Wet is a good look on Jacob. Len could avert his eyes when he steps up out of the water, and has his Gangs-of-New-York-meets-Baywatch moment, but doesn't. Len makes a point not to apologize. For anything. Ever. Instead, he smiles that conman smile, and keeps on looking.
"I've got all the equipment I need." Len has his gun, his hands, his wits, and a bobby pin. That's all it's ever taken. Pick-kits and electromagnetic lock-breakers exist, but Len's never needed them. Make that, wasn't allowed to use them.
Lewis Snart was old-fashioned that way. What he lacked in traditional family values, he made up for in boomer-esque work ethics. Tools were crutches. If a crook couldn't do the job with his/her own two hands, he/she wasn't worth paying.
Or keeping alive.
Len was raised from childhood with safe construction manuals instead of picture books, taught how to jack cars before he could ride a bike, and was only ever on the receiving end of a baseball bat, beaten halfway to death or past it if he so much as flinched while dismantling a security system.
There's no better tool for a big job than tiny hands.
Len isn't so tiny anymore, but he never lost his knack for breaking the law and evading it. That's what happens when crime is your sole hobby and primary education, and he has his father to thank for it.
Had his father to thank. Len killed him a couple years back. More quickly than he deserved.
He pulls his leather gloves off with his teeth, finger by finger, creating the floor-plan in his head. Mentally rendering the dimensions with an engineer's precision based on Jacob's description, the width of the stairwell, and structure of their current surroundings.
"If we can get one of the other doors open and quasi-functional, we'll have some working room. A base of operations. As long as there's nothing alive down there, I'd bet there's enough oxygen for us to take what's worth taking." Len descends into the water up to mid-thigh, makes a face, and snaps on the goggles previously dangling around his neck.
"Meet me by the last unopened door. No one puts the good stuff right up front."
TW for child abuse
"I've got all the equipment I need." Len has his gun, his hands, his wits, and a bobby pin. That's all it's ever taken. Pick-kits and electromagnetic lock-breakers exist, but Len's never needed them. Make that, wasn't allowed to use them.
Lewis Snart was old-fashioned that way. What he lacked in traditional family values, he made up for in boomer-esque work ethics. Tools were crutches. If a crook couldn't do the job with his/her own two hands, he/she wasn't worth paying.
Or keeping alive.
Len was raised from childhood with safe construction manuals instead of picture books, taught how to jack cars before he could ride a bike, and was only ever on the receiving end of a baseball bat, beaten halfway to death or past it if he so much as flinched while dismantling a security system.
There's no better tool for a big job than tiny hands.
Len isn't so tiny anymore, but he never lost his knack for breaking the law and evading it. That's what happens when crime is your sole hobby and primary education, and he has his father to thank for it.
Had his father to thank. Len killed him a couple years back. More quickly than he deserved.
He pulls his leather gloves off with his teeth, finger by finger, creating the floor-plan in his head. Mentally rendering the dimensions with an engineer's precision based on Jacob's description, the width of the stairwell, and structure of their current surroundings.
"If we can get one of the other doors open and quasi-functional, we'll have some working room. A base of operations. As long as there's nothing alive down there, I'd bet there's enough oxygen for us to take what's worth taking." Len descends into the water up to mid-thigh, makes a face, and snaps on the goggles previously dangling around his neck.
"Meet me by the last unopened door. No one puts the good stuff right up front."