All these years and Mick never even knew.

As he stumbles out of the library, intent on a drink or ten, he doesn't notice if anyone might have been standing nearby.

He had a brother.
His brother had looked out for Leonard and then went off and died for him without even knowing how they were tied together.

Jesusfuck.

Grief counseling was a ridiculous idea. Even back in juvie Mick had just stared down the overworked counselors, the ones that tried to reach him before writing him off as a pyromaniac and a brute.

But Mick is seeing his dead partner everywhere and if he doesn't figure something out soon he's going to break. All he's been doing is marking time since the Oculus, since he woke up to find out that his partner (his lover, his whole everfucking world) was dead. He'd left him behind and Mick didn't even get a chance to say goodbye.

Sara is worried that he's suicidal, a thought he openly scoffs at.

He'd made a promise to Snart a long time ago that he wouldn't take that way out and dead partner or no, it's a promise he means to keep.

So he hangs back, he doesn't say much or look around until the kid walks in. Ramon. Part of the team that Flash had assembled to stop the Dominators. Huh. Small world, right?

His name was Mick.

He could remember that much. A warm voice crooning to him while he was still in his shell, telling him his name and his birthright. Fire. Beautiful, changing, defining flame. They were the memories that sustained him during his capture and eventual enslavement. A half-breed was rare enough that he fetched a pretty high price on the wizarding black market and Mick despised every one of his owners.

Druse had been the worst. Denying him fire, denying him his born power. He’d tried to mold him into the perfect assassin and for the sake of only brief freedoms, Mick had played along. Choosing to answer to Chronos and assassinate anyone who got in his way. It wasn’t the best life but it gave him the freedom to fly once in a long while and Mick relished those times almost as much as when he would secretly summon fire. Kept locked away in a tower when he wasn’t needed, he could hold the fire in his hand and watch it for hours. Raw and beautiful and it was Mick’s first and only love.

Then a deal had been brokered and Mick found himself with a new owner. Whatever. New name, same demands. He knew the score by now.

What he didn’t expect was for the wizard in question to have a Tiefling for a son. And Leonard Snart was intriguing. He looked at Mick carefully, like he was a complex puzzle that required solving. A year into his tenure and they had become friends, or at least as close to friends as Mick had ever had in his life. Len never called him Chronos. He simply shrugged and asked for something to call him by and without hesitating, Mick gave him his true name. Snart was quick, intelligent and a hell of a lot better at magic than his idiot father. They’d work together on jobs, always reporting back and if Lenny started to hold back some of what they had stolen, Mick never commented on it. He might never be free, but he’d make sure Len and his sister could start their own lives.

Mick is far from a morning person. Normally waking him up involves a good hard shove just to get his attention, particularly when he's sleeping in a large, soft bed with the woman he loved. Sara always slips out for an early morning run and while he might sleepily mutter in protest, throwing an arm out where she'd once been, it's never quite enough to get him out of bed.

So his favorite mornings are the ones when she takes off, skips a run in favor of some other form of exercise or just to laze in bed with him.

Considering the length and duration of Laurel Lance's birthday party last night, Mick is all for staying in bed.

Tequila is just fucking evil.

But there's a warm body curled close, blonde hair tickling his nose and Mick couldn't be happier. He's still on disability from the station, the scars on his arms still healing up, but he can move without stiffness and pain and that's light years from how bad it had been after the fire that had almost taken his life. Third degree burns, physical therapy and his insistence that he didn't give a damn about skin grafts. Save that for the people that really needed it.

He'll ask for a rubdown later, something to ease the lingering stiffness, but not right now. He's got Sara close and all is right with the damned world.

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