Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the plot line of Snatch. Guy Ritchie and his wonderful group of movie makers own them. I'm just borrowing them because I want to and I can.

A/N: Alright, this thing goes down after the movie, but since I only have a general idea of what I'm doing, I don't know if I'm making any changes to what happened. I'll decide that as I write.

I'm new in this section, my other stories being removed from the site. Why? I'm not entirely sure, but I can tell you that it right pissed me off. But since I'm new here, you don't know the depths of my insanity quite yet. You will find out soon enough, I assure you, and this fic will earn it's M rating, I promise.

This is a slash fic, which means guy on guy action. I'm shameless when it comes to smut, so be forewarned. There's a whole lot of swearing, violence and sex going on in this fic, but hey! Who's complaining? Not me, that's for damned sure!

Enough of my babbling. Let's start the show!

Chapter One

Mickey swung his arms and stretched his back. He bent forwards and backwards, stretching his legs and making sure every muscle in his body was limber and ready. Despite his calm facade, he was terrified.

Sure, he was known for his ability to knock a man out with one punch. Sure, he could take a good beating. He was Irish, after all, and a fist wasn't much different than a belt, assuming the strength was appropriate. But how many punches could he get in before the group of twenty some-odd men that surrounded him bore him to the ground and rendered him helpless? There was, after all, a world of difference between one fist and forty fists.

"Right, boys," he said, scanning the angry faces and feeling so lost and alone. "It's time fer me t' teach ya how the fuck ya fight."

One of them stepped forward, and Mickey held his ground. He was a big man, but Mickey could take him easily. He wasn't worried about this one man.

"Let's be fuckin' honorable about this," Mickey said, swinging his head to loosen his neck. "Let's make it a fair fight. You an' me. Or whoever else has t'e fuckin' balls to take me on."

"I'll take him," another of the men said.

Mickey took a moment to memorize all of their faces. If this fight went south, which was what was most likely to happen, the bastards would learn first hand why everyone kept saying 'I fuckin' 'ate Pikeys'.

Mickey stepped towards his opponent, staring at him with brooding eyes, trying to make him uneasy. It didn't do much, but Mickey's size, no matter how much anger burned in his eyes, didn't make for a very threatening figure.

The big man came forward, moving quickly despite his weight. He slammed a fist into Mickey's stomach, and the Irish fighter took a step back. The man was strong, but he could name several who were stronger, all of which were unconscious by the time Mickey was finished with them.

Mickey cracked his knuckles, waiting for his golden moment to strike. The man threw him to the ground, kicking him in the chest. Mickey rolled and rose gracefully to his feet.

"Yer a fuckin' brute, I'll give ya t'at," Mickey said with a bit of a grin. "But I've gotta say, yer probably all brawn, and no fuckin' brain."

That sent Mickey's opponent into a rage. With a grunt of hate and anger, the man surged forward, punching Mickey with all the strength he had. Mickey rolled with the blow as the man's fist cannoned against his jaw, and he knew that now was the best time to put an end to this idiocy.

He went with it, pretending to be stunned as he stumbled away from his opponent and dropped to his knees. The man moved in for his victory, but Mickey's body twisted, his leg lashing out and hooking against the back of the man's knee. Even as the heavy man fell, Mickey's fist shot up, slamming against the bottom of the man's jaw in a powerful uppercut that rendered him senseless. As his huge frame hit the ground, unconscious, all hell broke loose.

Turkish sighed heavily, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trench coat. Tommy was ahead of him by about twenty paces, and the younger man was pissed. He had specifically told Turkish not to follow him, but Turkish did so anyway, a little uneasy with the thought of Tommy wandering through the night, alone and with a gun that didn't work for shit.

Tommy was trying desperately to shake Turkish, but it wasn't working overly well. He glanced over his shoulder, glowering at the man behind him. Turkish picked up his pace, coming to walk beside Tommy, slowing down to compensate for his partner's shorter legs.

"I thought I told you not to follow me."

"You did, Tommy," Turkish said. "But you never listen to me, so why the fuck should I listen to you?"

"Why won't you just leave me alone?" Tommy muttered glumly, looking down at the ground as they walked.

"Because, Tommy, I don't want ze Germans to get you," Turkish said with a bit of a roll of his eyes.

Tommy sighed, clenching his jaw. "Did you mean it when you said I was a stupid git and you wished you'd never met me?"

"No," Turkish said, echoing Tommy's sigh. "I was angry, and I said it without even thinking about it. Well, the part about wishing I'd never met you. But you are a stupid git."

"Yeah, well," he sounded so confident and sure of himself as he tried to think of a come-back, "you're a . . . an ass, Turkish. You're a bloody fucking ass," he finished lamely.

"This is the thanks I get for bailing you out of everything?" Turkish asked, looking down at his younger companion. "Well, since you don't seem to appreciate the things I do for you, maybe I should stop doing them."

"Go ahead, then. I can take care of myself."

"I'll believe that when I see it," Turkish muttered.

Tommy turned away from Turkish, cutting into an alley. In the buttery lamplight and the faint moonlight, he saw a man lying on the ground, on his side, his arms splayed in front of him and his legs bent slightly. Tommy stopped, staring at the man as Turkish came to stand beside him.

Both men were rather indecisive as to what exactly to do as they stood there, staring down the alley. Tommy bit his lip, looking up at Turkish, waiting for him to decide what to do.

With a bit of a sigh, Turkish strode forward, looking down at the man. He groaned softly, and a certain recognition flared in the boxing promoter's mind. On closer inspection, he realized he knew the beaten man quite well.

"Fuck me, it's that fucking Pikey, Mickey," Tommy breathed, peering over Turkish's shoulder and all his anger forgotten. "Never thought we'd see him again. What do think happened to him?"

"Ze-"

"Germans," Tommy interrupted. "Shut up, Turkish. I mean, seriously."

"I'm not a fucking mind reader, Tommy, I have no idea," Turkish said with a sigh.

Mickey groaned again, floating somewhere close to consciousness. He could hear the voices of the men staring at him, but he couldn't will his body to move, he couldn't open his eyes, he couldn't make a sound any more than the little groans of pain.

Turkish knelt, gently pushing Mickey onto his back. In the darkness, he could see the cuts and swelling on the Irish man's face, and he knew that he had probably pissed someone, or a rather large group of someones, off.

"What should we do, then?" Tommy asked.

"He's probably too heavy for us to carry him," Turkish said, running a hand over his face. "Hurry back to the office and get Gorgeous to come here with the car."

Tommy nodded, but didn't make a move to leave.

"I meant today, Tommy!"

The younger man bolted, running down the street. Turkish looked down at Mickey, not to sure what to do while he waited for Tommy and Gorgeous to come back. Mickey's eyes flickered open eventually, his lips parted as he stared vacantly up towards the sky.

The clouds opened up, rain drops the size of golf balls hammering against the ground. Turkish swore, but knew the storm wouldn't last. Usually storms that started to suddenly and so heavily only lasted twenty some odd minutes, if that.

Over the sound of the raindrops, he heard Mickey groan again, this time forming a word. The particular word summed up the situation, the events that previously occurred and Mickey's state of mind and being rather eloquently.

"Fuck."

Turkish reached down, patting Mickey's shoulder. "Don't worry, Mickey. I'll have you out of the rain soon enough. Do you think you can stand?"

Mickey grunted in response. Turkish looked up as he heard a car approach and he saw that Tommy had arrived with Gorgeous George behind the wheel. Tommy came out of the car to help Turkish, and together they lifted the Pikey to his shaky feet and helped him into the car. He winced with every step and winced even more as he was settled down into the back seat. He grunted a thanks and lay down, holding his arms close to his body as Turkish climbed in the front passenger seat, and Tommy was forced to sink down between him and Gorgeous George.

"Why do I have to sit here?" Tommy whined as Gorgeous pulled out onto the street.

"Because, Tommy, the Pikey's injured so he gets his way. George is driving, and besides, he's too bit to sit in there, and I outrank you so you have to do what I say."

Tommy huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. Gorgeous pressed down on the gas pedal, causing the car to lurch forward and Tommy to fall back. Tommy reassessed his decision to cross his arms over his chest and gripped the seats, but continued to sulk all the way back to the 'office'.

Gorgeous and Turkish helped Mickey into the brand-new caravan, which was funded by the diamond found in 'Daisy's stomach. Mickey broke away from them as they stepped inside, and hobbled over to one of the cushioned benches, sinking down and laying with his back to the men.

Turkish turned to Gorgeous and Tommy, sighing softly. "You guys might as well head home. We'll call it a day for tonight, and I'll see you both in the morning."

"But Turkish," Tommy protested.

"Not now, Tommy," Turkish said with a heavy sigh. "Just go before I remember why I was pissed off at you."

Both men left, Tommy muttering to himself. Turkish turned to Mickey and crouched by the bench, shaking his shoulder.

"Now's not a good time to sleep, Mickey. You might have a concussion."

Mickey grunted in response, shrugging off Turkish's hand. Turkish sighed and stood, pulling off Mickey's boots. He turned and converted the 'kitchen' table into a bed, laying out pillows and blankets. He went back over to Mickey and helped him stand again, bringing him over to the bed.

"You should probably get out of those wet clothes," Turkish decided.

Mickey sunk down onto the bed, holding his head in his hands. Turkish watched him for a moment, knowing something was wrong. Mickey had been beaten bloody, but he seemed to depressed, so forlorn, making Turkish think that something had gone horribly wrong in the Irish man's life since the last time Turkish saw him. Maybe the death of his mum was finally catching up to him . . . ?

"Mickey, you're already in bad enough shape," Turkish insisted. "You don't want to get sick, too, now do you?"

Mickey huffed and pulled his shirt off his body, looking up at Turkish as he did so, his eyes expressing his annoyance and silently asking Turkish if this satisfied him. He dropped his shirt to the floor and stood, pulling open his belt and pulling off his pants, so he stood there in his blood-stained muscle shirt and underwear. Still holding Turkish's gaze, he sank back down, sitting, sarcastically waiting for the next instruction. When Turkish said nothing, Mickey tore his gaze away, laying down on his side and pulling his socks off.

"Gimme a fuckin' drink," Mickey muttered, holding out an arm.

"That probably isn't a good idea."

"Gimme a fuckin' drink!"

Turkish sighed. He usually didn't respond to that kind of tone very well, but he wasn't Mickey's mother. He turned to one of the cabinets and grabbed a bottle of scotch. He shoved the bottle into Mickey's outstretched hand, which elicited yet another grunt as Mickey pushed himself up into a partial sitting position and drunk greedily.

He rolled away from Turkish, clutching the bottle close to his chest and curling his legs up close to his body. Turkish looked down at Mickey, not sure what to do, if anything at all.

"I'm gonna go back to my flat," he announced, hoping that Mickey was still awake to hear him. "There's food in the fridge if you want some. I'll be back at seven tomorrow morning, and I'll bring you fresh clothes."

With that, he turned and headed for the door. He paused when he heard Mickey call a half-hearted 'thank you', then headed out to walk through the rain.

Mickey finally succumb to his emotions when he felt safe he was alone, his strong image crumbling as his entire body started to tremble. His knuckles were white as he clung to the bottle of Scotch, as if it was the only thing keeping him alive and conscious. He bit his lip, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt tears build. He desperately fought against them, taking another drink to soothe his pain, his lasting fear and the burning humiliation. The tears slid down his battered cheeks, but he stayed silent, allowing the trembling to firmly latch onto his frame.

A rather large part of him wanted nothing more than to fall asleep and never wake up.

Alright, I know that was terribly short, but the next chapters will be longer, I promise. Do tell me what you think. I'm always starving for feedback.

Tashue