Chapter 2

Mickey walked out of the prison with his old black coat slung over his shoulder and a plastic bag filled with his old belongings in his hand. It wasn't much once they'd confiscated all the illegal stuff like the 8ball he had on him at the time, the butterfly knife and the fake IDs. All that remained were his keys to a car he no longer had, a phone that probably didn't work anymore, and an empty wallet with all the bills missing.

The metal gates opened and Mickey didn't even bother looking up at the guards as he was waved through, not even as he flipped them off on his way out. They were less important. He was still looking through the pathetically empty bag for something of worth when he came across an old photo that was folded up so many times, there were white marks where color used to be, and shoved so deeply into his wallet that if he didn't already know it was there, he would've missed it.

It was a rare picture, one he never intended anyone on seeing, and it was of Ian Gallagher smiling back up at him in that old beanie of his. When he looked down at it, Mickey smiled.

"Mickey," his sister called out from her car. It was the only one in the parking lot and his presence made her hop off the hood. When he walked over to her, shoving his possessions into his pockets, he didn't hide the grin he had for his little sister.

"You look good, sis. Glad to see the fuckin' panda eyes crap is gone," he said as a warm greeting. Mickey had just opened his arms out for a hug when Mandy gave him a harsh punch to the ribs.

She was strong enough to make him hunch over. "The hell was that for?"

"Asshole," Mandy muttered, then got into the car. "Get in or take the bus, Mick."

Mickey just stared at her with a fleeting bewilderment before moving past it and getting in with her – there were too many reasons she could possibly be upset. She did in fact look good, though; her hair was back to its natural black color but she'd toned down the makeup; her clothes seemed more appropriate despite the shortness of her skirt; her nose piercing was out; no more squirrel-waffle hat. If it weren't for the massive brown and yellow bruising across her cheek, he'd say she never looked better.

She started driving while Mick resisted the urge to sneak another look at the photo now crammed into his jeans. "You're welcome, for the ride, by the way," Mandy grumbled, holding a grudge over him for some reason he couldn't quite pinpoint.

"You want a medal, bitch?" Mickey belched, aiming for the open window.

Mandy only smirked. "So how was it in there?"

"It was the fucking Holiday Inn."

"Anyone make you their bitch?"

"Fuck off, I'm no one's bitch. Anyone who tried me got their eyes gouged out with a fucking spoon in the showers."

Mandy frowned from him to the road. "A spoon."

"Yeah," he said, absently as he began to pick at the dirt under his fingernails, no longer having a knife or a shiv to assist him. "A lot safer to get caught with than a real weapon."

"Gross," she muttered, but didn't seem at all put off by it. She moved on mildly. "So over the phone, you never told me how to got out so early. You're supposed to be doing 15."

Mickey shrugged, chewing at his nails. "Good behavior."

"Right," she snorted. "Well, enjoy the sabbatical while it lasts."

"What's with all the fucking questions, Jon Stewart? Jesus, I ain't a towelhead…"

The silence that followed only lasted the length of time it took for Mandy to reach the highway. Mickey was busy cleaning his nails still with little else to do, his feet now kicked up on the dashboard, when Mandy started in on the questions again. "You talked to him yet?"

Mickey's eyes glanced up from the window as he scraped his thumb over his lip, pretending the feeling in his gut wasn't there. "Who?"

"Ian, you asshole."

He dropped his hand from his face and sneered at her. "I've been out two fucking minutes, from the can to the car. Did you see me making any fucking calls?

"Pussy," Mandy muttered.

Mickey looked over at her and at the empty road ahead. He bit down a smirk before lunging and twisting a nipple. "What was that?"

"Ow, let go!" Mandy veered the car off course, almost crashing it as she tried to get him to stop. "Mick, stop! No more tittie twisters, asshole, you promised!"

He only let go when she twisted his ear, and even then he was still grinning. Mandy glared at him after getting the car back on course, her bottom row of teeth bare. He turned his grin back at the open road and shook his head. "Still not a c-cup."

Mandy smacked him with her closed fist which hurt worse than some of the men back in the joint. She acted like a girl, but she sure as shit hit like a man. "Do that again and I'll cut your dick off," she threatened.

After the pain subsided, he laughed. Like old siblings.

It was the best he'd felt in years and for most of the drive, Mickey just enjoyed the silence with his sister. The last time he'd been in a car was the transfer of state prisons which only lasted six months before moving back, but this was better by a long shot – he was free, and the windows weren't caged.

And the best part about the drive was that she didn't bring up Ian again. It also happened to be the worst part about the drive. Time continued to pass while Mickey tinkered around with the radio stations, finally settling on a Flogging Molly song, when Mandy's bruises began to itch at Mickey's conscience. His eyes would flicker from the road to her smarting cheekbone every now and then until eventually Mandy caught on and she looked at him in that way she always used to, no longer seeming so tough.

She fixed him with a certain hardened expression and Mickey just shrugged his brow, turning back ahead. "…Just say the word and I'll knock it teeth out with a baseball bat."

"Fuck you, that's the word."

After that final piece of Milkovich small talk, the rest of the drive did result in total silence.

…

"Jesus…"

Mandy pulled her car up to the front of a house without chipped paint, barred windows or old motor engines littering the front yard. There were roses instead.

Mickey grimaced at the sight. "Sure this is the right house?"

They hopped out of the car and he saw his sister shrug. "Same house I was born in before mom slit her wrists," Mandy sighed morbidly. Mickey turned his slight grimace on her and hesitated before following her up the swept porch. "Turns out your wife's got more skills than making gun trades with other Russians." She knocked on the door, a weak smile twitching at her lips, "She's also a good homemaker. And a good mom to your kid." Another knock with no answer.

"Christ," Mandy muttered then began opening the door with her own fished out set of keys. Not even Mickey had a copy.

Mickey cocked a brow, retracting a little bit. "What, you living here now?"

"No," Mandy said as she unlocked it. "Lana gave me a key when she got the locks changed."

"When did she get the locks changed?"

"About six years ago."

The Milkovich siblings walked in without invitation and again Mickey couldn't help but wonder if he'd walked into the wrong house. The place was… clean. There were no more sheets blocking light from the windows, no more empty cans of beer and old pizza boxes; there wasn't a single stash of guns in sight, not even a line of coke on the coffee table. And the whole place smelled of lilacs.

Mandy fumbled with the series of locks then dumped her bag on the table while Mickey just stood there, staring with his mouth gaped slightly open at what used to be his home. "Make yourself at home," she told him.

"This is my fucking home."

Perhaps it was his harsh voice that alerted Svetlana of their presence, and she appeared as if from out of nowhere. When she saw them, the beautiful Russian placed a hand on her hip, her face stone cold. "You. What are you doing here?"

"She's my sister," Mickey sneered slightly.

"Not her. You. Why are you here?" Her expression didn't get any softer. Mandy only smiled weakly and dismissed herself into the kitchen.

His bewilderment over the women in his life only grew. He looked around the place that he paid for every month. "This is my house... My name's still scratched into the fucking mailbox."

Svetlana remained where she stood in her yoga pants and sports bra that suffocated her overwhelming breasts, folding her arms across them. "No letters, no visits. You refuse me at the security door."

"I called."

"Liar," she said flatly; seven years and her accent was just as thick. "I call. You only speak words back when about good business, otherwise, nothing."

"Yeah…" Mickey frowned, not getting it. "What more d'you want?"

"A good father."

Mickey rolled his eyes dramatically. "Oh, whatever. You gonna kick me out, or not?"

Svetlana pursed her lips and eyed him up and down. He told himself it didn't matter what she said one way or another, because he'd stay regardless, but the look she gave him caused a certain reconsideration.

"You support us?"

He sneered at her. "That's what I've been fucking doing the last seven years."

"Not with money only, prison boy."

"Watch yourself."

"With fatherhood," she said, ignoring his tone, "You be father, you stay in house."

"No, wait a minute—"

"You be father, you stay in house," she said with a voice far colder than before, her Russian really coming through. Mickey eyed her silently, not wanting to trap himself. He bit at the edge of his lip, hoping for an interruption that came.

"Mother."

Mickey's clear blue eyes darted towards the boy who had the same ones as his own and he froze. Not the boy, no. Little Yevy with the jet black hair, blue eyes and stocky build at the age of eight or so merely eyed Mickey almost skeptically.

Though perhaps not the best opener, Mickey waved stiffly. "Hey," he said as though it were anyone else and not his trueborn son.

The boy continued to eye him like a criminal – to which he was – then turned to talk to his mother. He spoke in Russian.

It sounded like 'shit toy live yuck core shit', though Mickey supposed what the boy said was very different. It was followed by Svetlana replying with what sounded like 'Eat the wash oates, Yevgeny'. At least Mickey was able to recognize the boy's name, though he would continue to avoid pronouncing it his entire life.

Mickey gestured to him, though his eyes remained locked with Svetlana's. "What's he fuckin' saying?"

"I'm gonna have a shower," Mandy muttered from the kitchen archway where she stood with a beer in hand. She left to the bathroom but not before ruffling up Yevy's hair playfully, lovingly.

"Appreciate the update."

Mandy flipped him off before slamming the door closed, leaving him alone with his wife and child. There was a painful silence as the two just stared at him and he could feel himself start to sweat, despite it nearing winter. "…So about the business."

"We do not speak business in front of Yevgeny," she told him, placing a motherly hand on the boy's shoulder. The kid remained silent.

"Does he even know what the fuck I'm saying?" He exclaimed, getting unreasonably angry. "Besides, it's the damn family business, the kid's gotta learn someday fucking soon. Jesus Christ, at his age, I was already stealing hubcaps from rich kids."

"You teach Yevy these things, I will cut your balls from your little tiny body," she said, her voice cold but calm.

Mickey heaved a sigh, "Fucking Russians."

Yevy looked up at his mother with an expression this time. From his tone and a jerk of his head towards him, Mickey could tell he was asking something insulting about him.

"Ay," he warned gruffly, before realizing that, one; he didn't know what the kid was saying, two; it only sounded insulting, and three; he was only an eight-year-old boy.

Svetlana rolled her eyes at him, then turned to her son, placing both hands on his shoulders now. Mickey didn't bother trying to understand what she said, but knew it was a dismissal because Yevy looked Mickey up and down judgmentally once more, then left to what used to be his father's room.

Mickey pointed at his door, frowning. "What's his problem?"

"He is result of terrible father figure," she retorted coldly, then walked into the kitchen to retrieve a gym bag. "Closest he came to a real one was Orange Boy."

Mickey's throat seemed to close up at the mentioning of Ian, even if it was by his old title. He just dragged his teeth over his lip in silence, his fingers itching to reach back for the photo in his pocket.

There were only three important aspects to his life; one was currently in the shower, the other was too hard to mention, and that left only the third. He chose to focus on that – survival.

"About the business," he premised, but Svetlana cut him off.

"We have business no longer," she said, "Clips are much harder to make money off when hitman is out of prison."

"What about the girls?"

"No more whores."

He cocked a brow. "Why the fuck not?"

"Sasha," was all she said about it and then there was a knock at the door.

"Fuck off," Mickey said, wanting to know more about his lost title as a pimp. "What about Kevin? Son of a bitch said he'd take care of things."

Svetlana dismissed this with a poised wave of her hand. "He is worst fucking pimp I have ever seen."

Another knock at the door sounded and Mickey rolled his eyes angrily. "Fuckin' coming!" He shouted, heading over to it reluctantly.

"We talk more later, yes?" It wasn't a question. "I leave with Yevy now for karate lesson. Yevgeny!" She called out, then added some Russian shit that he didn't understand. The boy appeared quite instantly, dressed up in that white karate attire shit.

"Wait, you're leaving?" He asked, fumbling with the locks while keeping his eyes on his wife and child. "We ain't talked about shit all."

"We speak later," Svetlana said definitively. "We leave now," she said heading for the back door and leaving Mickey with the front one that had two more bolts to unlock. Some things never change. He rolled his eyes, more in annoyance with Lana than the locks, muttering to himself, "Fuck me," before finally springing the door open.

The sight of Ian Gallagher standing on his porch wasn't one he expected. His throat tightened and a light feeling entered his chest at the thought Ian had come to see him. Had Mandy told him he was out today?

"Hey, Firecrotch," he said.

Ian just stood there, looking as shocked and frozen as Mickey felt, though Mickey was far better at hiding it. It was clear then that Ian was not there to see him, and his heart ached.

"You look good, Gallagher."

And he did, in fact, look good – better, even. His hair was gelled back nicely, his clothes were more fitted, his physique infinitely improved… Mickey hadn't thought that possible until he looked him up and down, not able to resist dragging his thumb over his lip in that way he used to right before they had sex.

Still, Ian said nothing, though his eyes finally moved, glancing from Mickey's mouth back to his eyes.

Mickey took the incentive to open the door further, but walked away in fear of him not taking up the invitation. He was glad to hear footsteps in his wake. "You want something to drink?" Mickey asked as he swaggered through the kitchen to the fridge and opened it up for the first time in seven years.

He felt Ian's presence as he stood behind him, but did his best not to forget to breathe. "We ain't got much... Milk, juice… Some weird Russian shit—"

"Beer," he said hoarsely.

"On your meds? No fucking way." Mickey glanced up to see the look Ian gave him. After a moment's hesitation, Mickey pulled one out, and only one, opening it the old fashioned way against the edge of the table so the cap went flying.

Mickey took the first mouthful then extended it towards Ian who took it from him by the neck of the beer to avoid Mickey's touch. He took more than one mouthful.

"Ay," Mickey blurted out, "Slow down, Dean Martin, I'm the one who's been in the can seven fucking years."

Ian stopped drinking a little suddenly, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. He handed it back to Mickey who was more interested in Ian's tongue as he licked at his lips than the rest of the beer.

"So you hear about my release, or are you here for my sister?"

"I came to see Mandy." Ian looked mostly at the ground, only glancing at him briefly. "I didn't know you were out."

Mickey already figured that out, but it still killed him somehow to hear the words confirmed. "She's in the shower," he said, handing Ian back the beer. "Mandy! Got a visitor here!"

They heard a muffled reply that sounded something similar to "fuck off," but they couldn't be sure.

There was a silence that feel between them. Mickey had a million things he wanted to say but none of them consisted of small talk. "…How've you been?"

Ian looked at him, eventually nodding. "Good."

He took another swig, handing it back to him and still they didn't touch. "Better?"

"Yeah."

"And the meds… You ain't off them again, or any stupid shit like that, right?"

Ian stilled the beer at his lips. "Right." He took another mouthful.

"And uh… What are you doin' these days?" Did you wait for me, he wanted to ask.

Ian's eyes finally locked with Mickey's own. It was clear he wanted to say something and Mickey licked at his bottom lip in anticipation. Ian put down the beer.

"Mickey—" Ian started, but Mandy had to interrupt, it seemed.

"Hey! What the hell were you shouting about, Mick?" She appeared in the kitchen suddenly, soaking wet and wrapped up in a towel. Mickey had never been less enthused to see his sister and he turned towards the fridge to hide his distaste.

"Hey, Mandy," Ian said warmly, already a warmer greeting than Mickey got.

"Holy shit, Ian," Mandy breathed and broke into a sudden grin. It didn't matter that her bare ass peaked out or that her nipples poked through the towel, she still embraced Ian like an ox would a brick wall. Or a woman would a fairy like Ian.

Mickey took out another beer from the fridge and focused on breaking it open instead of them, fearing whatever look he had would betray him in hiding his… feelings.

"You here for me?"

"Thought we could get a coffee or something before my shift starts."

"Fuck – um, yeah, just give me a second," she said already walking into one of the bedrooms, leaving Mickey and Ian alone together once again. With Ian's back still turned, Mickey felt comfortable enough to look over every inch of his body. He thought he'd get a hard on at the sight of his nice ass and strong arms, but it just killed him, instead.

Mickey chose to say nothing, figuring if that if Ian had something to say, he could fucking say it. Luckily, Mandy came back out, her new clothes now damp and her hair tied back. "You two done chatting, or can we go?"

Mickey saw Ian smile weakly and followed her out the door, not even a glance Mickey's way. Before Mandy closed the door behind her, she flipped Mickey off behind Ian's back, and Mickey flipped her off in return. Mickey drained the beer until froth rolled down his chin. It was to be the first of many beers he would have that day.