"Boilermaker, keep them coming."
Mandy raised an eyebrow as she slid the beer and shot across to a fuming Ian. It was five in the afternoon on a Thursday, and Ian was in her bar slamming back boilermakers like nobody's business. There could only really be one explanation.
"What did my shithead brother do this time?"
To his credit, Ian managed to hold out for a couple minutes before completely unloading, "it's like pulling teeth with him, Mandy! Everything is a problem…everything! I feel like that guy trying to push that fucking rock uphill and it just keeps rolling down the other side. It's a goddamned employee appreciation picnic. You'd think I was asking him to shake his ass on some pride float or whatever!"
Now there's an image Mandy could have done without. She stayed silent, wiping glasses and watching Ian as he continued to flush as red as his hair.
"You know what he said to me? 'I told you I don't do fucking picnics, Gallagher,' like I'm asking him to off a kid. A dumbass picnic—you eat a bunch of shit, you make nice and then you go the fuck home."
Mandy chewed her lip thoughtfully as Ian emptied his glass. Judging by how her best friend was acting, this argument sounded like it had been one of their pricklier ones. "So, how did it end up then?"
"End up?" Ian sputtered as he tapped his glass against the countertop, "oh, we're 'done, done, done' according to him, and fuck him, we are! I'm tired of his shit."
"Oh, sweet Jesus," Mandy hid her eye-roll and suppressed a groan, because what this meant was that she was going to go home to her apartment to find an unhappy Mickey on her couch, helping himself to her beer, food and her good stash of weed. There was no one she loved more than her brother and Ian, but dear lord they were exhausting. Ian and Mickey's relationship brought fresh meaning to the notion of "going hard," and she couldn't help but marvel at their energy and endurance for all their relationship drama. Her brief brush with that kind of intensity had nearly sent her around the deep end over Lip, so for Mickey and Ian to tough out four years of fighting and fucking and fake break-ups, filled her with admiration and a twinge of jealousy.
"I mean, am I wrong here?"
Mandy focused on carefully refilling Ian's beer and avoiding his eyes for a bit, "well…" Those said eyes snapped to hers and his expression changed to incredulous, "what Mandy?"
"It's just that sometimes you can be a little…" pushy, demanding, relentless, bossy "forceful, when you want something."
"You're taking his side?!"
"I'm not taking his side, Ian," Mandy waved her arms during her best to placate him, "it's just that, I know you want to hit all these milestones and have all these moments with Mickey and, well, we're Milkoviches, the emotional crap takes us a little bit longer than with most people."
She cringed as he exploded a bit. "Emotional crap? It's a goddamn picnic!"
Mandy could only sigh as Ian missed her point. It's not like she didn't get it—she totally did. When you grew up the way they did, the way Ian did, grasping for every little thing you need to live, it can't help but shape the way you do things. Few good things, if any at all, just fell into your lap in the Southside. Ian fought for everything he wanted and needed, and he couldn't help but fight for Mickey too, even when he didn't need to. Every wall Mickey put up, Ian would throw himself against it, shoulders first until they came crashing down, which they always inevitably did. But Mandy knew as well as anyone, sometimes you need to leave a wall or two standing for just a little while longer.
Ian simply frowned into his beer, "so what, you're Dr. Phil now?"
"Hey, I've taken two psych courses and I've been a bartender in both the Southside and New York. I'm the closest thing to an expert you're gonna get for free, buddy," Mandy snapped back, getting irritated with his irritation. Before they could snip at each other some more, Mandy's cell phone buzzed angrily. She checked the message, knowing full well who the sender would be already.
"Ay, fuckhead with u?"
Mandy rolled her eyes as Ian sat up straight, trying to see who was texting her. She ignored his blatant fishing and responded to her brother,"yeah, what?"
"He's supposed to take his meds around 8. No hard stuff no matter what he says…makes him loopy as fuck."
Mandy sighed and nodded at the message while Ian eyed her suspiciously. She pocketed the phone and, preferring to err on the side of caution, went about downgrading Ian's boilermakers to plain beer. Before Ian could even notice, they were interrupted by Peter, Mandy's fellow bartender, arriving for the start of his shift. He greeted Mandy before turning a megawatt smile on Ian, "hey."
Ian grunted in response and Mandy's eyes were getting tired of rolling heavenward. Pete's crush on Ian was not only so massive it had gravitational pull, but was embarrassingly, blatantly obvious. Mandy was tired of telling him that he was barking up the wrong tree.
"What's new," Peter persisted, "everything okay with you? Where's Mickey?"
"The fuck should I know where Mickey is? I'm not his keeper, I'm not his boyfriend, I'm not anything as far as Mickey is concerned," Ian complained bitterly, completely oblivious to Peter's gobsmacked expression.
"You guys broke up?! When did this happen?!"
Mandy needed to lie down—she simply couldn't with these idiots. It occurred to her, though, that Mickey and Ian's last pseudo-breakup was before Peter arrived on the scene, so this elaborate mating ritual of the Gallaghers and Milkoviches was new to him. She collared Pete and dragged him off to the corner, leaving Ian brooding into his glass.
"What?" Pete asked innocently.
"No, just no."
"What am I doing?"
"Never mind the sad fact that you're seriously willing to pursue the rebound angle, Pete, just leave Ian alone."
"But I didn't even-"
Mandy put up a silencing hand, having none of it, "listen, they have danced this dance before. They've danced it a million times. They're never done. They'll cool down, slink back to each other in a few days, then rinse and repeat. Do not go down this road, it is a dangerous road. Ian will use you as Mickey-bait and you won't even get so much as a hand job out of it."
Once upon a time it would have been a possibility, when they were even dumber than they were now, and Mickey was fighting the "exclusive" label tooth and nail, despite not sleeping with anyone else and expecting the same from Ian. The redhead had let his frustration known by having Mickey walk in on him balls deep in some random he'd picked up at a bar.
That was one of the few times Mandy had actually been worried about the fledging relationship, because the fall-out had been bad, worse than Ian had anticipated. Yes, Mickey had been jealous and the poor stranger had paid for it, but it had taken Ian weeks after that to get Mickey to look at him right. Still, the overall plan had worked, but it scared Ian enough into never going that far again.
"Look, he's a really nice guy…" Pete warmed into presenting his case. Again, Mandy shut it down immediately.
"He's the absolute sweetest, but he will also crack open your chest, rip out your still beating heart and present it to my brother in some kind of weird form of foreplay. Seriously, do not go down this road, Pete." She ignored his protests to check her vibrating phone again.
"Meds 8. No fucking around."
"I got it the last 10 times douchebag, eat a dick."
Just as Mandy expected, her brother was sprawled on her couch, eating, drinking and smoking her out of house and home. She slapped the back of his head, ignored his garbled curses and flopped down next to him.
"Fuckhead take his pills?"
"And hello to you too, brother," Mandy grumped as she stole his beer, "he did, he's fine. He went home sad but on the level."
Mickey grunted in acknowledgement and slumped further into the couch, clearly determined not to address the elephant in the room. Ian was so much easier. After a few minutes of sullen silence, Mandy finally elbowed her brother.
"So…you guys on a little break?"
"No, we are not taking a break. I'm done, done, done…done!"
"Oh shit, it's the rare and coveted quadruple "done," ladies and gentlemen. Shit's getting real now," Mandy laughed as her brother glowered at her.
"Fuck you," he muttered grumpily before flaring up, "and fuck him and his fucking chin. Nothing's ever enough for that asshole. It's not even inches and miles with him, it's more like marathons or some shit. He's not going to be happy until I'm shaking my ass in booty shorts in some goddamn queer rights parade."
"Ah for the love of—I just got that image out of my head and your dumb ass had to bring it back."
"What the hell am I supposed to do at a goddamn company picnic? I told him I don't do that shit. I can't…" Mickey added, deflating more and more into exhaustion as he spoke, "can you even imagine how that shit would go down? Nothing but an impending disaster."
"You shouldn't assume. Maybe they'll have a fight club going," Mandy teased while her brother snorted rudely, "he just wants to show you off a bit, Mickey," Mandy said gently as she laid her head on her brother's shoulder and stroked his arm soothingly, "it's what people do—the well adjusted ones—they show off the people they're in love with. It's a thing."
"Yeah, well, I ain't no prize," Mickey spoke softly enough for her to almost miss it and Mandy's heart squeezed painfully at that, because what could she say? It's not like she didn't get it, she did. When you were raised the way they were, the way she and Mickey had been, you get to thinking that you're not worthy of a lot. She could always see the way Mickey looked at Ian in those unguarded moments, like he hung the moon or he was something miraculous, which makes sense, because shit, she used to look at him the same way, she probably still does.
Rationally, Mandy knew the Gallaghers weren't less filth than they were, maybe even Mickey knows that on some level. It doesn't mean they were able to accept it. Lip and Ian weren't like them. They adapted to the muck but they didn't belong in it like the Milkovich kids did and when Ian and Lip finally escaped, they came out clean. Mickey and Mandy tracked Southside dirt everywhere they went.
For Mickey, being with Ian was tantamount to stealing heaven. It didn't belong to him, he knew he shouldn't have it, but he'd cling to it quietly with unclean fingers anyway. Mandy understood Ian's frustration, but she felt her brother's, she lived it. All Mickey wanted to do was love Ian quietly while he waited for the other shoe to drop. He wanted to try and stay below the radar, hoping no one caught on to his audacity and corrected his grievous sin. Every Milkovich knows you never draw attention to your crimes.
"How much you think a studio is in this piece of shit?"
"Oh no, your ass is going back to Brooklyn. It's bad enough we're in the same city, you're not coming to my borough."
"You followed us out here, bitch, and the borough was plenty big enough when you were commandeering our couch for-fucking-ever."
"I paid for it. My brain is nothing but scar tissue thanks to you two homos," Mandy pinched him hard and quickly crossed her arms over her breasts before Mickey could perform his go-to move for fighting her. They settled down after a bit and sat in silence for a few minutes, "you two deserve each other," Mandy said sincerely, because he might not know it yet, but her brother was one of the good ones—one of the best of them—and he deserved every good thing this crappy world could offer. Mickey only sniffed in response and sunk back into silence. Maybe one day he'd believe that, but not today.
It was Saturday afternoon when Ian walked in to find Mickey sprawled on their couch. He paused for a bit, felt his body relax in a way it couldn't quite manage those past couple of days. He came and stood next to the couch and watched Mickey smoking silently for a minute. Blue eyes flicked over briefly at him before looking away quickly, the way they always did when Mickey was caught in an uncomfortable or unfamiliar situation.
"Thought you were moving in with your sister," Ian said lightly.
"Bitch is on the rag or something, damn near ripped my head off over some shit," Mickey lit up another cigarette and kept his eyes on the TV while he told blatant lies about his sister, "plus all my shit is here, you wanna see the back of me so bad, you move then."
Ian waited a while longer, tapping the arm of the couch anxiously as he tried to figure out how best to play this so Mickey wasn't out the door again at the first word. He sighed and gave up; you could never form a proper game plan with Mickey Milkovich in mind. He sat abruptly on the coffee table in front of his boyfriend; using his longer legs to box Mickey's in, crowding him a little. He knew what Mandy said about personal space and pushing too hard, and he tried, but fuck if he could help himself sometimes. He just wanted to breathe Mickey in all the time and the impulse was the hardest thing ever to control. At least Mickey wasn't flinching away anymore or shoving him off like he used to. Even now as Ian leaned forward a little to glare him down, Mickey didn't pull back. He refused to give Ian his full attention; just giving quick glances at him occasionally as the adrenaline start to flow through them both.
"Why you gotta make a federal case out of everything, Mickey?"
"Why you gotta try to make everything into a fucking Hallmark card moment?" Mickey shot back, eyebrows arched.
"It's a fucking picnic!"
"That I told you I don't want to go to. You got rocks in your ears or something, Gallagher?"
"Why? Seriously, what is the problem?" Ian asked exasperatedly as his boyfriend rolled his eyes, "I talk about you all the time, but no one from my job has ever seen you. They're starting to think I made you up."
"Stop running your fucking mouth then," Mickey grumbled, "Jesus, you're one of those people aren't you? The ones whose relationships aren't real or valid until they change their fucking status on Facebook and fuck all can see it."
"I'm starting to think I made you up," Ian continued undeterred, "I just want you there, Mickey, it helps me know you're in this with me.
Mickey smacked his head a few times on the back of the couch, "Ugh, this needy bitch right here." He suddenly sat up straight and leveled his gaze at the redhead, "you want to know if I'm in this? Me, who has crawled into every gutter in Southside looking for you when you were strung out of your mind at one point or another? Me, who has gotten shot and beaten so many times over your narrow ass, I should be on disability? Who ran away with you so we could 'finally start our lives'?"
By now, Ian had a sneaking he was going to lose this particular argument, but any thoughts of capitulating would have to wait. Mickey was already warmed up and on a roll.
"Who worked two legit jobs to help you through school so that you can get in with those snobby douchebags you work for? Whose name is next to yours on the goddamned lease? None of that is enough to reassure you that I am invested, huh? Nooo, apparently I should have skipped all that shit and just waited to go to a fucking corporate picnic!"
Mickey flopped back against the couch and a heavy silence descended quickly. Ian stared at the floor morosely while drawing abstract, vaguely conciliatory figures onto Mickey's jean-clad thighs. He didn't bat Ian's hands away, though, just sat staring at the ceiling as he burnt through another cigarette.
"I don't want to be too intense, Mick, I'm trying. It's just…" Ian kept his eyes trained on Mickey's knee, "I want you everywhere. There's no part of my life that I want to look across and not find you there. I know I'm crazy sometimes" Ian's voice dropped to a whisper, "I don't want to be crazy."
"Shit, no, Ian, it's not crazy," Mickey dragged a hand through his hair and sighed heavily, "I want that too, it's just…" He struggled to find the words as his thigh warmed beneath Ian's hand, because only Ian could do that, warm him with a touch no matter what new thing was threatening to swallow him. "How does that even work? I can't function around your people. What the hell am I supposed to do? Just roll up to the park with my tats and my mile-long rap sheet and discuss the housing market or whatever the fuck you all talk about. You'll be the first person to get pissed when I haul off and punch somebody when they start treating me like I'm..." Mickey trailed off and went back to avoiding eye-contact, but Ian was already furrowing his brow.
"Treating you like you're what?" Ian asked sharply. "Like you're what, Mickey?"
Like he was garbage, because there was no hiding that—not for long anyway. No matter how often you showered, or changed your clothes or where you moved, there was no disguising it. It soaked into your bones and became a part of you until it oozed back out your pores and belched out violently at the worst possible times. Most people could recognize it immediately, and weren't afraid to show your shame to the world. As far as Mickey was concerned, the more people to see them together, the more people to speed Ian onto the inevitable realization that he could and should do better.
It was one of those rare moments for Ian when every thought was clearly stamped over Mickey's face and in his blue eyes before he shuttered them and slid his poker face back on. Ian stared at him wordlessly, vacillating between anger and incredulity. He finally gave into laughter, completely surprising Mickey.
"Jesus Mickey, you're such a fucking idiot."
"Ay, who the fuck you think you're calling a-" Mickey's words were cut off my Ian's lips crashing into his, while the redhead deftly unzipped his jeans and palmed him through his boxers. "Fuck Gallagher," Mickey hissed as Ian moved to kiss and bite along his jawline while continuing to stroke him to full hardness.
"Punch anyone dumb enough to think you're trash," Ian breathed into Mickey's neck as the brunet bucked underneath him, "then I'll help you kick the shit out of him—out of all of them if we have to."
Mickey sighed, fully defeated as Ian settled on his knees and yanked off the brunet's jeans and boxers. "Nobody puts Mickey in a corner."
Mickey let out a bark of laughter while Ian grinned up at him, "Christ you're lame sometimes, firecrotch."
Ian didn't argue, just plunged his mouth down the length of Mickey's cock with enough force and teeth to send Mickey spiraling towards the edge. He relaxed his throat and sucked him down, quickly falling into a steady rhythm that had Mickey gasping for air above him. Ian growled a warning when tattooed fingers twisted into hair and Mickey's pale hips shot up to push himself deeper into Ian's mouth. Ian grasped his boyfriend's hips and held him firm against the couch, quickening his pace as Mickey moaned his encouragement. Ian could feel how close Mickey was to release, heard his voice becoming more strangled as the redhead worked to get him off. Ian used his tongue to trace a familiar, thick vein along the underside of Mickey's cock before pulling back and switching to a slow hand job before the man could achieve his happy ending.
"The fuuuck, " Mickey complained as he thrust into Ian's fist, "at least do that faster, fuckhead."
"Take it back first," Ian tightened his grip and pumped achingly slowly.
"What…huh?" Mickey breathed, confused and half gone.
"You said we were done, take it back."
"Are you fucking kidding me right now? Gallagher!"
"I hate it when you say that shit," Ian leaned down and sucked lightly on the head of Mickey's dick before pulling back teasingly, "freaks me out sometimes, you don't even know…"
It wasn't something Mickey said frequently, and it usually came at the height of the worse arguments. Mandy made fun of it, but it never failed to put the fear of God into Ian. It put him in mind of death threats and juvie and Mickey disappearing beyond his reach for only God knows how long.
"Take it back, Mickey," another slow pump, another soft lick across the dripping slit of Mickey's cock.
"Shit, fuck, Ian, you know I never mean that shit, baby."
Beneath Mickey, green eyes now glowed because he had just said a bunch of the most magical words all in a row. Ian stopped teasing and immediately deep-throated him, shoving one hand up Mickey's shirt to pinch and stroke at the brunet's nipple before shoving three fingers into Mickey's open mouth.
He coated Ian's fingers eagerly and as best he could, already anticipating the slow, sweet burn of them entering into him. He nearly bit down on them when his orgasm hit, leaving Ian coughing a bit as he pulled away.
"Thanks for the warning, jerk," Ian grumbled as he worked one finger deep into Mickey, "I don't recall saying you could come."
"Don't recall you saying that I couldn't," Mickey sighed blissfully, as a second finger joined the first in loosening him.
"Ass."
"Was that an insult or a request, firecrotch?"
Ian smirked as he gripped behind Mickey's knees and yanked until the man was also on his knees before him. Ian pushed at Mickey's shirt and his boyfriend quickly acquiesced by yanking it off and tossing it over the back of the couch. Ian showed his appreciation by leaning forward to kiss as much of Mickey's exposed skin as possible while slowly kneading his ass.
"You gonna play all night or you wanna get on me?" Mickey huffed impatiently. He could feel the smug bastard smiling into his back, before pulling away and slowly undoing his own zipper. It was deeply embarrassing to Mickey just how much the sound turned him on.
"Don't worry, love, I'll be gentle."
"I will kick your fucking ass, if you don't—gah!" Mickey buried his face in the cushions as Ian pushed into him. Before long, there was one hand fisted into his hair, while the other gripped his hips as his ginger slammed into him. Mickey swore Ian Gallagher was going to be the death of him one day.
Mandy hadn't heard so much as a peep out of her brother or her best friend since Mickey snapped and went back home to Ian Saturday morning. This could only mean one of two things: they had either murdered each other in one of the bloodiest crime scenes ever, so they were fucking like they'd just returned from a war, instead of sitting around brooding over for each other for the lesser part of two days. It doesn't take a betting woman to figure out which option was far more likely. Seriously, those two idiots were going to be the death of her.
Ian woke up some time after midnight to find Mickey stretched out next to him, sheets kicked off, bare ass bathed in the moonlight. It was a sight beautiful enough to move a man to tears. Ian ran a hand down the length of Mickey's body, admiring his handiwork of hickeys and the bruises standing in contrast against the pale hips. Mickey shivered as Ian trailed a finger down his spine and whispered a muffled "Gallagher" into his pillow. Ian grinned happily and moved to kiss a slow trail down Mickey's back, reaching down to palm and massage between his lover's legs. Mickey moaned and shuddered again, hovering somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. When Ian finally reached down to Mick's ass, he couldn't resist biting softly into a white cheek. He slid down the bed, positioning himself between Mickey's open legs and slowly spread him apart. The firm lick across Mickey's opening woke him right the hell up.
"Jesus," Mickey groaned heavily into his bunched up pillow as Ian went to work. He lifted his head briefly to yell back at Ian, "you know Mandy's starting to think we fight half the time just to make up like this."
Ian hummed in response as he pushed his tongue in deeper into Mickey, sending the brunet into spasms. "Yeah," Mickey panted, raising his hips so he could thrust back against Ian's face and touch himself, "same thing I said."
It was late morning before Ian finally managed to stumble out of their bedroom, half-starved and dehydrated. He was halfway to the kitchen when his doorbell rang. Sighing heavily, he trudged over to the door and yanked it open. He had been expecting Jehovah Witnesses or something, but Ian was wholly unprepared for the sight of Peter, the friendly bartender, standing there with chocolates and roses no less, grinning like a goddamned simpleton.
"What the hell?"
"Hi," Pete said, way too cheerfully for a Sunday morning, "you said I could come by today, maybe?" Pete's smile wavered as Ian continued to stare at him dumbfounded. "Too early?"
"I told you to come by?" Ian asked incredulously. Jesus, how drunk and out of it had he been? Mandy was right, he really needed to quit this baiting shit. He darted a panicked look towards the closed bedroom door before dropping his voice to a harsh whisper. "Okay, l know I may have inadvertently given you the wrong impression, and I am really sorry about that. But you got to get the hell out of here."
Pete blinked at him, completely confused, "it's the flowers, right? Too much?"
Before Ian could strangle Pete with his own damned flowers, the bedroom door swung open and time froze as Mickey wandered out, rubbing at his eyes tiredly.
"Damn, firecrotch, what's taking so lo-" Mickey trailed off, coming to a stop beside Ian as he took in the scene before him.
"You're back already?" Dead man walking asked dumbly before turning to a petrified Ian, "he's back already?!"
Mickey looked from Pete, to the gifts, to Ian and back again. He repeated this action a few times, before scratching his nose with his thumb—the Mickey signal for an impending ass-kicking. "Yeah, okay," Mickey muttered before wandering over to one of the corner tables in the living room.
"Run!" Ian whispered urgently.
Peter, for his part, was far too interested in what Mickey was doing to heed Ian. He watched fascinated as Mickey fished through the drawer and then casually, but measuredly slipped on a set of brass knuckles. This was precisely the point at which poor Pete pissed himself. He dropped the flowers and the candy and was off like a rocket down the passageway.
"Don't you run from me, fucker!" Mickey was barreling past a stammering Ian and charging after Pete like a Pamplona bull. He caught him on the landing of the second flight of stairs, because of course he did. Pete's head start and longer legs were nothing on Southside ex-con speed, and even barefoot, Mickey was as fast as the worst of them. Fortunately, Ian was fast too and Pete at least had the good sense to curl into the fetal position after he went down from Mickey decking him.
Ian wrapped his arms around the miniature typhoon and lifted him bodily off Pete and carried him struggling back up the stairs. Unable to hit anymore, Mickey unleashed a truly impressive litany of curses at the crumpled bartender, including a few Russian ones. If Svetlana had taught him anything, it was that Russian was a magnificent language with which to cuss someone out.
They made it back to their floor before Mickey successfully managed to free himself and stomp off to their apartment. Ian followed meekly and watched quietly as his boyfriend sent the abandoned flowers flying down the other end of the hallway with a kick. Mickey was already in the bedroom by the time Ian cautiously ventured into the apartment.
"And you better not leave those fucking chocolates out there, fuckhead!"
Ian quickly scampered back into the hallway and retrieved them, shooting apologetic smiles to the few curious heads that poked out to see what all the yelling was about. It was nothing short of a miracle that they hadn't been evicted yet.
With them, there were many different types of sex: happy sex, angry sex, make-up sex, the usual sort. That day they explored a new one: the "I can't believe you're still pulling this shit and putting me through an emotional wringer" type, of which Ian was currently on the receiving end.
"I cannot believe you're still pulling this bullshit," Mickey hissed, twisting his hands into the sheets on either side of Ian's head, as he rode his idiot boyfriend furiously. Ian gripped onto his hips and bucked under him, eyes rolling back in his head after his vision went searing white.
"Wasn't going to…really wasn't; just you," Ian gibbered and angled his hips to go after Mickey's prostate, temporarily derailing the brunet's whole rant.
"I swear to God, Ian, the next time you do this, I will kill you both," Mickey ground out. Coherent thought was dissipating fast. "Both…dead!"
"Fair, so fair," Ian moaned helplessly beneath the onslaught, "holy hell I love you. I love you so much, Mickey."
"Fucking right you love me!" Mickey snarled, losing his last bit of control along with his righteous indignation, "you gonna just lay there and take it all night, or you gonna do something, you lazy fuck?"
Ian wrapped an arm around Mickey's waist and flipped them over in a fluid motion, pounding away relentlessly even as Mickey hauled him down into a kiss and burned the air clean out of him. Seriously, Mickey Milkovich was going to be the death of him.
Two days, those two idiots had fallen completely off the grid for two whole days. Someone needed to tell them that this was a complete overreaction to a pseudo-breakup that hadn't even managed to hit the forty-eight hour mark. Someone should tell them, not her of course, but someone. Their ungrateful asses didn't even give her a chance to gloat about how right and awesome she had been about the entire thing. She could only sigh and hope they at least remembered they both had work Monday morning. Good lord though, she really wanted to gloat.
That's why it was a bit of a godsend when Peter walked with a face looking suspiciously like hamburger meat with one of the Milkovich symbols embedded into it. This absolute idiot…she couldn't resist having a bit of a go.
"Join a fight club?" She asked flippantly, only to get fixed with a baleful glare from Peter's good eye. She raised her arms in mock surrender, "no, no, I get it. You can't talk about it. First rule of fight club, and all." She zipped her lips shut while Pete rolled his eye and stomped off to one of the darker corners of the bar.
Mandy could simply not understand why these jackasses didn't listen to her more. She'd forgotten more things than those three morons would ever know.