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The bar fight had been...invigorating. Nothing got Mick's blood pumping quite like a good old-fashioned brawl.
(Watching the building burn down would have been a glorious ending to a glorious night, but Mick resisted--they were supposed be legends these days, after all.)
So when he and Len retired to their cramped little room on the ship, Mick was still full of energy. They changed into pajamas (Len put on a thermal shirt and a pair of blue pants with snowflakes that Lisa has gotten him one Christmas, Mick stripped down to his boxers) and climbed into bed, but he felt too fired up to sleep.
It only took a few minutes of his restless movements before Len sighed, "Mick."
He grunted.
"What's the problem?"
Mick rolled toward him, his nose nearly knocking into the back of Len's head. He pressed his face into Len's neck and draped an arm over him. "Can't sleep."
Len snorted, his own arm coming to rest on top of Mick's. "Any particular reason?"
"Bar fight," Mick said into Len's skin. He tightened his arm around the other man's body, his hand splaying across his chest.
"Got you all riled up?" He could practically hear Len's smirk.
"Mm," Mick confirmed. He lifted his chin to nip at Len's ear. "You wanna help me blow off some steam?"
"Really?" Len sounded surprised.
"I'm askin', aren't I?"
It seemed like as good a method as any to use up some of his pent up energy.
“I suppose you are,” Len said, turning his head back and meeting Mick's gaze. There was just enough light for Mick to be able to see Len’s smile. It was a good smile.
***
Mick never gave a damn about labels. He didn’t think gender had anything to do with being pretty. He could get off to the idea of fucking just about anyone but he didn’t really care one way or the other about actually fucking them. And it took a pretty damn special connection for him to actually care about someone. These were qualities that he understood about himself, but he never felt a need to name them. They just...were.
So when Len, after nearly twenty-five years of partnership, casually told him over dinner that he thought Mick was asexual demiromantic, Mick just snorted and took another bite of chicken.
“I did some research,” Len said, continuing as if Mick had replied more politely. “Because I heard it mentioned and I was curious.” He sipped his wine, playing it cool, and his aloof disposition alerted Mick to the fact that this was actually important to Len.
“So.” Mick’s voice was gruff and he did his best to sound a little annoyed (nobody ever accused them of having a healthy communication style). “What does it mean?”
“It means, Mick,” Len stabbed at a potato wedge and popped it into his mouth. “That you don’t experience sexual attraction and that you only develop romantic attraction after getting close to someone.”
Doesn’t take a genius to figure that out, Mick thought to himself, but outwardly he just shrugged and said, “Okay.”
Len was silent.
Mick took a bite of corn.
“It just seemed like something you would be interested in.”
“Len--”
“Forget it. It’s not a big deal, Mick.”
Mick sighed and set down his fork with a too-loud clank. Apparently he had pushed too far. (He knew how touchy Len got about this stuff. He just never knew what to say about it.) Len didn’t move, his eyes glued to his plate. With another sigh Mick slowly reached his hand across the table and placed it over Len’s.
Len’s long fingers twitched under his.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice still gruff. (He didn’t want to sound too soft.)
“What.” Len’s voice was flat.
“I said thank you, you idiot.” He squeezed Len’s still unmoving fingers. “I don’t care about labeling myself, but I care about you. You’re probably the only thing I care about. Well, you and Lisa. So,” he pulled back and settled into his chair, lifting his fork and taking another bite of his chicken. “Tell me more about being asexual whatever.”
Len rolled his eyes and began his lecture on sexual and romantic attraction, but the left side of his mouth was quirked in a small half-smile and Mick knew he had done something right.
***
Mick grinned down at Len as he moved in time with the fire pumping through his veins. Lenny was beautiful like this--spread out beneath him, body rocking, face scrunched up in pleasure. Mick moved faster, harder, and watched as Len let out a yell that their shipmates would definitely hear. Mick followed after him, grunting his release, chasing that blissed-out feeling that came every time.
“Fuck,” Len whispered when Mick collapsed on top of him.
Mick grinned into his shoulder. “Yeah.”
Len’s hand came up to his head and smoothed over the prickly stubs of hair. (He really needed to shave.) Mick pressed his nose into Len’s shoulder and let out a long sigh.
“Better?” Len asked, his voice a little breathy.
Mick chuckled. “Much better. Think I'll actually be able to sleep now.”
Len hummed and reached down to squeeze Mick’s ass. “Might wanna get cleaned up first.”
Mick wiggled his body, the sweat and sticky cum squelching between them, and laughed at the look of absolute distaste on his husband’s face.
“You're disgusting,” Len muttered.
“Can't help it. The looks you get are too funny.”
His partner rolled his eyes.
“Fine,” Mick grunted, pushing himself up and hovering over Len. “I'll go get a washcloth. But you're getting me pizza from the kitchens once we’re cleaned up.”
Len pushed himself up on his elbows and pressed his lips to Mick’s. “Deal.”
Five minutes later they were eating cold pizza in their bath robes, shoulder to shoulder with their backs pressed to the wall.
“This whole legends thing ain't so bad,” Mick said.
Len hummed. “As long as we can keep up the thieving, I don't mind a little saving every now and then.”
Mick held out his slice. “To being legends and criminals.”
Len tapped his slice with Mick's and grinned. “Legends and criminals.”

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