[ Ray can't really look back and see that his eyes are shut, right? Just looking at the drop gives him vertigo, something that would decidedly not be good for either of them at the moment considering Mick had his stomach full whenever at all possible.
He can't help pressing his face against the crook made by his arms and Ray's neck, keeping steady breaths that smell of oil and freshly laundered clothes. No matter how Ray flies, his body rocks precariously under Mick, no matter how still the pyro tries to be.
That fucking bitch. Like in any other situation where complex feeling is involved, Mick wraps his fist around anger tightly. ]
[ It's only two minutes, Ray makes it as fast as he can without making it worse on Mick. And then they're safely back up, Ray straightening up so Mick can stand and let go and Ray can maybe breathe properly again. ]
[ How long had he been holding on to hear that? Not long, he imagines, as the bob up and the landing very surely rolled his stomach.
He'd never flown, before the Waverider. Planes weren't ever available for poor orphan boys, and by the time he was old enough to afford one, Mick had no desire to float over all in a tin can. He'd rather drive, even if it meant hundreds of miles with his hands on the wheel. At least it was his hands.
For a moment he thinks he'll be alright, as he loosens his grip on Raymond and his feet hit the red rock. That moment soon passes, however, and Mick manages to stumble a few paces away before he vomits, bowed over with his hands on his knees.
When it's done, he breathes and shakes a little with the aftershocks, uncertain for a moment. Then, he straightens and wipes his mouth with the back of his glove, turning towards the other man. ]
She still here?
[ He growls the question a little. She was obviously a meta, and he weaponless, but... Well, he wanted to give her a piece of his mind. Or at least part of a fist. Maybe that could happen before any of her hocus pocus kicked in. ]
[ Ray had not been aware of Mick's fear of heights until the post, and he'd been in too much of a hurry to get him out to think too much about it. He grimaces as he watches Mick throwing up. This girl going after Mick was even worse now that he knew Mick had a phobia.
He's glad she's gone, better not to give Mick a target. ]
She left you a cupcake.
Edited (BAKED GOOD OF SOME KIND) 2016-06-04 07:17 (UTC)
[ Mick's feeling a little bit vulnerable at the moment; the fact the show isn't mentioned, however, is a comfort. ]
Yeah?
[ He's got to wonder what it means after all this. A taunt? Some sort of consolation prize for stranding him in the literal middle of nowhere? An apology?
Mostly it's just something to say, and Mick swabs his sweaty brow with his clean hand, scanning their surroundings. ]
[ Mick confirms accordingly, grumbling. He glances over the other and his suit. There's a new sort of appreciation to have for someone who trusts his tech to fling him into the brink in a way he can command. ]
I'm not feeling it right now. You want it, Haircut?
[ The pat warrants a small glance, but nothing more. He starts after the younger man, silently trying to keep swallowing beyond the sour taste in his mouth, trekking doggedly up the hill towards the door. ]
Speaking of haircuts, you need one. Starting to look like a hippie, Punch Buggy. We've got a razor in the room.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ Ray can't really look back and see that his eyes are shut, right? Just looking at the drop gives him vertigo, something that would decidedly not be good for either of them at the moment considering Mick had his stomach full whenever at all possible.
He can't help pressing his face against the crook made by his arms and Ray's neck, keeping steady breaths that smell of oil and freshly laundered clothes. No matter how Ray flies, his body rocks precariously under Mick, no matter how still the pyro tries to be.
That fucking bitch. Like in any other situation where complex feeling is involved, Mick wraps his fist around anger tightly. ]
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Mick, we're safe.
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He'd never flown, before the Waverider. Planes weren't ever available for poor orphan boys, and by the time he was old enough to afford one, Mick had no desire to float over all in a tin can. He'd rather drive, even if it meant hundreds of miles with his hands on the wheel. At least it was his hands.
For a moment he thinks he'll be alright, as he loosens his grip on Raymond and his feet hit the red rock. That moment soon passes, however, and Mick manages to stumble a few paces away before he vomits, bowed over with his hands on his knees.
When it's done, he breathes and shakes a little with the aftershocks, uncertain for a moment. Then, he straightens and wipes his mouth with the back of his glove, turning towards the other man. ]
She still here?
[ He growls the question a little. She was obviously a meta, and he weaponless, but... Well, he wanted to give her a piece of his mind. Or at least part of a fist. Maybe that could happen before any of her hocus pocus kicked in. ]
no subject
He's glad she's gone, better not to give Mick a target. ]
She left you a cupcake.
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Yeah?
[ He's got to wonder what it means after all this. A taunt? Some sort of consolation prize for stranding him in the literal middle of nowhere? An apology?
Mostly it's just something to say, and Mick swabs his sweaty brow with his clean hand, scanning their surroundings. ]
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She should've left more.
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[ Mick confirms accordingly, grumbling. He glances over the other and his suit. There's a new sort of appreciation to have for someone who trusts his tech to fling him into the brink in a way he can command. ]
I'm not feeling it right now. You want it, Haircut?
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[ As if he could take Mick's hard earned cupcake. ]
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[ He decides, which is the only reason he approaches the offering now. It seems such a sullied pittance in the wake of what he's endured.
Mick picks it up, twirling it between his fingers. ]
You know where the door is, right?
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[ He pats Mick's shoulder as he starts leading the way. It's not far and the Clock knows to lead them back to the motel. ]
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Speaking of haircuts, you need one. Starting to look like a hippie, Punch Buggy. We've got a razor in the room.
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The shaved head look doesn't really suit me.
[ But his tone is resigned, now that Mick's taken notice there's a 50/50 chance he'll wake up with a shaved head one morning. ]