ajremix: (humor)
[personal profile] ajremix
Oh, I have an idea for a silly, quick fic! 5K words later... Title from the song by Dropkick Murphys.

Title: Fightstarter Karaoke
Fandom: DC TV
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 5229
Characters: Len, Mick, Lisa
Summary: Mick does not approve of Len's diet and decides to start up a wager.

Living with Mick is the fucking worst. It's not actually- even trying to cram two grown men into a shitty one bedroom with a crappy sofa bed and crappier mattress, it's better than living with Lewis. But staying in the same place as someone he doesn't have to tread lightly around quickly became a game of 'Is This Habit A Previously Unknown Pet Peeve of Len's'. Mick is horrendously good at that game. He leaves wet towels on floors or counters, switches television channels in the middle of a show, puts his dirty projects on the table and hoards trinkets both valuable and not. Which isn't hypocritical of Len at all because at least Len organizes his stolen hoard and not just shoves them into whatever free space is available.

Len's aware, of course, that this is a two-way street and Mick doesn't hesitate to bitch about which of Len's habits is driving him up the wall this time: talking- making legitimate criticisms! -over shows and movies, putting his booted feet on everything, letting Lisa stay over for days at a time. Her staying Mick never actually minds, it's Len's tendency of informing Mick of this by dropping Lisa's bag on his stomach and kicking him off the least lumpy side of a sofa.

And his eating habits. Nothing gets Mick fuming like seeing what crap Len puts in his mouth. It comes to a head one day when Mick gets back from a grocery run and catches Len squeezing ketchup packets into a bowl of macaroni. Mick glowers at him and says, "You better be done with that by the time I finish putting refrigerated stuff away."

Mick doesn't get mad often- the kind that's not for show -and Len shovels his food down obediently. He knows from experience that Mick will toss out Len's food mid-meal and make him eat something healthier. He finishes barely a minute before Mick stomps over and towers over Len, arms folded and glaring- it's a testament to their relationship that Len doesn't feel compelled to shrink away from him.

"We," Mick says like an order, "are going to wager."

Len blinks owlishly, uncertain as to where this was headed. "On what?"

"Whoever wins our next fight gives the loser an instruction and they have to keep doing that until the next fight."

Granted, Len is very much aware of the fact he's been ducking out of these training bouts with Mick despite needing to be a better fighter and not just taking a hit which he's worryingly good at. And he always did think betting made things more interesting but, "Fuck no- you're always gonna win!"

Mick just gives a mean grin. "Incentive to make you fight harder."

True but Len isn't about to bet on certain loss. "No," he says firmly.

The following week is hell. Mick leaves his clothes everywhere, lets dirty dishes fester on the table, keeps the windows open a crack so bugs can get in, plays his music obnoxiously loud even through headphones. What makes it worse is the fact Len knows Mick is doing all this deliberately, so Len would be compelled to take the bet in the miraculous event he won and could order some sort of reprieve for a while.

Len comes back to the apartment one day to find Mick on the sofa with his dick out and porn on the tv. Mick masturbating to bad porn isn't a surprising thing though he- like Len -usually does that in the bedroom like decent fucking people. Nor is it far from the first time he's seen Mick rubbing one off- time in prison aside, if one or both of them were horny but too lazy to go prowling, they had no problems popping in porno in the video player and jacking off right next to each other. But to have Mick doing so on the sofa, right in front of the door, is a shock. If he'd had Lisa with him, Len would have been livid- distantly he's aware that Mick knows she's at camp for a few months but the point still stands.

He slams the door and stomps in, standing between Mick and the screen, glaring. Mick calmly stares right back up at Len, hand still moving over his cock. Len snarls, "You're on."


Len's mouth presses into a tight, unhappy line as Mick puts a plate of something not greasy, mostly green and easy on his still-sore jaw in front of him.

"Eat," Mick orders and Len, for the third day in a row, forces himself to pick up his fork.

He chokes down the first bite. "When are we fighting again." It's more demand than question.

Mick grins, feral and happy. "Whenever you want, buddy."


The second time Mick wins by default because Len dislocates a finger punching his stupidly sturdy jaw. It's treated in short order- neither are strangers to dislocated joints -and the next time, before the fight, Mick sits Len down and tells him to hold out his hand. Len, not having a reason not to, does as he's told and Mick starts wrapping a long strip of cloth around his wrist, working his way up Len's hand. After Mick finishes with one, he asks, "Too tight or loose?"

Len looks at his wrapped hand, flexing his fingers. It's tight but not constricting, the wrap between his fingers an odd sensation but not uncomfortable. He tries to rotate his fist, a little difficult with all the material but it's there for support, after all. "Good," he says simply and holds the second out.

It's done in fairly short order, Mick going on to wrap his own hands after. Len never wrapped his hands before. Then again he fights when he has to and not to blow off energy or to keep himself occupied like Mick does. Mick secures the end and smashes his wrapped knuckled together, grinning viciously. "Ready to lose?"

Len smirks, "Pride goes before the fall, Mick."

After, Mick hands a bag of frozen peas to Len. The lack of tenderness to his knuckles is a nice distraction to the pain to his face. "Give that to me when it's thawed," Mick tells him.

"Why? Gonna give me the frozen corn, next?"

"No, it's gonna be part of dinner tonight."

Len makes a face and grouses but keeps the bag pressed to his inevitable bruises.


Mick stands on the other side of the table, having already cleared away his dishes, and stares at Len as he pushes around the remains of his own meal. He's eaten just about everything but the broccoli. "You're always like this with the vegetables," Mick grouses, glaring at his partner. "Stop being such a damn baby and eat them."

"If they weren't slimy and disgusting, I would."

"You gotta fucking eat them, Len. You're a goddamn twig."

"That's because you're starving me with these green shit."

"It's healthy!"

Len glares at his plate. "I'd rather get scurvy."

Sensing he wasn't going to be winning this particular battle- and Len had scrapped every last bit of mango sauce onto his final bite of salmon -Mick yanks the plate away, leaving Len to hold his fork in the air. "Whatever, don't whine at me when you get rickets."


Len stands in the doorway watching Mick watch, of all things, Yan Can Cook. Not just watching, Mick is paying attention. Hell- he's taking notes! Len waits for the commercial break before asking, "What are you doing?"

Mick jumps and curses and his pencil fumbles out of his hand. "Jesus Christ, Snart! Don't do that!"

"Are you going to answer the question?" He presses, unapologetic.

Mick gathers his things and resettles, scowling a little. "What's it look like? I'm trying to find new recipes and thought since you like that Chinese take-out joint, I'd try to make something less greasy."

Len's stunned. "You're watching that for me?"

"If I find something you'll eat, I won't have to waste my time making food you're just gonna throw away."

Oddly touched and subdued as a result, Len edges his way back toward the bedroom door to make an escape. "Okay. I'll, uh, leave you to it."



He can't help but beam and Lisa runs at him, all but tackling him in a hug. Though he'll never admit it, Len is glad his little sister is unashamed to hug him like that, even as a young teen. When she steps back, though, Lisa's beaming smile softens into puzzlement.

"What?" Len asks, muscles along his spine tensing, alert for anything going wrong.

"You look... different."

"It's only been three months," he chides, "I can't look that different."

"You do, though! Less... skinny. Stronger."

Well, Len has been fighting Mick more regularly, he supposed more muscle mass would be a given. "Mick's been making me eat healthy."

She gives him a disbelieving look. "You don't mean, like, green beans and salads and stuff."

"Yeah, actually."

Lisa's expression is over-the-top horrified and she wraps her arms around Len again, mostly to hide the fact she's about to burst out laughing. "You poor baby!"

"I know."


Len wakes up one morning to the smell of something cooking, something delicious. Beside him, Lisa also stirs, sniffing and licking her lips before she even opens her eyes. "What smells so good?"

"Breakfast," Mick calls out from the kitchen and the siblings are already beginning to gravitate. He's making pancakes. He's making a shitload of pancakes. Normally this is not a problem because the buttermilk pancakes Mick grew up on and was saint enough to share with Len and Lisa are divine on their but this? This is a goddamn smorgasbord of pancakes or all sorts, three stacked on a plate. "Figure since I'm trying to get you a wider variety of food in your diet, shouldn't slack off with breakfast, either." He absently points at each plate in turn. "Regular buttermilk, blueberry, chocolate chip, cinnamon, banana, rum raisin and pecan. For toppings there's whip cream, assorted fruits, powdered sugar and a syrup caddy I lifted from Denny's."

"I've died," Lisa says reverently. "Lenny, I've died and gone to heaven and they have so many pancakes!"

Mick chuckles, "Try eating some before you say that."

She does. They both do. And then they eat everything because it would be a crime to leave even a crumb behind. Then they roll themselves back over to the sofa bed and vegetate because there's nothing they can do to prevent the food coma from descending on them. The last thing Len hears as he dozes off, Lisa tucked under an arm, is Mick's fond chuckle from the kitchen.


That night before Lisa's school starts up again- and Lewis is on another bar crawl -Mick suggests going out to a diner, one he'd complained to Len about how greasy it was not a week ago but is also one of Lisa's favorites if not just for the pie.

"Not worried about undoing all that hardwork you've done unclogging my arteries?" Len teases after putting in his order for a half pound hamburger with all the fixings, onion rings and a milkshake. Lisa's own order isn't much better.

Mick just shakes his head- he'd asked for a country fried steak himself, definitely no room to criticize. "I wouldn't trust their vegetables not to be covered in grease anyway."

Lisa huffs at them, kicking her legs up so they're next to Mick's seat and making him wrinkle his nose, "You two are so weird."


Len wrinkles his nose- not because of the ribs or potato salad, but because after a couple months absence, broccoli is once again on his plate. He doubts the cheese topping is going to make it any more palatable. He glares up at Mick, "I thought you didn't want to waste your time on food I won't eat."

He rolls his eyes in response. "Just try it, jackass. If you don't like it this time, I promise I won't make broccoli again."

Mick isn't big on making promises but his word is pretty much always good. At least where Len is concerned. Take a deep, steeling breath, Len gingerly takes a bite, then looks up to Mick in surprise. "This... isn't bad." The fact he pops the rest of it into his mouth reveals how much he's downplaying it.

Mick shrugs a bit, acting like it's not a big deal but Len knows him too well by now. With the way he's shifting, Len knows Mick is brother proud and embarrassed by this. "Just cooked it different is all. Roasted 'em instead of boiling. Think I'm starting to figure out what you don't like so, y'know, hopefully I won't have to force feed you anymore."

"If other vegetables can taste like this, I might not have a problem with that."


Lisa frowns, jutting her chin to the leg Len is favoring. "What happened?" She hadn't been too happy when she heard about Len and Mick's new arrangement no matter how many times Len said he'd agreed to it. It probably isn't helped by the fact she found out about it when Len sported a prominent bruise on his jaw. She had cornered Mick the first chance she got and told him if he ever hit Len outside of their matches or hurt him enough to need a doctor (not a hospital, none of the three of them were good about hospitals), Lisa wouldn't hesitate to gut him.

What mollified her most was Mick bluntly saying if it got that bad, he'd personally hand Lisa loaded gun and get down on his knees in front of her.

Len sighs at his knee. "I tried throwing Mick." Not actual throwing, like Mick is able to do to him, but some judo over-the-shoulder thing one of their drinking buddies had shown them. A seemingly petite woman with a body carved out of stone, she can toss Mick on his back like he weighs nothing.

"Well, that was dumb."

"I didn't get enough leverage, I think. He fell on my leg and twisted my knee." On the positive side, Len now knows not to put his leg there.

Lisa rolls her eyes. "You got in a shot, I hope." The only things she wanted to know about these fights were what injuries Len took and if Len got any good hits in before losing.

He can't help beaming proudly. "I broke his nose."

She cackles, "Oooooh, nasty!"


Out of habit, Len reaches for his belt before realizing it isn't needed. He looks down at himself, like he'd somehow gotten the wrong body. His jeans feel snug. Not yet constricting, but enough that Len can feel the difference especially in his thighs and butt. For testing purposes, he tries on several other jeans. Most are similar- hugging his backside -while the ones he snagged when Mick outgrew them finally look Len's size. Len's oldest jeans are now so tight he has a bit of flesh puffing out over the edges.

Which is, in and of itself, it's own revelation, having enough flesh to actually puff over edges.

Clad in one of the jeans Len is slightly miffed he can no longer comfortably wear, he marches out to the where Mick is sprawled across the sofa and says, "You're making me fat."

Mick stares at him for a long moment. "What?" He asks eventually, as if Len had been speaking another language.

He rolls his eyes. "All that shit you keep feeding in. It's making me put on weight." He spreads out his arms, demanding Mick to look at what he's done. "My pants aren't fitting right!"

Mick sinks down in the sofa, turning his eyes back to the television. "They look fine," he mutters petulantly.

"Pants aren't supposed to pinch organs. It's like wearing a corset on my ass."

If Len didn't know any better, he swears Mick is blushing. "Then buy some new ones. Jesus, ain't like we don't have plenty of money."

Len just sighs and shakes his head, stomping back to his room. Honestly, Mick is so clueless sometimes.


Though he will never, ever admit it aloud, Len has come to enjoy the food Mick makes for him. It certainly helps thatin those months Mick's cooking repertoire has expanded from 'being able to make basic pasta' to 'the kitchen stocked with ingredients for weeks worth of meals planned in advance'. But once it gets warm enough to break out the grill... Len doesn't know how his waist line is going to survive, honestly.

About once a week Mick will ease up on the healthy stuff and let Len eat junk food. Or, when they're not going out to eat, as close to junk as Mick is willing to get. This time around, seeing Mick break out both the grill and hamburger buns, Len is almost beside himself with anticipation. And when the first thick, juice seared burger is brought before him with all his favorite toppings, Len shoves it in his mouth before the plate is even on the table.

In retrospection, Mick must have had the burgers cooling for some time before serving because with the bite comes a molten flood of flavor. "Oh my God," Len gurgles, pulling it away, stunned to find, in a hollow in the middle of the patty, crispy bacon and caramelized onions and melted cheese. "Oh my God."

Mick grins proudly, "That good, huh?"

"Oh my God," Len says before going in for another mouthful. Sure, he's being a bad Jew but both he and Mick have long since agreed bacon doesn't count.

Mick roars in laughter, flicking a finger at the plate of beans and roasted corn on the cob. "Don't forget, you've got other things to eat."

"Never. Not eating anything else ever again." Len takes a third bite just barely keeps from moaning. "God, I love you."

That seems to make Mick choke for some reason. He takes a deep swig of his beer and says, "You just like that I feed your scrawny ass." That's part of it but Len is too occupied with his meal to say anything more.


That night Len looks himself in the mirror, ignoring the scars and focusing on no longer being able to count his ribs, on the slight layer of fat softening the definition of muscle and just overall looking sturdy rather than lanky like he'd been a scant few months ago. And it's all because of Mick who watches out for him, who puts in the effort to take care of Len even when Len isn't appreciative of it. Mick who will watch cooking shows and struggle with reading books and his own writing to find something Len likes to eat, who laughs loudly when Len fails to hide how much he's come to like Mick's cooking. He thinks about the way Mick looks when he's focused on something, how sure and practiced his hands have gotten in the kitchen and he thinks he can spend hours watching him cook, with a kind of confident grace he only ever gets when fighting or fixing something or with fire. He thinks that if the rest of his life is like these last couple months, he'd be content.

Len's head thunks against the mirror. "Oh God, I love Mick."


Len tells Lisa this because he has to tell someone and he reply is a frustrated, "No fucking kidding." She then teases him about it the rest of the time they're together. Len decides he's never going to tell her anything again.

It won't last but it makes him feel vindictively better in that moment.


For the most part Len can ignore the sudden revelation. It still comes and goes like a tide of inconvenient feelings but he's confident he has control over it.

"Teach me how to wrap hands," Len says suddenly, as Mick pulls out the strip.

"What?" Mick asks blankly. "Why?" Len knows he isn't asking why he wants to learn but why he's suddenly interested now.

"Because I don't have to sit here and stare at you every time you do it for both of us." Len plucks the cloth from Mick's grasp. "Hold out your hand."

Mostly he has control over those feelings.

Mick does as he's told and Len scoots in until he can feel the heat radiating off Mick's body, probably closer than he needs to be. Mick's instructions are simple, voice low and gruff, correcting every time Len gets caught up with the way his fingers feel skimming over Mick's hand, at the rough callouses on his palm and pads of his fingers, at the thick, hard knuckles along the back. The second one goes a little quicker than the first, mostly because Len had to redo the first hand twice, but when Mick clenches his fists to test the bindings, he grunts in approval.

"You wanna try doing your own hands?"

Len holds his hand out without hesitation. "Equal partnership, equal workload."

Mick snorts but takes Len's hand. "Whatever, lazy bastard."


It's late when Len and Mick step out of a restaurant, asked to meet with a Family rep in a cordial but thinly veiled threat to keep from thieving their protected businesses, if, however, the two of them are determined to thieve but would like a list of rival Family businesses the rep just so happened to have on him...

They agree to the list and Len wonders how long it will take for the rep to realize they didn't agree to anything else.

It's warm despite the hour but Len has a jacket on anyway. He's frowning thoughtfully and Mick, alert next to him, asks lowly, "Something up?"

"I think you've ruined me."

"How so?"

"That chicken pesto alfredo was nowhere near as good as yours."

Mick's laughter echos around them as they head back to their apartment.


"Alright," Lisa calls as she lets herself into the apartment, mindful of the large container of still-warm soup in her hands, "why did you need me to tell the creepy cougar down the street that you were sick? Also why does it smell like charred death in here?"

Len hurries over and shush Lisa, taking the soup from her as he does. "It's for Mick."

She looks at him oddly, following her brother into the kitchen but making extra certain to step quietly to keep from waking Mick, sprawled out on the couch amid blankets, tissues and rattling breathing. "Why didn't you just heat up some Campbell's for him?" Then she sees what used to be the stove. "Holy shit! How did this happen?"

"Keep it down! I don't want Mick to see this!"

"He hasn't seen this?" Lisa waves at the blackened, partly melted stove top. "Did he seriously manage to sleep through this?"

"He couldn't stop coughing so I made him drink some NyQuil to get him to sleep."

"Again- how did this happen?"

"I was trying make him soup out of a cookbook."

"Like from scratch? Why?"

"He's always making good food for me, even when he's tired or like last night when he wasn't feeling well and I figured," Len starts feeling foolish now that he's saying this out loud, "he'd appreciate it if I made him something better than watered down instant soup."

Lisa stares. "Oh my God," she says with a mix of awe and horror, "you're trying to impress him."

"Yeah, well," he gestures at the former stove, "it didn't go so well."

"Okay, one- he'll be impressed you managed to destroy the stove. He'll probably also be mad that you can set the stove on fire but not him, or that he missed it."

"It's not like it was on purpose!"

"I'm pretty sure he won't care. Also, two- considering how often you cook in the first place, he'd be impressed even if you made him Campbell's." She grins wolfishly, "But at least now he's going to be enjoying the fact you've indebted yourself to the creepy cougar."

Len rolls his eyes and puts the soup in the microwave. He goes through his book of contacts, hoping one of them will know where he can jack a new stove without getting it traced back to him and tries not to think of what he'd just gotten himself into.


"Lisa, stop fussing," Len says, trying not to wince at the pressure she's putting on his black eye via ice pack.

"I'm making a fuss because he knocked you unconscious!"

"Yes, yes," he says impatiently," and Mick is miserable about it."

"Good," Lisa hisses uncharitably and puts more pressure on until Len hisses himself. "And you're an idiot for doing this Bloodsport bullshit."

"Love to know your opinion when you find out I'm going to talk him into continue- ow!" Len fumbles for the ice pack when Lisa shoves it against the tender part of his face and lets go.

"Why?" Len sighs to himself- in all honesty he's been waiting for her to explode about this. "Why do you want to get beat up so badly? I thought the reason why you left home was so you could get away from that!"

"This is different."

"Oh yeah? How?"

"I can fight back."

Lisa stares at him quiet and hard before relenting. "Whatever. I still think you're an idiot."


It takes multiple days to convince Mick that Len doesn't blame him for being knocked out and to continue their fights. Or sort of continue as the next bout Mick basically doesn't nothing but block Len's attack and manages to pin Len with an arm bar. The second time is like that, too. Len is determined the third will be different but he's going to need a little outside help for that.

Upon Len's request, they go to a bar and, about an hour into it, he enacts his plan by 'inadvertently' starting a fight with a local biker gang. The fight, due to the type of dive the bar is, engulfs everyone within and Len's pretty proud of his performance. Sure, he's still no powerhouse but he's put quite a few people on their asses before a couple strikes manages to shake even his impressive pain tolerance and Len staggers into a table. Someone yells out, "Cops!" and everyone scatters. A hand grabs Len by the coat and drags him out.

From there it's a blur but the sounds of sirens and other people fade and Len manages to clear his head enough to see Mick doubled over next to him, heaving for breath. "What," Mick gets out between gasps, "the fuck? Couldn't warn me before hand you were looking to get your ass beat?"

"Thought I was starting to get rusty," Len says. He flexes his hands and winces- his knuckles are definitely going to be hurting tomorrow. "Figured since you weren't interested in fighting, I'd have to get my training elsewhere."

Mick stares at him for a long, disbelieving moment. Then he starts laughing, albeit breathlessly. "You crazy, stupid bastard!"

That may be so and might have a minor concussion but, to Len's immense pleasure, Mick's back to form in their third bout so Len considers it a success.


It's starting to get chilly again and Mick is taking every opportunity to use the grill before winter sets in. He offers to pick up Lisa from school- Lewis is too busy planning a job to notice her existence -on his way back from getting groceries. When they get back, Lisa calls out to her brother and follows the sound of his voice to the kitchen. Upon seeing her, Len grins brightly, never minding the fact he's peeling sweet potatoes for roasting or that his lower lip is split in two places. "I threw Mick!"

Lisa wraps her arms around her brother- deliberately making him hiss from sore ribs, "Nice!"


It happens. After a year and two months and eighteen days, Len finally wins. The small stand by the sofa is an unfortunate casualty but it also tripped Mick up enough for Len to get his arms so Len considers it a heroic death. For almost a minute, Mick struggles but the awkward position gives him no leverage and eventually he has to concede. He looks over his shoulder at Len, face red from exertion and body warm under Len's hands. He gives a crooked little grin and says, "Finally got me. So what've you been waiting all this time to order me to do?"

And Len... freezes. He's been thinking about it for a good eight months now, has scenario after scenario planned out in his head, a veritable mental book of witty lines for every situation before he'd lean in a steal a kiss. But all that's gone out the proverbial window and Len just hovers there, hands locked around Mick's wrists, unable to figure out what he should be doing.

Mick slowly begins to tense, picking up on Len's unnatural stillness. "Len? Buddy- you okay?"

Before he can think better of it, Len blurts out, "Can I kiss you?"

Mick's eyes go wide. "Uh..."

"You don't have to, it's not a big deal, I just... really want to kiss you." Len will be horrified at the word vomit spilling out of him if his brain ever decides to function again.

Mick's face is still red and it takes Len far longer than it should to realize it's no longer from exertion. "Um. Okay? I'm... I'm not gonna complain or anything. Could you let go first?"

Len lets go and rolls Mick onto his back, still an awkward position because he's half-laying on the stand but neither care because they're grabbing at each other, bumping noses and fumbling before finally lining up for a kiss.

It's not mindblowing in that it's fairly chaste and clumsy but it also makes Len's heart feel like it's about to burst because it's Mick. They part and Len chases the taste of Mick off his lips with a flick of his tongue. Beneath him, Mick groans and Len shivers because there's a big, warm hand tenderly massaging the back of his neck. Len opens his eyes and pulls back, uncertain how to proceed from here.

"You, um," Len doesn't think he's ever seen Mick shy before, nor has he considered the possibility he'd ever think the man adorable, "you don't have to ask. To kiss me." Mick's face gets even redder and redder, "You can do that whenever, I don't mind."

Len sits up back a little, even though all he really wants is to get his lips back on Mick's. "So kissing-"

"-or more."

"-or more," and damn if that doesn't run a delicious thrill down Len's spine, "isn't part of winning fights?"

"No." Mick's other hand trails lightly over Len's side, catching against his sweater and giving him another thrill.

"So I can still give you an order, right?" Mick's eyes narrow but Len barrels on before he can backpedal, leaning in close, grin twisting wickedly. "Make me mac and ketchup."


Mick, fucking shit that he is, gets the last laugh anyway because Len can barely get passed the first bite before gagging.
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