"It was just a job," he mumbles, echoing Mick's own earlier mantra, without even knowing it, eyes sliding shut against the electric feeling dancing across his skin that only Mick has ever been able to evoke in him.

Nimble fingers slide down Mick's chest, searching for the hem of his shirt to slide it up, skating across toned muscles once the offending material is out of the way. "I've always been yours, Mick," and he thinks maybe the pyro forgets that sometimes, because things are just the way they are and have been for so long and he sucks at reminding him of things like that sometimes. "Nobody else gets to have me." Nobody else has put up with all of his bullshit the way Mick has, and nobody would, and so nobody else deserved to have him like this.