( no, hold up, go back to that secret hide-out thing. mako's eyes narrow suspiciously, and he just looks at dick, like the force of his gaze can strip him down to the barest components of his being. mako wants to unmake him. and probably arrest him, and possibly kiss him, and definitely pretend he didn't just think that. )
We aren't going on a date. And I'm not hungry.
( he's starving, actually. being a cop doesn't leave much time for... anything else in his life, since he's modeled himself and his lifestyle after beifong. who, if you believe the rumors, doesn't sleep, doesn't eat, and eats criminals for breakfast. mako has taken up smoking just to curb his appetite, and usually when he's at the station he'll carry a plate of pastries out of the kitchenette to his desk, where they become the rations for his next few days of work.
it's neither pretty nor glamorous, nor particularly healthy. he knows all that. he just keeps telling himself, one more case and then he'll worry about it. then another one, then it's whenever he makes sergeant, then it'll be whenever he makes captain... whatever mako wants to be the best at, he utterly loses himself in. this is no exception.
it's not. living. it's just surviving. that skinny street punk he's got tucked away inside still ruling his life after all these years, pushing him to be better, harder than everyone else. if the chief works overtime, so does he. if she can live off pastries and caffeine, so can he. if she eschews personal relationships for the job, he will too. he doesn't even remember the last time he saw bolin or korra or asami, now.
he flexes his hand. the left, where those fractal scars tell the story of the lightning that nearly killed him and left the nerves damaged all the way down to his fingertips. )
no subject
We aren't going on a date. And I'm not hungry.
( he's starving, actually. being a cop doesn't leave much time for... anything else in his life, since he's modeled himself and his lifestyle after beifong. who, if you believe the rumors, doesn't sleep, doesn't eat, and eats criminals for breakfast. mako has taken up smoking just to curb his appetite, and usually when he's at the station he'll carry a plate of pastries out of the kitchenette to his desk, where they become the rations for his next few days of work.
it's neither pretty nor glamorous, nor particularly healthy. he knows all that. he just keeps telling himself, one more case and then he'll worry about it. then another one, then it's whenever he makes sergeant, then it'll be whenever he makes captain... whatever mako wants to be the best at, he utterly loses himself in. this is no exception.
it's not. living. it's just surviving. that skinny street punk he's got tucked away inside still ruling his life after all these years, pushing him to be better, harder than everyone else. if the chief works overtime, so does he. if she can live off pastries and caffeine, so can he. if she eschews personal relationships for the job, he will too. he doesn't even remember the last time he saw bolin or korra or asami, now.
he flexes his hand. the left, where those fractal scars tell the story of the lightning that nearly killed him and left the nerves damaged all the way down to his fingertips. )
Secret hideout sounds fine. Let's go.