"I don't steal and tell." Not when he's in a bad mood, anyway. Len looks away. With a flick of his wrist he disappears a serving spoon. If Kabal watches closely, he can see a slight glint inside the cuff of his sleeve. Len isn't magic. There are perks to a flashy outfit with multiple layers. You're wearing a layer of misdirection.
It's a lot harder to thieve in a tank-top and hot pants.
Not that Len would be caught dead in either. He may be trailer trash, but he's not trashy. If his actual piece of garbage father could see him in this blue designer number, he'd turn in his shallow grave.
Superior. Second to none. That's who and what Len is. A head above the rest, in spite of Lewis Snart's efforts to grind him beneath his heel.
"And I'm not sure I could break it down into the kinda itty-bitty words you'd understand." He wants to see pain in Kabal's eyes, and add him to the long list of people who crossed him and lived to regret it. Payback for being slighted, and because Len likes to hurt people. It's the easiest way to forget his own discomfort.
Instead, all he sees is the man he's been screwing for the past few weeks, and he looks good. Really good. Walking shoulder to shoulder down that carpet, Len felt a different kind of confidence. Something more warm than cold, like he hasn't felt since Mick became Chronos and decided he'd like Len better as a corpse.
That only pisses Len off more. He doesn't know who he's angrier at. The mercenary for disappointing him, or himself for having unrealistic expectations. For expecting anything from another man who thinks with his dick on a good day and his fists on a bad day.
The honeymoon is over, and it's back to reality.
Partnerships are for suckers.
"How about you leave the stealing to the professionals, and go back to schmoozing with that chick and her awful weave-- if she's out of your league, you can always break more stuff until they throw you out." A dismissive wave of his gloved hand, dancing someone's ring over his knuckles. Len can't remember the mark. He was distracted watching for the man who isn't here, and the one that is.
no subject
It's a lot harder to thieve in a tank-top and hot pants.
Not that Len would be caught dead in either. He may be trailer trash, but he's not trashy. If his actual piece of garbage father could see him in this blue designer number, he'd turn in his shallow grave.
Superior. Second to none. That's who and what Len is. A head above the rest, in spite of Lewis Snart's efforts to grind him beneath his heel.
"And I'm not sure I could break it down into the kinda itty-bitty words you'd understand." He wants to see pain in Kabal's eyes, and add him to the long list of people who crossed him and lived to regret it. Payback for being slighted, and because Len likes to hurt people. It's the easiest way to forget his own discomfort.
Instead, all he sees is the man he's been screwing for the past few weeks, and he looks good. Really good. Walking shoulder to shoulder down that carpet, Len felt a different kind of confidence. Something more warm than cold, like he hasn't felt since Mick became Chronos and decided he'd like Len better as a corpse.
That only pisses Len off more. He doesn't know who he's angrier at. The mercenary for disappointing him, or himself for having unrealistic expectations. For expecting anything from another man who thinks with his dick on a good day and his fists on a bad day.
The honeymoon is over, and it's back to reality.
Partnerships are for suckers.
"How about you leave the stealing to the professionals, and go back to schmoozing with that chick and her awful weave-- if she's out of your league, you can always break more stuff until they throw you out." A dismissive wave of his gloved hand, dancing someone's ring over his knuckles. Len can't remember the mark. He was distracted watching for the man who isn't here, and the one that is.