{I might be lost, but I'm not a lost cause

[myheadisaprison]

PSL with bringstheheat
Pre-canon things, teen things, etc...

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{I can't help this awful energy

[mypriority]

Leonard spends so much time trying to make everything go right on the job that it's a behavior that often leaks into every day things, too. He can't help it, he isn't sure he could stop it if he tried. But it's a point of contention between him and Mick, often.

It's the sort of fight that's just cyclic in nature and happens over and over, that they can't escape. Apparently, it's happening again. He's over-stepped too far and Mick didn't take so well to it.

"Oh, fuck off," He barely even sounds more than marginally annoyed, personally. "You knew what you were signing on for years ago, Mick. This is hardly new." he rolls his eyes.

{Joke me something awful, just like kisses on the necks of "best friends" | Chicago: Extended Scene

[mypriority]

[A revisit/extension of this for Important Reasons.]

The drive from just off the bridge looking over the Chicago skyline is a simple one, full of laughs and teasing remarks and touches alike. He's kind of drunk on the success of the heist and the feeling of that kiss. He's not sure he ever knew anything could feel so good and right. Like pieces of a puzzle clicking together. Every time Mick doesn't need a hand on the stick shift, Leonard's tangling their fingers together. More than once, nimble fingers make quick order of grazing across sensitive skin at the back of Mick's neck, until it's decided that might actually be a driving hazard and land them in a wreck.

He's antsy. Anxious. On edge. Waiting, waiting, waiting for this snail-slow desk clerk to just get them a room already. Nervous energy surges like fire through his veins, but on the outside it just looks like his fingers drumming impatiently on the countertop. The action earns him a glare from the lady behind the counter, and Leonard is almost certain that she's moving even slower just to spite him now. All he can think about is Mick's arms around him, and the way he tastes. And this woman is slower to check them in than anything he's ever seen in his entire life. He might die before they get into that room tonight.

There's a heady sort of rush as they finally, finally reach the hotel room, and he barely looks where he slides the bag in his hand into the floor and there's a quiet rasp of "C'mere," before his fingers find the collar of Mick's shirt and tug, hard, to bring him close, letting physics and gravity do their thing as the weight of Mick falling toward him push him heavily against the door before his lips find their way to Mick's in a desperate rush.