Author's Note:

And here, we return to Len.

Also, this chapter makes me think of Matchbox 20's Unwell. I have no idea why.

"Hey, Len. Got all his financials off his hard drive, all his passwords." Cisco tells him, smirking up from where he sits in front of his three screens and computer.

"Good," Len tells him, because it is good. Very good.

He nods as he heads back to the pool table, but doesn't check to see if Cisco notices. It doesn't really matter either way.

"Your shot," Mick says as he hands him a beer. Len takes a drink-it's not his choice of alcohol but it does well enough-and sets it down on the edge of the table.

"Five, corner." He takes his shot, the cue ball clicking against the five ball and glancing off. The five thunks into the corner pocket.

"You look better..." Mick says, pausing to swallow a mouthful of beer, "better than when we started."

He feels better. Not much, not enough but better all the same.

"Yeah," Len admits, because what's the point in denying that truth?

"And that bothers you," Mick says. It's not a question, it's a statement.

And it's true. It's true and he knows that of all the people in this apartment, Mick is the only one truly qualified to know that.

Mick remembers the before, even if he lets them both pretend they didn't work together those few times two decades ago, even if he's never acted like he knew Len during their occasional encounter on opposite sides in the time since.

"This isn't supposed to feel..." Len says, because what else is he supposed to say?

"Good? It's not that hard to figure out."

And it wouldn't be, not for Mick. Mick has always been one of the terrifying ones to hear of, not just because of his strength or willingness to do almost anything, but because he sees things. Reads people. And he files them away and it's impossible to know what he knows about people until he brings it up again. It's never personal, things for Mick never are. Mick doesn't do personal, not according to the records Len has read over the years.

He knows people by what they are and what they do, not who they are.

And Len has been on the side of angels since the night he walked out of his childhood home with a little boy, has changed because of it.

Mick knows he's molded himself into something good and here he is consciously doing something that's not, even if it's right.

Len takes another swig of the expensive beer, wishes it was something stronger.

"Eiling screwed you. He cheated by stealing from that other company and your good guy brain sees him as the bad guy. Your conscience is clear," Mick says, and it's true, to an extent.

But it's not the whole thing, can't be. Mick has to know that, has to remember that.

"You want to take your shot?" Len asks, and he can hear the anger in his voice and knows that Mick must hear it to. Must know Len is angry.

Even if he doesn't know all the reasons why.

"I'm sorry about your brother," Mick says.

And Len hates that, hates hearing that, hates the whole fucking situation.

"You don't know anything about that."

"Everybody knows. Guy like you goes off the street, a lot of people notice. And it was a bad story too."

Len knows the meaning behind that, can't not see it. Anyone else here saying that and Len would think nothing of it.

But before, all the way back then, when he turned to the skills his father drilled into him with lessons and pain, he had been on his way to being something on that side of the world, been making a name for himself even if he didn't want to be.

So yeah, he thinks Mick means it when he says he's sorry, means it when he subtly compliments him, and he means it when he...

Mick interrupts his thoughts with another question, "How did they justify that? The insurance company, just not paying for his treatment?"

"They claimed it was experimental."

"Shoulda kept one of those Monets... you fence that-"

The fucking Monets. Their first job together, way back when. They'd found them in a storage room in the back of a jewelry store, hidden in a safe behind a false wall. He'd been expecting an extra cache of diamonds and they'd found some of those too, but no one outside the owner probably knew the paintings were even back there. Len had only found the false wall in the first place because he'd diligently studied the blueprints before they'd made their move on the store.

He'd talked Mick into dropping the pair of paintings off at a museum on their way out of town, which was no small feat in and of itself. Because they'd come for diamonds and he didn't have a fence for paintings and it seemed like a step too far back then anyway, to enter the world of art theft. Not that stealing diamonds wasn't a big deal. And realistically, they both knew the paintings were probably already stolen anyway. It would be hard enough to fence them when they weren't already hot.

"Mick, we're not friends," Len says, and he means it. He can't be Mick's friend. Even with, perhaps especially because they have a history that Len did his damnedest to remove the second he stepped out of his house with Ronnie in his arms.

"Right. Because you have so many of them," Mick grunts, shaking his head.

Mick walks away and Len just watches.

Len just watches and thinks about all the things he'd given up for Ronnie, and all the things he would do now to bring him back.