She's just sitting there, knees folded and head tilted in a way that reminds Mickey of one of those hairless Siamese cats.
Entitled little fuckers.
"Beer is not a food group, Mickey", the bitch had literally just walked into his apartment, and opened his fridge, before he even had the chance to hang up.
"It fuckin' should be." Mickey had felt insecure standing there in his new skin, in this new place with her looking so sure of who she was supposed to be.
It was unsettling how comfortable Mandy had become in her skin, marching through his kitchen, flinging her lanky frame over his couch, when Mickey was still there in the middle of altering the seams of his own.
"Jesus Mickey. I'll bring you some food over after my shift tomorrow."
He hadn't thought to reject her offer, didn't think that after just weeks, his fridge could look like the leftover bin of a diner. But it did, pancakes and old tuna sandwiches and dried out coleslaw stocked the shelves of his fridge now. She had come every day after that phone call, like clockwork, shoving packages of food into his arms and pushing her way into his apartment.
And today was no different.
Mickey doesn't really know how to ask her to stop, doesn't really know how to string together the verbs and the nouns to explain to her that she doesn't need to use food as an excuse to see him.
He's afraid to ask her to stop, because her smile is wider than he ever remembers it being and her eyes are no longer shifting and shielded. There's a light that seems to effervesce from her pores, and Mickey figures the blonde that is now in her hair probably doesn't help.
Mandy's never looked this light or relaxed in any of his memories, and looking at her alone is enough for him to justify the way he played his hand in that house of horrors over a year ago.
"…Mickey?"
Mandy's still sitting there, reading some trashy magazine, head still fuckin' tilted, and trying to start a conversation with him, "Are you ok? You zoned out for a little bit."
"Fine."
"Mickey." Her voice is suddenly soft, and her head is no longer tilted. She's folded her legs up and her chin is resting in between her knees, and she reminds Mickey of when they were kids and their mother used to tell them stories while they ate breakfast in the kitchen.
The stories had always been the same, but every time Mandy's eyes would be wide and wondering, her chin finding its home between her knees, as if the ending of the story would – or could – change each time she heard them.
"What?"
"Are we ever going to talk about Dad?" And there they were- the words that kept breath from the lungs and tightened knots in the gut.
It had been a week. It had been a week of Mandy coming over and staying way too long. It had been a week of comfortable silences, and the occasional conversation about Ian that never lasted more than a few words.
They had talked about her job, and his job, and movies and every single superficial conversation topic they could think of. They had, however, not talked about the house of horrors, or the blood, or any of the memories.
He thought he would have more than a week.
But, Mandy's staring at him, and the words are just lying there, open on the floor between them, and all Mickey knows is he doesn't want to be having this conversation.
"There's nothing left to talk about." There's a small red stain on the floor beneath Mandy's feet, and Mickey can't remember it ever being there before. But, it's fascinating and holding his gaze and he has never felt more grateful for a penny sized stain before.
"Bullshit. Talk to me Mickey."
"I already told you, there's nothing left to talk about. You said the case was closed."
"So you don't want to talk about the fact that I came home to find dad bloodied and unconscious on the couch? Or how I couldn't find you anywhere? Or how – "
"Mandy. Shut the fuck up. We're not talking about this." He can feel the ants of anxiety begin to crawl up his spine and settle beneath his skin.
"No, Mickey. We have to talk about this."
"No. We don't fuckin' have to do anything."
"Fuck you Mickey. We have to talk about this. You don't just do what you did, and be able to be fine about it."
"It's been over a year Mandy. I'm fine."
That's bullshit, but you know what? Fine. You don't want to talk about what it did to you? What about me? You just left me there Mickey – "
"No. I gave you a fuckin' alibi. I told you to stay with Aunt Rani for the night. You don't think it'd be suspicious as shit, if both of us left town?"
"You should have talked to me Mickey. I could have helped you-"
"Helped me how? You were going through your own shit with dad. I don't remember you ever coming to talk to me about what he was doing to you."
He knows he has her, her silence prickles goose bumps over his skin, until he can trace out a map of the Appalachians, and all of the valleys in between.
"That's not the same thing Mickey." Her voice is quiet and aching, and he can see the confidence she wore into his apartment, start to drip down towards the ends of her fingertips.
"He was hurting you, how is that not the same thing?"
"Ya, but what was happening to you was rape. You know that right Mickey?" He can't meet her gaze, because the truth has never been beautiful or whole. The fuckers who came up with the truth will set you free, clearly never spent a night in the confines of his ugly truth.
His broken and jagged and slightly dirty truth.
But her truth, he knows, is no different. They have been in the same cage, beaten and weakened by the same captor, for years.
"The same thing was happening to you, Mandy."
She doesn't say anything, but Mickey can see something heavy leave her shoulders.
And she's uncurling herself, from her place at the counter, and is walking over to where he's sitting on the floor. Still unspeaking, she sits in front of him, with her long legs stretched out in front of her – Mickey always thought she could have been a dancer – until her tips of her feet touch his own.
Neither of them say anything, and Mickey can hear the quiet drip-drip-drip of the shower, and the buzz of the vacant sign across the street.
It's the kind of silence that normally makes Mickey want to scream and cry all in the same breath. But the soles of Mandy's feet against his own, ground him and cause the guilt and the regret and the hurt to slowly loosen their grip.
And so, they both sit there, with Mandy pressing her heels against Mickey's in hopes of taking some of his ache away.
Mickey feels sick.
It's the kind of sick that bubbles in your gut, and makes your heart run marathons. He thinks it's the alcohol, but the sober part of him knows it's probably the knowledge that he might see Ian tonight.
He is cursing Mandy for inviting him to her birthday but mostly he is cursing his inability to say no to his only sister. If it weren't for her, he wouldn't have had to drown in bottles of Jack, just to be able to breathe through the anxiety that was getting to see Ian again.
He had been successful at avoiding Ian for almost a month since their last conversation, learning his schedule by memorizing the sound of shutting doors, and rattling keys. It wasn't like he couldn't leave his apartment when he pleased. It was just that he found himself waiting and counting seconds after he heard doors shuts and locks click, before he allowed himself to grab his coat and leave his apartment.
Mickey wishes he had said no. It wasn't like Mandy would've remembered him showing up anyways, the bitch could barely remember her own name after a single shot.
She was also, a lot louder after a shot.
"Mickey!" His sister is barrelling towards him through the crowd of people and Mickey is pretty sure he knows what's about to happen. He is pretty sure, no he is positive; no amount of alcohol could prepare him for what he is bracing himself for.
New York had changed her.
Affection was definitely not in the Milkovich vocabulary, especially affection towards each other. And so when her arms swing around his neck and her thin body presses itself into his for a hug, his hands awkwardly encircle her back, while his face, he is sure, holds the most uncomfortable grimace.
"Bitch, get off me, we aren't the fuckin' Brady bunch."
It is too warm in the bar, and there are too many people, and Mickey can't see Ian - which he has convinced himself, is a good thing, because he isn't sure if the booze settling into his empty gut would be able to stay down if he did see him.
"Fuck you. It's my birthday and I'm happy you could make it! I want you to meet everybody!" And then, Mickey is being dragged by the arm to a corner of the bar. It's dimly lit and he can barely see- hell he can barely hear as Mandy begins to shout introductions at him.
He'll blame it on the music later if anyone asks him about it, but in truth, his heart is pumping blood so quickly past his ears, and Mickey can't hear anything except for Ian's thundering heartbeat.
Because sitting in the corner, squished between two girls in next to nothing, looking up at him, his eyes holding some sort of silent dare, is Ian. And Mickey, having memorized the dictionary of Ian Gallagher looks, knows the translation.
Are you done running yet?
Even in their gazes, there is a fight for dominance, each one willing the other to lower their gaze first. It's Mickey this time that looks away first, partly because he can hear Mandy, somehow through the music and blood rushing past his ears, shout his name.
Mostly, though it's because the time away has made him soft and he's not sure how transparent his face is, and there isn't enough time for him to relearn how to wear the mask the Southside had given him.
"MICK!" She's holding out her hand out expectantly, one foot already pointing towards the center of the club where a group of people are writhing and withering in some twisted and perverted pre-mating dance. Mickey knows exactly what she wants and he wants absolutely no part in it.
But suddenly, it's not just Mandy holding out her hand it's four other girls pushing him towards the dance floor, and farther away from Ian. He glances back before he is too far to see the green in Ian's eyes. Somehow he knows that they're still staring a dare at him.
And the knot in Mickey's gut only twists tighter.
It's been seven thousand, two hundred seconds - now seven thousand, two hundred and one.
It's been seven thousand, two hundred and two seconds of Mickey memorizing and re-memorizing every angle and sharp turn of Ian's face. It's the longest he's ever openly stared at Ian and Ian hasn't met his gaze once.
It's unnerving, Ian's ability to look right through him, without blinking.
But that's always been Ian, calm and calculated on the surface, while brewing a storm underneath it all.
And this is one of those times where Mickey can definitely feel the storm brewing.
Ian's chin is jutted out, challenging Mickey to make a move. But all Mickey can see is Ian and the blood and his own dirty, marked up skin.
And even though the case is closed, and the devil is gone, there is shrapnel and broken glass still falling that play broken memories of a faceless girl and that couch that was too flat and too itchy in the reflection.
It's like the moment after a volcano erupts, where the remnants of what used to be flutter softly from the sky, like dirty broken snowflakes. Except this is his life, and it's been two years since the bomb detonated, and he's still standing in the middle of the street trying to catch all of the falling pieces.
He can feel Ian's gaze hard and insistent and shoot right through him, and Mickey knows he should probably say something. But, Ian looks unbroken and beautiful, and Mickey can't get the word murderer next to his name to seem any less dirty.
It's one step forward, and two steps back, and he's suddenly back to that summer with Ian, where joy and unbridled happiness were laced with fear and self-doubt.
It drowns the small voice in the back of his head that tells him, Ian would understand. Ian could still love you. Ian would still love this ugly part of you. It drowns the voice, pushes its head under the water, and holds its there until the flailing stops and lungs stop trying to reach for air that isn't there.
It's purely survival and instinct, but Mickey can't help but steal one last glance over Ian, before turning around and walking out of the bar without saying a word.
Mickey feels sick.
It's the kind of sick that churns in your stomach and makes your head ache even when all the pain is centered in your gut. He thinks it's the alcohol.
But really it's the cruel, slow crawl of a realization - the realization that he had left Ian there, in the bar, without saying a word. It's the realization that Ian, with his beautiful, beautiful, unmarked skin, could get anyone he laid his eyes on, and he had wanted Mickey.
It's the realization that Mickey doesn't want Ian to have anyone else but him. Broken, dirty and full of untold truths.
The thought of Ian's hands on another man, brings the bile back up to burn his throat.
Then Mickey is downstairs before his brain is able to catch up to his feet, his fists beating out S.O.S. on the door in front of him. It's desperate and insistent, and Mickey can start to feel his fist ache when the door is suddenly swung open.
His fist stops in mid-air, and all he can see are a pair green eyes; the only real clear thing in his current blurry state.
"Mick?"
And then, Mickey is suddenly painfully sober. The sleep that grips the edges of Ian's voice instantly makes Mickey wishes he could crawl into that space along with him.
"Ia-"He's about to tell Ian how his bed is too fucking big, and how the silence is too fucking quiet, and how he can still feel each breath Ian takes; but he can barely get a syllable out. Worse even, he can barely get his diaphragm to contract, to exhale, to breathe out- his lungs are burning for an exhale.
Instead the muscle sits useless and heavy, his brain unable to delegate basic functions, preoccupied and frozen by the sight in front of his eyes.
"Babe, is everything alright?" The owner of the voice is somewhere behind Ian, and Mickey can see parts of him; dark hair, large build, clean hands. But mostly, Mickey can see skin- naked skin that has probably already touched Ian. The acidic bile rising from his stomach is suddenly a very real thing.
And Mickey knows it's not the alcohol at all.
It's a slow motion that happens too quickly. Arms that aren't his own are wrapping themselves around Ian's torso and Mickey can't seem to get his eyes to look anywhere else.
Looking at them wrapped up against each other is like staring at the sun, and Mickey can start to feel the familiar burn at the back of his eyes. The pain is gritty and persistent and blinding.
"Uh – sorry. Wrong apartment." And then he's turning around and retreating back up the stairs to his cave of lonely pillows.
"Mick – wait. Come the fuck on, Mick," he can hear Ian calling down the hallway, but Mickey can't seem to get himself to turn back around. Why stare at your own inadequacy in the face?
It's only in the safety of his own apartment that his stomach contents are retched out of him and into the sink in the kitchen. He barely has time to wipe his face, when he hears a fast knock at the door, and an accompanying, "Mick. Answer the door."
He's still feeling sick and the sink is an awfully comfortable place to be when compared to the door where he knows stands Ian on the other side.
But the knocking doesn't cease, and neither does the yelling, "MICK! Answer the goddamn door."
His stomach is still turning, like tiny fists punching a protest chant in his gut, and he's pretty sure it's safest if he stays by the sink.
"Mick, seriously, answer the door. We need to talk. That wasn't what you thought."
He's scolding the muscle that beats fervently in his chest at the sound of Ian's voice, and is blaming his apparent inability to control his actions when under the influence of alcohol.
This wasn't his plan.
It wasn't his plan to find Ian with another man.
It had taken all of him to convince himself to change his mind, that maybe he and Ian could be melt their parts until they were pieces that could fit again.
But the sight of Ian wrapped up in perfectly unmarked hands, and the smell of something expensive mixed in with sweat, was enough to convince Mickey that it was best to just leave the past alone.
"Mickey, you aren't the only one with secrets." Ian's fists have stopped drumming against his door. The wood muffles the normal clarity of his voice, so that Mickey can barely make out the words from his spot in the kitchen.
"I – what you saw wasn't anything. He's an ex. I don't know why I called him."
Yes, you do. It`s because he`s clean. His skin, his life…his record. I know why you called him. Mickey can feel himself make his way towards the door to make out all of Ian`s words.
"I just thought- I was excited to see you tonight, Mick. And then, at the bar, you looked so good," Ian's words make their way straight to Mickey's gut, "And I just thought we would talk, or something. I only called him –"
Because he's clean and looks perfect next to you. The palms of his hands are pressing hard and desperate against his closed eyes as his back slides against the door. The pressure doing everything but erasing the image of Ian wrapped up in hands that aren't his own.
"– because I thought it would make me miss you less and-"
It looked like it worked.
"– it didn't work Mick. I was in the middle of asking him to leave when you knocked, so-"
That was a stupid Fuckin' idea.
"– please let me in Mick. Just to talk, I promise"
And because the both of them had always been able to feel when the other was about to exhale, Ian's voice is at a bare whisper now, as though he can sense Mickey sitting there on the other side. He can feel his neck involuntarily shift until his cheek is pressed tight against the grain of the door, can feel the heat of Ian's body pressed against the other side of the door his forehead against the wood, his fingertips tracing out the number on the doorframe.
Mickey wonders what they must look like to the rest of the world. The two of them a living contradiction, oil and water, dirty and clean.
He wonders if it looks similar from outside as it does to him from inside. He wonders if maybe he just can't see where his broken parts could fit in with Ian's. Wonders if maybe, Ian has some broken parts too, that are waiting to slide and lock in place with pieces of his.
"Just let me in Mick."
