I Know a Good Bar (Chapter 2)
Title: I Know a Good Bar
Fandom: Resident Evil
Pairings: Leon/Mike
Warnings: near death experiences
Word Count: 2829 (4963 so far)
Disclaimer: If I owned it, Mike would be alive.
Summary: Mike and Leon finally get to have that drink.
Chapter 1
Mike is already moving before his brain registers rocket, grabbing his survival pack and diving for the door. He's low enough to the ground that a parachute won't help him and even if he wasn't, there simply isn't time.
The rocket hits his gunship when he's still in the doorway, the explosion scorching his back and sending him falling toward the sea. It's less of a dive than a wild tumble and he hits the water hard, only luck that he doesn't smash into the rocks instead. But the impact still stuns him for a moment, nearly knocking the breath out of his lungs.
It's all Mike can do to keep hold of his bag as red-hot metal crashes down around him, one large piece catching him in the shoulder and dragging him underwater before he can react. The pilot's chest is aching and his vision going spotty by the time he manages to fight his way free and swim toward the surface, guided by the glow of firelight. He drags himself up onto a rock and spends a minute just gasping for air until the pain in his lungs finally fades.
Mike is soaked through completely, every gust of wind an icy chill against his skin. The only reason he's not shivering is the warmth of his burning gunship and that's another mess. His poor Huey is a wreck, twisted chunks of metal blown out where his last few missiles had ignited from the cultists' RPG.
There's no way that bird is flying and he sees no sign of Kennedy on the cliffs above. The agent left him for dead but Mike can hardly blame him. He'd think that he was dead too after that crash and the president's daughter has to be the other man's priority.
However, that means the pilot is on his own until he can make contact and probably even afterwards. No one is going to spare an evac for one more downed pilot; the risk won't be worth the reward.
So Mike gets himself settled more firmly on the rocks and then takes stock of his supplies: a waterproof bag, one gun, two clips, six days of rations, an emergency blanket, a small med-kit and a short range radio, the clothes that he's wearing, three flares, and thankfully one small blow-up raft. The pilot started packing that raft after one of his colleagues went down over the Gulf and didn't manage to stay afloat until a rescue came.
I'd kill for some rope though, he thinks, looking at the cliffs above. If he had a rope and pitons, he might stand a chance of catching up to Kennedy, and he makes a mental note to add them to future packs from now on.
As it is, Mike's best chance is to patch himself up and then hunker down by his bird until daylight. If he hasn't managed to reach the agent on his radio by sunrise, he can blow up the raft and strike for shore instead. It'll be a long hard row given his lack of oars, but if the pilot makes it back to the castle, he'll be able to hike to base overland eventually.
“Not much of a rescue after all,” Mike grumbles to himself. He's supposed to be the white knight, not another casualty. At least I helped Kennedy past those machine guns before I was shot down.
The pilot tries his radio just to be certain, but the other man is already out of range. So he wrings out his clothes as best he can before bandaging the worst of his new cuts and burns. Then he unfolds his blanket, toasts his poor dead Huey and curls up against the cliff face, staying close enough to the burning wreck to help with warmth without breathing in the fumes.
His night passes fitfully. Mike's radio crackles every few hours, snapping him awake each time. The pilot catches bits of conversation, a few words here and there, but the connection is never strong enough to make contact again. At least he knows that Kennedy is somehow still alive.
However, the sun is just rising above the surface of the ocean when a sudden jolt wakes Mike again and nearly knocks him into the sea. He barely keeps his balance, the rocks themselves shaking underneath his feet.
Time to go.
Mike isn't sure what's happening, but he knows it can't be good and he blows up his raft in record time. The pilot tears a cold chunk of metal from his Huey to use as a makeshift oar and then pushes off into the ocean, paddling as hard as he can to gain some distance from the rocks.
Ten yards, then twenty, then a hundred before he feels safe enough to pause. Mike looks back at the island as a series of explosions starts across the surface, one after another, each bigger than the last. Moments later, the whole place starts to crumble down into the water and he holds onto his raft tightly when the resulting wave sends him farther out to sea.
“...kind of cute without those glasses...” comes through his radio suddenly.
That last rush of water must have knocked Mike into range and he can't deny that he's relieved to hear Kennedy's voice again. He squints across the ocean as the agent finishes his conversation - if you can call flirting with his handler a conversation - and soon enough a bright flash of metal catches the pilot's eye.
Is that a Jet Ski?
The thought is ridiculous but that's sure what it looks like and Mike has so many questions about how that came to be. However, the pilot would ride out of here on a dolphin after the night he's had, so he just sets his makeshift oar to water and starts paddling again.
“Howdy, folks,” he calls once he's in shouting distance. It's never a good idea to startle high-strung secret agents and Mike doesn't want Kennedy shooting him by accident. But the other man just looks delighted when his head snaps around and he sees the pilot in his raft.
“You're alive!”
“Leon? Who is that?”
The second voice is a woman's, one Mike doesn't recognize. But when he paddles a little closer, he sees a familiar blonde sitting on the Jet Ski behind the agent. She looks just like her picture, dirty and tired but seemingly all right.
“I see you completed your mission.”
“That I did,” Kennedy says before making introductions. “Mike, this is Ashley Graham. Ashley, this is Mike, helicopter pilot extraordinaire. The man saved my ass before he was shot down by the ganados. Seriously, man, I couldn't have done it without you. I'm sorry that I left.”
“Nothing to be sorry for. I thought I was dead too for a minute and your job was more important,” the pilot tells him honestly before giving the president's daughter his best awkward bow. “Greetings, miss. I know I'm not exactly the ride home you were expecting, but I'll help protect you any way I can.”
“No, it's all right. If you really saved Leon, you've done more than enough,” Ashley answers. “I should be thanking you. And I'm glad that you're okay. There's been too much death alread-”
Her voice breaks on the last word as she shudders violently and Kennedy puts a comforting hand on the arm around his waist. She's clearly at the end of her tether, run down by exhaustion and everything she's seen and the agent doesn't try to make her talk again.
“Don't worry about the ride,” he tells Mike instead. “Hunnigan will get us sorted. We just need to get to a safe spot where we can wait. We'll tie your raft to the Jet Ski and then head back to land.”
Before the pilot can admit that he didn't actually pack rope, Kennedy pulls a coil from one of his many pouches. Apparently the man is a boy scout to go with his other skills. Indeed, he quickly jury-rigs a hitch between their two vehicles, grumbling all the while about a lost grappling hook.
Once the raft is secure, Kennedy hit the throttle and their odd caravan speeds across the ocean. Soon enough Mike sees the castle on the cliffs again but the other man gives it a wide berth, finally pulling to shore at a small beach down the coast. The agent sweeps the area while the pilot stays with Ashley, one of his guns held at the ready until he's certain that it's safe. Then Kennedy waves them forward to the sand.
Mike helps Ashley off the Jet Ski before unloading his gear and deflating the life raft. While he does that, the agent makes another call to Hunnigan. He gives her their new coordinates and explains the extra passenger, making sure the evac will be prepared for everyone.
“It's going to be a couple hours,” the other man says once he hangs up. “Ashley, you should try to sleep once we get settled in.”
“What about you?” she asks, but Kennedy just shakes his head.
“I'll be all right,” he tells her and Ashley is too tired to protest a second time. Indeed, the young woman is out like a light as soon as she lies down, Mike's blanket thrown across her shoulders to help keep her warm. Then the two men make themselves comfortable on the sand as well.
Now that they've stopped moving, the pilot finally gets a good look at Kennedy and two things immediately become obvious. First, that this man has clearly been through hell. Mike can see multiple rough bandages sticking out beneath his clothing, tears and blood and bruises covering his skin. The dark circles under Kennedy's eyes are so pronounced he looks like he's been punched in the face, and for all Mike knows that's true as well.
Despite this, the second thought that crosses the pilot's mind is, How can he still look that good? The agent's picture really didn't do him justice and in another situation, Mike would definitely hit that if he could.
But those pretty grey eyes are hazy with exhaustion and he's too professional to flirt during a mission, even one that's almost over. So when Kennedy sways a little, looking like he's struggling to keep his eyes open, Mike simply asks instead, “All right, pal. Looks like we've got some time to kill. What's your favorite sport?”
If he thought the man would agree, the pilot would try to get him to sleep. However, he can't see that happening until their charge is safe and sound. Helping to keep Kennedy awake is the next best thing and if talking is a good excuse to stare at the agent's face for a few more hours, who can blame him? Mike has to keep himself entertained as well.
“My favorite sport? Why do you want to know that?” the man asks in confusion. “And you can just call me Leon, you know. Anyone who backs me up has earned that much at least.”
“Well, Leon,” Mike replies with an easy grin. “I figure some conversation will help make the time go faster and I doubt you want to talk about what happened here. Assuming I even have the clearance to know what just went down.”
The agent twitches at his words, barely more than a shiver, but it's enough to tell him he's correct. This mission, it was bad.
“So, sports,” the pilot continues. “You tell me your favorite sport, we argue about whose team is best for a few hours and voila, we're headed home. Hard to go wrong with that.”
“How do you know I don't have baseball related trauma,” Leon asks. But he smiles when he says it, a faint curl to his lips, and even that small expression feels like victory.
“Do you?” Mike asks, raising one eyebrow. “Cause that sounds like a story that I'd just have to hear. Though if you love golf or something, we might have to throw down.”
That gets him an actual chuckle as the other man replies, “Nah, you're safe. If I had to pick a favorite... Hockey, I guess? I don't watch a lot of sports these days.”
Not exactly a glowing recommendation, but for better or worse, Mike has always been a talker and he can work with that. So talk he does. The pilot pulls out every hockey fact buried in his brain, from a discussion of the Canadian world championship roster to the upcoming lockout and whether Evgeni Malkin really deserves the hype. He makes sure to prod Leon with questions whenever the man starts to drift off and while he rarely gets more than a sentence or two at a time, that serves his purpose well enough.
Over the course of that conversion, the agent admits that he used to play hockey when he was younger, but hasn't had the time to get on the ice in years. “I'm lucky to even catch a game on TV. I was out on missions through most of the Stanley Cup last year.”
“Well, maybe once we have that drink, we can hit an ice rink too,” Mike offers and he gets a slightly wistful smile in reply.
“Yeah, maybe.”
Eventually even he runs out of hockey trivia and they switch to other topics: food, movies, favorite weather - nothing too serious. But bit by bit Mike builds himself a picture of Leon Kennedy. Hardworking - overworked by the sounds of it - and intensely loyal, funny in a dorky, deadpan sort of way.
The pilot wouldn't say they're friends exactly by the time he hears another helicopter in the distance, but they're friendly acquaintances at least.
When the bird gets closer, Leon wakes up Ashley and soon the three of them are being bundled into seats. Then it's a straight shot back to base where Mike is barely given enough time to take a shower and grab his gear before being ushered onto a transatlantic flight. He's not sure why they want him - it's not as though he saw much - but orders are orders and he was due to be rotated back to the States soon anyway.
On the flight itself, the pilot quickly sacks out by a window. He may not be as tired as Leon or Ashley, but if he's learned anything in the military, it's that you should always sleep whenever you have the chance.
Mike doesn't wake again until the plane is landing and their trio is met on the tarmac by another entourage. He's quickly separated from the others, escorted into medical and given the most thorough physical of his life.
The doctors poke and prod him for what seems like hours, refusing to even tell him what they're looking for. The only thing they'll say is that it's classified and Mike knows there's no point in asking for more information after that.
So the pilot just lets them take all the blood samples, hair samples, scans and X-rays that they please. He's pretty sure the doctors have mapped his entire genome by the time they're finished, but apparently they didn't find whatever threat or infection they were looking for. Sadly, that doesn't mean that Mike is free and clear.
From medical, he's handed off to several faceless suits for a mission briefing. An interrogation really as he's made to run through everything that happened over and over until his throat goes hoarse.
The men pounce on every tiny error in Mike's story, any possible fault in his actions during the mission. Not just his but Agent Kennedy's and eventually the pilot realizes that's why they're really here. It's odd enough that Mike finds himself getting protective, arguing back against their doubts more and more heatedly. He may not know everything that happened, but he'll be damned if he lets these men use his testimony to throw a colleague under the bus.
His refusal to cooperate is probably why the suits keep him there for hours and Mike feels rung out to dry by the time they let him leave. He's still shaking out stiff limbs when he stumbles out into the hallway and to his great surprise, he sees Leon doing the same only a few doors down.
The man looks a little better, a fresh change of clothes and a nap doing wonders for the bags under his eyes. But then he groans and slumps back against the wall, revealing a bone-deep exhaustion that cuts Mike to his core.
“Leon!” he calls out, heading in that direction before he can second-guess the impulse. “How about that drink now?”
Tired or not, the agent greets him with a smile, “Yeah, that sounds pretty good to me.”
Chapter 3
This was meant as a Fix-it AU. However, as I was writing this part of the story, I realized that it actually could have happened just like this. So while it's still a Fix-it, feel free to join me in a happy fanon where Mike jumped at the exact moment that the camera cut away.
Fandom: Resident Evil
Pairings: Leon/Mike
Warnings: near death experiences
Word Count: 2829 (4963 so far)
Disclaimer: If I owned it, Mike would be alive.
Summary: Mike and Leon finally get to have that drink.
Chapter 1
Mike is already moving before his brain registers rocket, grabbing his survival pack and diving for the door. He's low enough to the ground that a parachute won't help him and even if he wasn't, there simply isn't time.
The rocket hits his gunship when he's still in the doorway, the explosion scorching his back and sending him falling toward the sea. It's less of a dive than a wild tumble and he hits the water hard, only luck that he doesn't smash into the rocks instead. But the impact still stuns him for a moment, nearly knocking the breath out of his lungs.
It's all Mike can do to keep hold of his bag as red-hot metal crashes down around him, one large piece catching him in the shoulder and dragging him underwater before he can react. The pilot's chest is aching and his vision going spotty by the time he manages to fight his way free and swim toward the surface, guided by the glow of firelight. He drags himself up onto a rock and spends a minute just gasping for air until the pain in his lungs finally fades.
Mike is soaked through completely, every gust of wind an icy chill against his skin. The only reason he's not shivering is the warmth of his burning gunship and that's another mess. His poor Huey is a wreck, twisted chunks of metal blown out where his last few missiles had ignited from the cultists' RPG.
There's no way that bird is flying and he sees no sign of Kennedy on the cliffs above. The agent left him for dead but Mike can hardly blame him. He'd think that he was dead too after that crash and the president's daughter has to be the other man's priority.
However, that means the pilot is on his own until he can make contact and probably even afterwards. No one is going to spare an evac for one more downed pilot; the risk won't be worth the reward.
So Mike gets himself settled more firmly on the rocks and then takes stock of his supplies: a waterproof bag, one gun, two clips, six days of rations, an emergency blanket, a small med-kit and a short range radio, the clothes that he's wearing, three flares, and thankfully one small blow-up raft. The pilot started packing that raft after one of his colleagues went down over the Gulf and didn't manage to stay afloat until a rescue came.
I'd kill for some rope though, he thinks, looking at the cliffs above. If he had a rope and pitons, he might stand a chance of catching up to Kennedy, and he makes a mental note to add them to future packs from now on.
As it is, Mike's best chance is to patch himself up and then hunker down by his bird until daylight. If he hasn't managed to reach the agent on his radio by sunrise, he can blow up the raft and strike for shore instead. It'll be a long hard row given his lack of oars, but if the pilot makes it back to the castle, he'll be able to hike to base overland eventually.
“Not much of a rescue after all,” Mike grumbles to himself. He's supposed to be the white knight, not another casualty. At least I helped Kennedy past those machine guns before I was shot down.
The pilot tries his radio just to be certain, but the other man is already out of range. So he wrings out his clothes as best he can before bandaging the worst of his new cuts and burns. Then he unfolds his blanket, toasts his poor dead Huey and curls up against the cliff face, staying close enough to the burning wreck to help with warmth without breathing in the fumes.
His night passes fitfully. Mike's radio crackles every few hours, snapping him awake each time. The pilot catches bits of conversation, a few words here and there, but the connection is never strong enough to make contact again. At least he knows that Kennedy is somehow still alive.
However, the sun is just rising above the surface of the ocean when a sudden jolt wakes Mike again and nearly knocks him into the sea. He barely keeps his balance, the rocks themselves shaking underneath his feet.
Time to go.
Mike isn't sure what's happening, but he knows it can't be good and he blows up his raft in record time. The pilot tears a cold chunk of metal from his Huey to use as a makeshift oar and then pushes off into the ocean, paddling as hard as he can to gain some distance from the rocks.
Ten yards, then twenty, then a hundred before he feels safe enough to pause. Mike looks back at the island as a series of explosions starts across the surface, one after another, each bigger than the last. Moments later, the whole place starts to crumble down into the water and he holds onto his raft tightly when the resulting wave sends him farther out to sea.
“...kind of cute without those glasses...” comes through his radio suddenly.
That last rush of water must have knocked Mike into range and he can't deny that he's relieved to hear Kennedy's voice again. He squints across the ocean as the agent finishes his conversation - if you can call flirting with his handler a conversation - and soon enough a bright flash of metal catches the pilot's eye.
Is that a Jet Ski?
The thought is ridiculous but that's sure what it looks like and Mike has so many questions about how that came to be. However, the pilot would ride out of here on a dolphin after the night he's had, so he just sets his makeshift oar to water and starts paddling again.
“Howdy, folks,” he calls once he's in shouting distance. It's never a good idea to startle high-strung secret agents and Mike doesn't want Kennedy shooting him by accident. But the other man just looks delighted when his head snaps around and he sees the pilot in his raft.
“You're alive!”
“Leon? Who is that?”
The second voice is a woman's, one Mike doesn't recognize. But when he paddles a little closer, he sees a familiar blonde sitting on the Jet Ski behind the agent. She looks just like her picture, dirty and tired but seemingly all right.
“I see you completed your mission.”
“That I did,” Kennedy says before making introductions. “Mike, this is Ashley Graham. Ashley, this is Mike, helicopter pilot extraordinaire. The man saved my ass before he was shot down by the ganados. Seriously, man, I couldn't have done it without you. I'm sorry that I left.”
“Nothing to be sorry for. I thought I was dead too for a minute and your job was more important,” the pilot tells him honestly before giving the president's daughter his best awkward bow. “Greetings, miss. I know I'm not exactly the ride home you were expecting, but I'll help protect you any way I can.”
“No, it's all right. If you really saved Leon, you've done more than enough,” Ashley answers. “I should be thanking you. And I'm glad that you're okay. There's been too much death alread-”
Her voice breaks on the last word as she shudders violently and Kennedy puts a comforting hand on the arm around his waist. She's clearly at the end of her tether, run down by exhaustion and everything she's seen and the agent doesn't try to make her talk again.
“Don't worry about the ride,” he tells Mike instead. “Hunnigan will get us sorted. We just need to get to a safe spot where we can wait. We'll tie your raft to the Jet Ski and then head back to land.”
Before the pilot can admit that he didn't actually pack rope, Kennedy pulls a coil from one of his many pouches. Apparently the man is a boy scout to go with his other skills. Indeed, he quickly jury-rigs a hitch between their two vehicles, grumbling all the while about a lost grappling hook.
Once the raft is secure, Kennedy hit the throttle and their odd caravan speeds across the ocean. Soon enough Mike sees the castle on the cliffs again but the other man gives it a wide berth, finally pulling to shore at a small beach down the coast. The agent sweeps the area while the pilot stays with Ashley, one of his guns held at the ready until he's certain that it's safe. Then Kennedy waves them forward to the sand.
Mike helps Ashley off the Jet Ski before unloading his gear and deflating the life raft. While he does that, the agent makes another call to Hunnigan. He gives her their new coordinates and explains the extra passenger, making sure the evac will be prepared for everyone.
“It's going to be a couple hours,” the other man says once he hangs up. “Ashley, you should try to sleep once we get settled in.”
“What about you?” she asks, but Kennedy just shakes his head.
“I'll be all right,” he tells her and Ashley is too tired to protest a second time. Indeed, the young woman is out like a light as soon as she lies down, Mike's blanket thrown across her shoulders to help keep her warm. Then the two men make themselves comfortable on the sand as well.
Now that they've stopped moving, the pilot finally gets a good look at Kennedy and two things immediately become obvious. First, that this man has clearly been through hell. Mike can see multiple rough bandages sticking out beneath his clothing, tears and blood and bruises covering his skin. The dark circles under Kennedy's eyes are so pronounced he looks like he's been punched in the face, and for all Mike knows that's true as well.
Despite this, the second thought that crosses the pilot's mind is, How can he still look that good? The agent's picture really didn't do him justice and in another situation, Mike would definitely hit that if he could.
But those pretty grey eyes are hazy with exhaustion and he's too professional to flirt during a mission, even one that's almost over. So when Kennedy sways a little, looking like he's struggling to keep his eyes open, Mike simply asks instead, “All right, pal. Looks like we've got some time to kill. What's your favorite sport?”
If he thought the man would agree, the pilot would try to get him to sleep. However, he can't see that happening until their charge is safe and sound. Helping to keep Kennedy awake is the next best thing and if talking is a good excuse to stare at the agent's face for a few more hours, who can blame him? Mike has to keep himself entertained as well.
“My favorite sport? Why do you want to know that?” the man asks in confusion. “And you can just call me Leon, you know. Anyone who backs me up has earned that much at least.”
“Well, Leon,” Mike replies with an easy grin. “I figure some conversation will help make the time go faster and I doubt you want to talk about what happened here. Assuming I even have the clearance to know what just went down.”
The agent twitches at his words, barely more than a shiver, but it's enough to tell him he's correct. This mission, it was bad.
“So, sports,” the pilot continues. “You tell me your favorite sport, we argue about whose team is best for a few hours and voila, we're headed home. Hard to go wrong with that.”
“How do you know I don't have baseball related trauma,” Leon asks. But he smiles when he says it, a faint curl to his lips, and even that small expression feels like victory.
“Do you?” Mike asks, raising one eyebrow. “Cause that sounds like a story that I'd just have to hear. Though if you love golf or something, we might have to throw down.”
That gets him an actual chuckle as the other man replies, “Nah, you're safe. If I had to pick a favorite... Hockey, I guess? I don't watch a lot of sports these days.”
Not exactly a glowing recommendation, but for better or worse, Mike has always been a talker and he can work with that. So talk he does. The pilot pulls out every hockey fact buried in his brain, from a discussion of the Canadian world championship roster to the upcoming lockout and whether Evgeni Malkin really deserves the hype. He makes sure to prod Leon with questions whenever the man starts to drift off and while he rarely gets more than a sentence or two at a time, that serves his purpose well enough.
Over the course of that conversion, the agent admits that he used to play hockey when he was younger, but hasn't had the time to get on the ice in years. “I'm lucky to even catch a game on TV. I was out on missions through most of the Stanley Cup last year.”
“Well, maybe once we have that drink, we can hit an ice rink too,” Mike offers and he gets a slightly wistful smile in reply.
“Yeah, maybe.”
Eventually even he runs out of hockey trivia and they switch to other topics: food, movies, favorite weather - nothing too serious. But bit by bit Mike builds himself a picture of Leon Kennedy. Hardworking - overworked by the sounds of it - and intensely loyal, funny in a dorky, deadpan sort of way.
The pilot wouldn't say they're friends exactly by the time he hears another helicopter in the distance, but they're friendly acquaintances at least.
When the bird gets closer, Leon wakes up Ashley and soon the three of them are being bundled into seats. Then it's a straight shot back to base where Mike is barely given enough time to take a shower and grab his gear before being ushered onto a transatlantic flight. He's not sure why they want him - it's not as though he saw much - but orders are orders and he was due to be rotated back to the States soon anyway.
On the flight itself, the pilot quickly sacks out by a window. He may not be as tired as Leon or Ashley, but if he's learned anything in the military, it's that you should always sleep whenever you have the chance.
Mike doesn't wake again until the plane is landing and their trio is met on the tarmac by another entourage. He's quickly separated from the others, escorted into medical and given the most thorough physical of his life.
The doctors poke and prod him for what seems like hours, refusing to even tell him what they're looking for. The only thing they'll say is that it's classified and Mike knows there's no point in asking for more information after that.
So the pilot just lets them take all the blood samples, hair samples, scans and X-rays that they please. He's pretty sure the doctors have mapped his entire genome by the time they're finished, but apparently they didn't find whatever threat or infection they were looking for. Sadly, that doesn't mean that Mike is free and clear.
From medical, he's handed off to several faceless suits for a mission briefing. An interrogation really as he's made to run through everything that happened over and over until his throat goes hoarse.
The men pounce on every tiny error in Mike's story, any possible fault in his actions during the mission. Not just his but Agent Kennedy's and eventually the pilot realizes that's why they're really here. It's odd enough that Mike finds himself getting protective, arguing back against their doubts more and more heatedly. He may not know everything that happened, but he'll be damned if he lets these men use his testimony to throw a colleague under the bus.
His refusal to cooperate is probably why the suits keep him there for hours and Mike feels rung out to dry by the time they let him leave. He's still shaking out stiff limbs when he stumbles out into the hallway and to his great surprise, he sees Leon doing the same only a few doors down.
The man looks a little better, a fresh change of clothes and a nap doing wonders for the bags under his eyes. But then he groans and slumps back against the wall, revealing a bone-deep exhaustion that cuts Mike to his core.
“Leon!” he calls out, heading in that direction before he can second-guess the impulse. “How about that drink now?”
Tired or not, the agent greets him with a smile, “Yeah, that sounds pretty good to me.”
Chapter 3
This was meant as a Fix-it AU. However, as I was writing this part of the story, I realized that it actually could have happened just like this. So while it's still a Fix-it, feel free to join me in a happy fanon where Mike jumped at the exact moment that the camera cut away.