Okay, so first of all I guess this can be classed as an au because everything that happened on the show between Mickey and Ian hasn't happened; they know of each other and that's that. Also this is set about six years in the future (and I'm kind of guessing ages) so Mickey and Lip are 23, Ian and Mandy are 22, Fiona is 28, Debbie is 18, Carl is 16, Liam is 9. So yeah, I appreciate this story is maybe a little out there, I don't know, but it'd be great if you gave it a chance :)
Also, I am as English as they come and though I love New York a lot, I don't know a great deal about it specifically. It shouldn't be too big a problem but sorry in advance for any and all inaccuracies.

It's a Thursday evening and Mickey hasn't got work. He's spent the day doing absolutely nothing but watch awful television and eat Snickers bars on the brown leather couch, wrapped up in the blanket they keep on the back of it. If it was Dylan doing this, Mickey would have ripped the shit out of him for acting like a little bitch on the rag, but he doesn't care. New York winters are fucking brutal, somehow worse than Chicago's, and Mickey's getting over a chest infection so fuck it. Besides Mandy's going to be Skype calling him in a minute like she does every Thursday since she had fucking bullied and guilt tripped him into making an account.

As much as he pretends that it annoys him, Mickey loves seeing Mandy's face. Even if it is through a computer screen. She hasn't really changed that much, not to Mickey, though she now keeps her dark hair a little shorter and straighter. It makes him kind of uneasy - she looks even prettier than before and though she and Ian are still going strong, her exact words, he still feels like he should remind every guy in his old neighbourhood of what he'll do to them if they fuck around with her. Distance and time hasn't changed that.

He accepts the Skype call as soon as it starts, sitting up on the couch and unravelling the blanket a little, and is greeted by Mandy wearing these ridiculous reindeer ears made of bright pink tinsel.

He sighs at her grinning face and wonders whether he should ask. He does. "The fuck are you wearing?"

Mandy bites her lip and her smile widens. "Fuck you, I'm getting into the Christmas spirit. Only ten more days!" she exclaims, moving the laptop around to show Mickey the Christmas tree she and Ian set up. It's in one corner of their, actually pretty nice, apartment and is decorated messily. The contrast between it and the pale blue walls is horrible, but Mickey keeps his mouth shut. When she puts the laptop back on her lap, she is smiling less maniacally. "So, how've you been? Got a boyfriend yet?"

And this is why he knew getting a Skype account was a fucking mistake. Not only is it another way to get pestered but it's a way to get pestered with Mandy's sly, knowing smirks that are so damn slap worthy it isn't even funny. Plus, this is the third time in a row that Mandy has asked him that over Skype. "No," he snaps because he doesn't fucking do boyfriends! And Mandy knows that.

"Hm, I was hoping to meet one when I come up to visit." She actually sounds genuinely sad and Mickey can't comprehend that so he doesn't even try.

Shrugging, he says, "not really my fuckin' problem," and then takes a bite out of his fourth Snickers bar.

Mandy scoffs loudly and rolls her eyes. "Um, yeah it is actually because you can't seem to keep your fuckin' legs closed. Hussy"

It's sort of funny in a really weird, kind of awkward way that it's now Mandy who's complaining to Mickey about his "sluttiness". Mickey isn't a slut or a hussy but he wouldn't give a shit if he was so he simply shrugs, gives her the finger and eats some more chocolate. After he swallows he clears his throat and asks, "how's the job goin'?" because he feels it to be necessary.

Whilst taking off those idiot reindeer ears, Mandy shrugs with a little smile. "Fine, it's fine. My bitch of a boss still gives me the fucking stink eye every two seconds but it's only because my hairdressing skills are way better than her dumbass daughter's, so whatver," she says in one breath. "You?"

"Yeah, it's fine, minus the amount of times I've had my fuckin' ass groped by desperate middle-aged women," he says, voice going from calm to aggravated growl in a matter of seconds. Mickey doesn't approve of being objectified by anyone without a dick and even then he doesn't particularly love it.

Mandy snickers with a wicked but nasty smile and raises her eyebrows. "But middle-aged men would be fine, right?" He glares at her wide smile. "Come on, I'm kidding, Mickey, lighten up. Or actually light up, whatever," she says, then mumbles, "you could fuckin' use it", just loud enough for Mickey to hear.

Before he can get his response out, Mandy swings her head around just as Mickey hears the faint sound of a door closing - Ian's home - and then she's putting the laptop on the coffee table so that Mickey has a perfect view of Mandy being lifted by Ian and her wrapping her legs around his waist like they're in the goddamn Notebook, and Mickey closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose because fucking Zoe needs to stop forcing him to watch all these fucking films!

"Are you dying over there or something?"

Mickey startles and opens his eyes to see Mandy back on the couch with Ian halfway in the shot fiddling with his phone. "Yeah, and instead of callin' 911 I'm on fuckin' Skype," he deadpans getting an amused snort from Ian.

Mandy sends them both evil looks and then nudges Ian in the ribs. "Hey Mickey, how's it going?" He doesn't sound bored or like he's being made to ask even though he is and Mickey smirks because Mandy can wrap just about any guy around her little finger.

"Not too bad, man, you?" is Mickey's answer; the answer he gives every Thursday when Ian asks him that same question. If you don't count the first time when Mickey had simply said "fine". Mandy sent him ten texts a day for a week just to annoy him before he finally caved and promised to give a friendlier response.

Ian gives his usual answer of, "good, and I can't really complain", before he smiles politely and excuses himself.

#

Mickey only just dodges the t-shirt that Mandy aims at his head. "Fuck, Mandy, calm down! Jesus! Why the fuck is this so important? And why the fuck do I need to be there?" There's an ache just beginning to throb behind his left eye and Mandy's yelling is only spurring on the inevitable headache.

"Because, jackass, I want you there, I asked you and you said yes!"

As he flops back down onto his bed, Mickey brings an arm up to cover his eyes. "Yeah and how fuckin' high was I when I said that?" he scoffs earning a hard punch right in the centre of his stomach that hurts like a motherfucker. He isn't even surprised Mandy hit him so all he does is groan and call her a bitch before kicking at her shin. "Christ," he grunts, "Ian know you like to beat on guys?"

All Mandy does in reply is sigh and sit down on the bed by his thighs. "Mickey," she pleads, and no way is Mickey going to look at her because he can say no to that voice but not to the face that always accompanies it. "Mickey please, this is important to me." She begins to lightly tug at the arm Mickey still has over his eyes. "I'll make pancakes and waffles for dinner for the next week," she bargains, sounding much less like a little girl asking for a puppy and more like a woman doing buisness. The change in tactic makes Mickey bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from smirking.

"Two weeks."

Mandy growls a little. "Ten days."

Mickey removes his arm and looks up at her. "Fine. But I ain't changin' and I'm not gonna fucking dust." Just as Mandy begins to protest, Mickey starts up again. "No. They are Gallaghers - like they can judge us anyways."

"Okay," Mandy stands and straightens out her dark purple skirt, "but at least wash your face and put on some deodorant. Hobo." She walks out of his room and Mickey waits about ten seconds before he gives up and goes to the bathroom to splash his face and spray himself with deodorant like he's getting paid for it.

It's not that Mickey doesn't give a shit about meeting Ian - okay, he really doesn't - but he's the met the guy before and he's met most of the Gallaghers. Hell, he and Lip even talk some when they see each other on the streets. So what he doesn't get is why Mandy's acting like the fucking queen of England is coming for tea instead of the Gallaghers - just as well-known for the wrong reasons as the Milkovichs - coming round to eat pizza and drink beer. Then again Mandy's never had an actual boyfriend and apparently that shit is important to nineteen year old girls so whatever. Mickey likes beer and he likes pizza and he wants those pancakes and waffles so he'll deal.

...

An hour later and Mickey's hiding out in the kitchen, a beer in one hand and a slice of Margherita pizza in the other, wondering why he's being made to endure such hell. Really, it's the first and probably only time in his life that Mickey wishes his sister hated him like she hated their brothers because then he'd have been paid $30 to stay away from the house for the day. And seriously, he'd rather be fucking anywhere else. It's the noise, he thinks, that's unsettling him the most; the sound of a family laughing, joking, actually enjoying each others' company. Something deep stirs inside of him and seeing how easily Mandy fits in with it all only serves to worsen his unease because she's good, yeah a little slutty, rough around the edges, but she is good and she doesn't deserve the life they have. And Mickey really needs to stop with this sentimental bullshit before he gets his fucking period or something. Christ.

Lip wanders in a couple of minutes later and Mickey's now finished both his beer and his pizza and so stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets, his posture defensive for no real reason. Lip smirks at him before getting two beers out of the fridge, passing one to Mickey who takes it without a word. It takes a couple of seconds for Mickey to realise that Lip is just as casually dressed as him in jeans and a grey wife beater. Mickey thinks he's probably just as enthusiastic about all of this as he is.

"And there I was thinking nothing could scare a Milkovich," Lip says randomly, his voice light; teasing Mickey only because he knows he won't start anything now. Fucker.

"Yeah, it's the fuckin' three year old that really does it," he replies, voice devoid of any emotion.

"Six, actually."

Mentally, he curses Mandy for buying fucking light beer - the fuck is up with that? Right now, even just a slight buzz would make so much difference; allow him to concentrate on something other than the happiness that's being radiated in his own living room. A grimace forms on his face after he takes a swig of his beer, shaking his head. He hates today.

"I think you're wanted, man," Lip says. Mickey looks at him, one eyebrow raised in silent question. "Mandy's giving me a pretty lethal death glare and mouthing 'Mickey'," he explains with a smirk.

Grumbling every curse he knows under his breath, Mickey follows Lip back to the chaos: Mandy, Ian, Fiona and her guy are sat on the couch talking loudly and animatedly, huge smiles on their faces; the girl - Debbie? he thinks it's Debbie - is sat on the floor with the youngest, arguing with the older one, who's a total thug in the making, whilst absent-mindedly tickling the other. Mickey honestly doesn't know what to do with himself so he flicks Mandy on the ear and asks her what she wants.

The look she gives him is half unimpressed and half annoyed. "To stop being an anti-social asshole," she whispers through gritted teeth before going back to her conversation.

So what? Mickey's supposed to just stand here like an absolute dick? How that's better than being anti-social he has no clue. But then Lip moves to the other arm of the couch and so Mickey sits on the one beside Mandy, attempting to distract himself from the glare he's getting off of the smallest child. And come one, how is that kid six? He's fucking tiny! Better yet, how is he Frank's child? Not only is Frank white but he's fucking Irish. He shakes his head.

...

It's midnight when the Gallagher clan finally make to leave and Mickey's making a sandwich in the kitchen when Ian walks in.

"Hey. I just - I wanted to let you know that I'm not like the other guys Mandy's been with. Y'know? I'm not just gonna use her and leave her or whatever it is tha-"

Mickey holds up a hand to silence him then turns around, leaning back casually on the counter. His arms are crossed over his chest and he knows he looks intimidating and that's exactly what he wants. "Save it. Just remember that if you ever do anything to hurt her, I'll break you in places you never even knew could be broken." And with that he turns back around.

#

Friday nights are a bitch to work. All of the young office yuppies and their grey-haired bosses ordering cocktails and shots like that'll make them hate their jobs any less. It's dumb but Mickey keeps his mouth shut and behaves as politely as he can - really, it's not very polite - to not get his ass fired.

Both Dylan and Zoe are working tonight so that's alright, he thinks, they make this bearable. Plus he won't have to walk home on his own if he doesn't hook up with someone. Mickey thinks he probably won't, he's not really in the mood. And that sudden realisation has Mickey freezing because when is he not in the mood to fuck? Though he's twenty-three he has the sex-drive of a sixteen year old.

"Yo! You gon' serve me?"

Mickey turns from where he was stood and suddenly he's in the mood again. If you ask Mickey, he doesn't have a type. Zoe disagrees though. Apparently he always gets with guys who are no more than a few inches taller than him, muscular but in that lean, subtle way and not stereotypically "gay". Whatever. Mickey fucks who he fucks.

As Mickey walks over to the bar he smirks smugly at the obvious once over the guy gives him. He knows he looks good and that isn't simple conceitedness but based on the leers and the amount of people who come on to him every night he's working. Also according to Zoe, the black slacks he wears "accentuate his ass" and the way he rolls up the sleeves of his black shirt make his biceps "look delicious". So.

"What can I get you, man?" he asks, as casual as he can.

The guy smiles knowingly then runs a hand through his light brown hair, as though he's nervous. Mickey shouldn't find that endearing. "A vodka and coke."

Mickey nods, takes the money then makes the drink, all the while sensing the guy's eyes on him. Sure enough when he turns back and slides the drink to him, the guy is failing to subtly check him out.

There's some up and coming DJ playing at the club and so the bar itself isn't really busy at all, and only the yuppies and people who came to simply drink are sat at the there, so Mickey starts to absent-mindedly wipe down the surface with a dark red rag.

He's scrubbing at a sticky patch he really hopes is just alcohol when someone clears their throat. Mickey looks up to see the same guy smiling shyly at him. After a couple of seconds, it becomes clear that he isn't going to speak first so Mickey rolls his eyes and asks, "what?"

"Uh... can I get another?" He raises his empty glass and Mickey takes it and the notes he hands over. Their fingers brush and the guy actually blushes a little. Christ, he's has gone from loud New-Yorker to shy teenage girl in about five minutes. Mickey shouldn't like it as much as he does but he's always liked guys who allow him to control the situation. It's safe that way.

"So, when does your shift end?" The guy asks whilst he pours in the vodka.

"In..." he cranes his neck back to look at the large analogue clock above the bar, "an hour."

The glass is now on the bartop and the guy takes a little sip of if, his wide eyes darting around as he nods. "Will you, like - are you busy? After, I mean." One of his hands runs through his hair again and he smiles like he's hating the way he worded his question.

Mickey smirks. "No," he answers. "Why?" He knows exactly why but he can't help but enjoy the way this guy is the actual physical definition of awkward and shy.

"Just wondering, y'know, if uh, maybe you wanna get a drink after? Or whatever."

Just down the bar a scantily dressed blonde is trying to get his attention but he doesn't want to abandon this conversation so he side-eyes Dylan and nods in her direction. Thankfully Dylan can take a hint.

"A drink?"

"Uh, yeah." Suddenly his eyes widen and he coughs awkwardly. "Ah shit, are you straight? Have I been reading this all wrong?"

Mickey shakes his head. "Relax, man. No. A drink sounds fine."

"Okay, cool. Well, I'm gonna get back to my friends and I'll see ya later?"

"Sure." The guy turns to leave but Mickey reaches over the bar and grabs his arm. "Name?" he asks, though he doesn't know why because he never usually cares. But this feels different somehow.

"Oh, uh, I'm Jake," he answers with a dimpled smile. "You?"

"Mickey."

Jake nods and then turns back around still smiling. Mickey watches him leave until he becomes just another body in the sea of moving forms on the dance floor and he realises he's been smiling the whole time yet does nothing to stop it. Maybe he's turning soft in his old age... or not because he did get into a fight only five days before. Fuck it. He's probably going to get laid tonight, that's all that really matters right now.

A pair of hands get hold of his hips from behind and he instantly knows it's Dylan. "Someone's gettin' a little somethin' somethin' tonight, huh baby?" Dylan says all breathy against his neck whilst he gently humps his crotch against Mickey's ass.

All Mickey does is roll his eyes and smirk. "Fuck off, you idiot," he says, affection clear in his voice.

"Aw baby," Dylan coos, "why you gotta be that way?" One of his hands slowly trails up to Mickey's chest and he slaps him away.

"Fuck off." Mickey turns around chuckling to see Dylan smiling goofily and putting his shoulder-length dirty blonde hair back into a little ponytail. "How people don't think you're a raging homo, I have no fuckin' clue."

The bottles behind Dylan clang together as he leans back against the counter shrugging. "Unlike you, I clearly exude manly heterosexuality," he says with a smile puffing out his unimpressive chest. And Mickey isn't even going to respond to that.

#

The hotel is beginning to get on Mickey's nerves. Real fucking badly. Or, well, actually it's the people that Mickey can't fucking stand. On one side of the wall he has goddamn newly weds who fuck every hour. Literally. And on the other side there's a family of about ten with the kids screaming and crying and just generally acting like the inconsiderate assholes they are all the damn time. Mickey would probably feel a slight bit of sympathy for the parents if they didn't scream just as loud. One week he's been New York and he feels like he's still at home. Fuck.

It's nine at night and the newly weds have been going at it for an hour and he can't take it anymore so he pulls on a pair of black jeans over his boxer-briefs and puts his parka over his faded Pink Floyd t-shirt. He probably looks awful and mismatched but he doesn't give a shit. He needs to leave.

After a ten minute walk he finds a bar that reminds him a little of The Alibi back in South Side; small and situated between two blocks of apartments atop liquor and convenience stores. He chews on his thumbnail for a little while. Indecision is setting in. Though the main point of moving was to get away from Chicago and that life, he wants to hold on to certain things and this bar feels familiar but different enough.

When he walks in a tall, built man nods at him whilst he pulls a pint of beer. Mickey makes his way to the bar and drops down onto one of the wooden stalls cushioned with black. The place is a little classier than The Alibi: the walls are nicely painted, no cracks in the paint or questionable stains, and there are black and white pictures of famous New Yorkers and New York landscapes. The bartop is actually clean and so are the several tables that are dotted around. Mickey allows himself to relax a little knowing he hasn't walked into someplace shady.

"What can I get ya?" the barkeeper asks him with a friendly smile that Mickey doesn't think is fake and a Southern drawl that surprises him.

"Just a beer."

"Bud?"

Mickey nods. When it comes to alcohol he's not all that fussy. Especially when he doesn't get ID'd, even though he's twenty-one.

"Not from 'round here, huh?"

Mickey looks up at the man, taking in his smile lines and bright, happy blue eyes. "No, I ain't," he answers, looking down and rubbing his thumb against his bottom lip.

The man huffs a short laugh and hands over the beer saying, "me neither" and waves his hand when Mickey goes to pass over his money. "On the house for newcomers."

"Well hey, Paul!" someone yells from across the room. Mickey looks to see a guy his age looking genuinely surprised. "How come the same didn't apply to me the first time I came in here?" Nobody else seems to be acknowledging any of this and it makes Mickey think they must be used to the mouth on this guy.

"Because, dipshit, your father is my best friend and I know how much damn money he has and second of all, when I said "newcomers" I meant people who ain't from New York," he explains with an impressive eye roll before walking to the other end of the bar.

Mickey takes a long sip of his beer and then lights up a cigarette. Some of the tension he's been carrying eases away and he sighs long and hard.

...

His beer is halfway gone when the stool beside him is sat on. Despite the bar being almost fucking empty.

"If you're not from here then where are you from?" It's the guy from earlier that night, the loudmouth, and Mickey wants to tell him to fuck off but he told himself before he moved that he wouldn't have to behave like an idiot thug. Nobody would know who he was and so he would have nobody's expectations to live up to.

"Chicago," he answers before taking another drag of his cigarette.

The guy nods enthusiastically, his shoulder-length hair falling into his face, and when he pushes it back Mickey tracks the movement. "Cool. I'm not really from around here, I was born in Dallas, but we moved when I was ten so." And now he knows, Mickey can pick out the slight Texan drawl he has mixed in with his New York accent. "I'm Dylan, by the way." He turns on the stool so that one of his knees brushes Mickey's thigh and holds out a hand.

Now Mickey can see him properly, he notices that Dylan's wearing ripped jeans, dirty boots and a plaid shirt over a tatty grey tee. Though he looks kind of homeless, it's obviously been done on purpose; it's probably his style or some shit. Mickey eyes his hand dubiously before taking it quickly when Dylan starts to wriggle his fingers in impatience. "Mickey," he says, his voice croaky from the cigarettes.

They have a couple of drinks and Mickey learns that Dylan's family are so rich because his dad spent years promoting and opening a line of clubs called Synergy all across America practically on his fucking own, that he gags every time he takes a drink of his beer - "fuck off, dude, spirits are my thing" - and that he'll flirt with absolutely anyone, despite claiming to be straight - including Paul who is in his mid-fifties and his dad's best friend!. Mickey kind of assumes that that's just the kind of guy he is; he has a 'fuck you' attitude but in a totally different way to Mickey because Dylan genuinely doesn't give a shit about what others think of him and Mickey really does, even if the person he's been all these years isn't who he truly is.

...

By the time midnight rolls around, they're both pretty hammered and Dylan is telling Mickey about some girl he loved who cheated on him with his cousin or his brother or... some other male family member. Mickey's drunk and not really absorbing anything he's being told.

"Bu' dude... like, like, she was - y'know Marilyn Monroe and Beyonce? She'd, she'd be like, dude y'know, she'd be the baby they have if they met - meet. I dunno." Dylan puts his arm around Mickey's shoulder and it's truly a testament to how comfortable Mickey feels around the guy that he doesn't push him off because even when drunk he wouldn't let this happen. "Perfection, is what, what she - God, so fuckin' perfect."

Mickey snorts loudly and looks at a blurry Dylan. "Perfect and slutty," he slurs with raised eyebrows.

Dylan laughs and then sighs sadly. "Yeah," he murmurs, looking like his mind is distant and far away.

"Lucky for me, I ain't gotta worry about no girls ever." And if Mickey were even slightly sober he probably wouldn't be coming out to someone he met only a few hours ago.

But Dylan doesn't even flinch or react at all. "Hmm, yeah. Bein' gay looks fuckin' awesome - is it awesome?"

"No," Mickey answers instantly, fiddling with his empty shot glass. "Sex is though," he adds a few seconds later. And that makes Dylan laugh loud and obnoxious, his shaking shoulders jostling Mickey's until Mickey can't help but laugh and laugh until tears are falling from his eyes; of joy and relief, but in this moment he doesn't even know.

#

"I don't usually - fuck - do this," Jake pants.

Mickey has his mouth attached to Jake's neck, every suck and bite getting a quiet moan from him. "What?" He pulls back and stares openly at Jake's eyes. They're this seriously fucking gorgeous light hazel, kind of yellow, colour and his pupils are blown wide. "Fuck?"

"No, fuck you," he chuckles, fiddling with Mickey's belt. "I meant, y'know, I don't really have random hook ups with guys I don't really know."

Mickey nods and he isn't even annoyed. This should worry him and in retrospect he probably shouldn't have agreed to a drink because he knew this was going to happen. And yet here he is. The thing is this guy is actually real fucking cool, interesting even. Mickey had taken him to Paul's bar with Dylan after work, Dylan only there to do something with Paul, and they stayed doing more talking than drinking. Jake is a twenty-one year old student, studying to become an architect with an alcoholic mom, dad who never gets enough credit and twin sisters who still baby him. Mickey told him the short story about his parents, nobody really wants to know about all of that depressing shit, and focussed more on Mandy and his dumbass brothers.

So Mickey knows that this isn't like his usual quick, anonymous hook ups and he kind of doesn't want it to be. Well fuck, maybe Mandy will have a boyfriend to meet. "So, you don't want it to be random or what?"

Jake smiles shyly and looks down. "Not really, no. I, uh, kinda like you, I guess."

Alrighty, so I understand that this chapter has no Ian/Mickey elements and is perhaps a little confusing? But I really wanted to write a non-linear story that has Mickey with a new life in the future and to be able to highlight how he's changed since. Also, as I said, this is a non-linear story and though I think I make it kinda obvious and you're all smart enough to make sense of it, please ask if you're confused about any of it. There are quite a few OCs and I hope they grow on you and now I'm rambling so I'll stop. (But college is kind of repeatedly sucker punching me with work and so I probably won't be updating a whole lot, but I'll try my best!) Read and review :)