Intro Post

[shitstorm_eve]

Welcome to Carlyle... Waking Up It's happening again. All around town. Maybe it's in the cereal aisle of the general store while no mothers with squalling children are traversing it. Maybe it's in the middle of the town's lonely graveyard, full of hundred-year-old graves in the middle of the night. Maybe in the local city hall restroom, eyes opening to a gaze-full of toilet paper, or in the town's settler museum full of wagon wheels and old farming paraphernalia. There are still a few government workers milling around since the first influx. People in bland suits of various shades of grays and browns, nothing particularly impressive, but if they approach someone who doesn't seem to belong they'll bring them through the intake process. Though there's a chance that, instead, they'll meet a kindly marshall. Average middle-class white guy, a tall Midwesterner with some scruff and a formal uniform and a stocky build. He will discretely move them through if it's needed, make sure they have an ID and paperwork and phone and some concealing clothes if they have the body type that works for it. If they look special or like someone the government might want, he'll try to keep things on the down-low for them. Better than to lose people again. Getting Familiarized When investigating the town, they'll find it with trace damage from the night before. Someone is replacing a door that has ax-marks in it. Another is rebuilding a fence, a crashed car ready to be towed away. And yet another person is filing an insurance claim with his agent, his shed completely burned down and the air closeby filled with the scent of settled smoke. Most of the residents of Carlyle are friendly. If you stop and ask for directions, they'll give them. It's also a time of year in which there are lots of outsiders, on top of current events. Unfortunately, if anyone's dressed in an entirely unfamiliar way, someone might over-react. They may excitedly run to get one of the agents, or they might scream about it happening again, or they might be absolutely delighted and want pictures so they can go viral on FaceBook. There's a cafe in town where there's are a slew of reporters, talking about post-Vesanalia clean-up and the lost arrivals. At first, someone who wanders in might be mistaken for another reporter, there to order coffee or jam microphones at the management outside. But someone might be smart. A towns-person might notice something off, a familiarity in their gaze, or might hear them say something suspicious. The next thing they know, those reporters are turning their microphones towards the newcomer. Settling In Someone might need somewhere to sleep. Well, there's a nice little hotel where it's free. There's probably government surveillance if you care about that sort of thing. Otherwise, your rest will go undisturbed and have the average conveniences of a mediocre bed, a Febreeze smelling duvet, a somewhat new TV, and bathroom with a tile pattern installed in the 80s. One could try a barn, but there's a chance they'll be run out by an angry man in honest to god overalls and an unironic cowboy hat with a pitchfork. They could also try to sleep in a vehicle. Let's just hope the owner doesn't come checking before morning.

Comments

[perfectlychill]

Len's face creases in confusion, his face close enough to Mick's to feel his breath.

"Yeah, I remember it. It happened about an hour ago. And I wouldn't have done it if you hadn't jumped in to save the boy scout."

If Ray Palmer wanted to sacrifice himself for the greater good, fine. But like hell was Len going to let Mick do it.

[slowburn]

Should someone stumble across them, the whites of Mick's eyes could likely be seen a street and a half away. "You remember," he breathes, expression not changing out of the general shaken look of 'intense'. But then he repeats a "You remember!"

And Snart is hugged. Tight. Lifted up off the ground.

"It's you!"

And he's real enough for Mick to touch and to pick up and squeeze and smell Oh god he puts him down and jams his nose into his collar and huffs. Then back to look at him again. "You're real and you remember.... My legs are cold." Yeah, just... guess it's time to account for that discomfort, thanks.

[perfectlychill]

"Mick...what are you doing?"

He saw Mick a mere hour ago, and this seems like a lot more touchy-feely than one hour apart justifies. There's something freaky going on here and it's probably the Legends' fault.

"And why are you in shorts?"

[slowburn]

"You were gone, Snart. You've been dead for months." But people don't remember actually being dead. "So I spent that time with people that never really thought I was good enough for them." No one except Amaya, anyway. "And then Eobard Thawne and his two boyfriends used you to recruit me. Old you, that is.

Though he absolutely agrees this is partially his fault. He looks down at his skirt of a thing over his shorts, the best he could manage to cover up some of those scars.

"Finally got away from it, got to take a break in Aruba. And what happens? Now I'm fuckin' in sandals in freezing weather. I need some pants. But I'm not going anywhere-" he points at him "-without you."

[perfectlychill]

"I don't remember ever being recruited by Eobard Thawne. Don't remember him working with a team, either."

He heard all about Reverse Flash before setting out with the Legends. Seemed to Snart like he was working alone back then, masquerading as Dr. Wells.

Len glances down at Mick's bare legs.

"Come on, let's get some clothes." He takes out the wallet he stole to see what he got out of it. A bit of cash, two credit cards, bank card, good enough to get Mick some pants.

[slowburn]

There's something sadly fond in the way Mick huffs a laugh at the wallet. Just something he missed that no one else does. That casual slyness and expression of easy accomplishment. It's one of the deep holes gauged out in his life after Snart's loss.

"I tried to... I don't know. Get a new partner. Move on. You know that fuckin' Jesus painting? The one that some old lady tried to fix? That's how they all felt."

What? Mick's not classy but he remembers that happening. Hell, he remembers the original fresco.

He follows after Snart. Figures that they'll deal with any questions as they reach them.

[perfectlychill]

Snart pauses, puts the wallet away and looks at Mick, properly looks at him. It's been only an hour since he saw Mick last, but it's been longer for Mick. A lot longer. He'd knocked Mick out and told Sara to drag him away from the Oculus because he couldn't let Mick die. He couldn't let the universe spin on for him without Mick in it. In the moment, he didn't care much about how Mick would feel living in a universe without Len. He's always been selfish, even his altruism was selfish.

He rubs his fingers over his pinky where the silver ring had been.

"Well, you've got your real partner back now. And I ain't going anywhere."

[slowburn]

Unfortunately Mick's most recent, searing memories are of telling Snart that he becomes a better man. After seeing Snart kill him, at that.

He fishes that ring out of his shirt pocket, the one left on him, and holds it out towards Snart as they walk.

"Here."

Something to quietly keep and never show anyone ever, like a raw, over-exposed emotion. People are starting to stare at the very inappropriately dressed man. He knows he stands out. Normally Mick wouldn't care, but there's a mix of disdain and excitement he can see stirring in their faces and that's a little concerning.

[perfectlychill]

Snart takes the ring and slips it back on his finger.

"Thanks."

He should probably say something more, something about how he's sorry, but he's never been good at that, at admitting to feeling things.

Besides, they're acquiring too much of an audience.

"What are you guys looking at? Never seen a man's legs before?"

[slowburn]

"You're one of them." A woman in some nigh on Presbyterian church goer gear says. Long dress with thick tights under it. Plain style of make-up. Thick coat pulled around her. "You were sent here from somewhere else."

Like she's fucking talking to angels.

"Christ," Mick mutters, rubbing the back of his head. This one's new. Sort of. Blaming it on the Lord has happened a few times but this is a new flavor to it. So what the hell, might as well make his intentions clear. "I need pants!" He declares once again, loudly, at the lady. Because by god if he's a blessing from heaven he needs trousers to go with it. "It's like Russia all over again.

[perfectlychill]

Snart's seen this kind of thing in movies before. They're gonna end up hanged as witches or burned in a cage in some kind of freaky spring harvest ritual or something. He's gotta freeze this line of speculation before the townsfolk get any funny ideas.

"Look, lady, it's not what you're thinking. My buddy and I just had a wild night last night, that's all." A wild night in which Mick became pantless.

[slowburn]

He immediately jumps on the same mental track as Snart, nodding firmly.

"I need pants and an aspirin. And a burger." Hangover materials. But also good food. So there's that.

But then he leans in close to Snart, and whispers in his ear. "Let's get these clothes fast. And figure out what 'them' means." Big feelings later. Safety and not being nutty religious sacrifices now.

[perfectlychill]

Snart nods once and wishes he had a cell phone. Navigation to the nearest clothes store would be helpful. It's a shame that everyone locks their phones these days or else he'd just steal one from the looky-loos. If they even have cell phones. They look like rotary dial kind of people.

"Told ya that last drink was a bad idea." And he picks up the pace to get away from the bystanders and, hopefully, closer to pants and answers.

[slowburn]

"Yeah, but what's the fun in playing it safe?" Mick is saying, though a moment later he's walking away, muttering under his breath. "Except I think it's what we should do." His time with the Legends has at least taught him to restrain those feral, burning urges. This town doesn't require immediate immolation to get answers.

"We need someone that can tell us what's going on."

He still fucking needs pants too, so first concern is first. He strides into a general store and grabs some off the shelf. The woman at the counter is blinking as he's putting them on right there, casting his other covering aside. Blinking as he's grabbing a jacket off the shelf and a pair of leather winter gloves. Good enough.

Some things never change, he doesn't give a damned if he's being watched while he dresses.

"Hey, you have to pay for that-" She starts.

"I'm gonna! Don't make assumptions, lady. Sometimes a man with a hangover just needs to cover his ass." An invisible hangover, he'll just stick with the story.

[perfectlychill]

Snart takes out his stolen wallet and tosses a credit card on the counter. "Here. All the clothes on him are on me. Financially." He adds, in case the cashier doesn't get the joke.

[slowburn]

Mick moves his floral man-sarong to the side as he slides on the pants over his beach shorts and then wads it up and throws it in the nearest trash can. After that the coat is pulled on (over the Aloha shirt and scar-concealing undershirt) and the gloves and boots last.

Good. Everything covered.

"Are you sure you're not-" the woman at the register is saying. Were she being more attentive, she'd probably notice the name on the card. Small towns bring out the regular customers. Luckily, Mick is an amazing distraction by just existing.

"Getting some of these, too." He grabs a bag of donut holes. He's going to need them to work out a head full of big fucking feelings.

[perfectlychill]

Snart leans on the counter by the register and turns up the charm half a notch. "Sorry for the disruption, ma'am. My pal's just in a hurry to get home. It was a rough night. We'll be outta your hair in a second."

[slowburn]

She's caught off guard, caught in a grin at the handsome man shooting her a look at that, punctuated by the awkward midwestern small town women not used to visits from men that are that handsome.

"Oh, well... I guess it can't be any worse than the boys down at the tavern."

As she's saying this, Mick walks out of the store, dumping the tags from the clothing on the counter as he goes. His chest literally hurts. It's hard to look at Snart after everything. To think that he's real and there, and what the fuck, only a little while ago he'd self-sacrificed to save the damn timeline. Feels like Mick's been-

Wait. He has been alive for a lifetime since then. Even if he was asleep for most of it.

He needs sugar.

[perfectlychill]

Snart makes a mental note to himself to check out the tavern later. But right now he and Mick need to find someplace quiet to lay low and talk. Then tonight they can hit up an ATM, get some cash to tide them over for a while, and figure out what they're going to do next.

[slowburn]

Mick waits outside for him, looking up and down the street with a hard-won grimace on his face. Where does one even begin with this kind of conversation?

Well, with a lot of booze. And then maybe it shouldn't begin at all.

"Something is real damn off, here," he greets Snart with when he comes out.

[perfectlychill]

"You mean aside from the fact that I'm dead and you're from a year in the future and we were both dropped into this sickeningly quaint little town?" Snart walks close to Mick, almost brushing shoulders, keeping alert for a place they could hide out for a few nights.

[slowburn]

They pass a wall with what looks like human fingernail scratches. A man is outside with sandpaper, an irritable look, and a can of paint casually trying to rub them out of the wood.

"Quaint. Right." The words meander, drawn out and thoughtful.

"We just need somewhere to hide long enough for them to come get us." Like they did with Haircut and Chicken Legs. "The Brit's not in charge anymore. He bailed like a coward. Sara took over. Things go a hell of a lot smoother already." Even with complications of that jerk's making. Sure, Mick's so glad to see a brand new Time Bureau. His Blackjack and Hookers version. Surely it'll be a step above mind control.

[perfectlychill]

"Come get you, you mean. They don't know I'm here. If you're right and I'm dead, then I'm probably a time anomaly. And we know what happens to those." He punctuates his words with a flick of his index finger.

Snart ain't going quietly into that good night. And he's not gonna put down roots here either. Which means he's gotta figure something out between now and when the Legends arrive looking for Mick.

[slowburn]

"Hate to fill you in on the bad news, but you might have to go through your own 'Come to Jesus'. Locked up in the Waverider brig. Turns out you met us before, back when we were on the outs. The Legion of Doom recruited you. In some of their time crap, you were at your worst.

"You killed my friend. Our friend. You killed me, too. We had to break things to fix that. Then erase your memory to put you back.

"They'll rescue us but some of the new guys might side eye you a little." Sara, he guesses, would be glad to see him.

It's unpleasant news, though. "We should get somewhere more quiet." And less weirdly eavesdroppy.

[perfectlychill]

Snart frowns at the brief summary of what his past self did. Even at his worst, the only way he can figure that he'd kill Mick is if Mick...left. Chose the Legends over him. Fucking ironic if so, since Mick nearly killed Len for that same thing not long ago. Funny, in a terrible way. "So I'm gonna have to prove to them that I'm not gonna get all murder-y on any of them. Fine." Snart scans the street and sees a strip mall up the road. There's hardly any cars in the parking lot and half the stores look boarded up. Casualties of the Great Recession. Bad for the local economy, great for short term hideouts. "Up ahead. Old Blockbuster. Let's check it out."