Author's Note: "Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around." ― Leo Buscaglia
Disclaimer: If I owned any of this, I wouldn't hardly be writing fanfiction about it.
It was better, he had to admit.
"Here, try this one," Ray said, pulling yet another shirt from its hanger and tossing it to his cousin.
The flying flannel sailed easily into Mickey's waiting hands. He smiled. Cousin Ray had a mighty love for plaid shirts. He shrugged out of a scarcely worn dark blue with green graph checks Ray had tossed him a minute ago, in favor of this new garment, a soft white cotton western decorated with thin blue and green squares. "You know who she reminded me of?" he asked his cousin.
"Who?"
"Mrs. Hansen, over on Otto Boulevard. Did you know her? I mowed her lawn for years, for fifty cents and—"
"—and all the milk and cookies you could eat," Ray finished, grinning. He cocked his head to look over at his half-dressed cousin. "How in the world did you get fifty cents out of her? She never gave me more than a quarter."
The younger man's voice took on the lilting, singsong quality that mean he was teasing. "Inflation, cousin. Get's 'em all."
Ray swiped playfully at his cousin's arm, a mock blow only, really the merest touch, but as his fingers connected with Mickey's cotton covered upper arm, their eyes met, and the shared good feeling was as startling as a static electric shock.
"I'm glad you're here, Mickey," Ray said.
A miracle.
"I'm glad, too," Mickey replied gravely.
Shirts, jeans, even hats (with the addition of strategically placed bands of leather to allow them to sit snugly on Mickey's smaller cranium) the two men could share.
But not boots.
"I never expected to be able to fill your boots, cousin."
"We'll go into Braddock for them," Ray decided.
And he meant right then.
Mickey wondered if his introduction to the Ewings made it an impromptu holiday, but wisely forbore to say so. Whatever. He was glad for the change in routine, not to speak of the temporary officially sanctioned release from his ranch duties.
The cousins spent an enjoyable day together for once, the only rough patch of tension coming after they found a sturdy pair of work boots that Ray approved of, and the older man started to pull out his wallet to pay for them.
"I got it, Ray," Mickey told him quietly, pulling out his own wallet.
Ray regarded his young cousin in surprise. "Whaddaya mean 'you got it'? How can you afford—"
The camaraderie they'd shared all afternoon teetered for a moment on the brink of their usual tension.
Mickey still had the money he'd won in the crap game, that's how he could afford it.
Ray took a breath. That was over. It was no use throwing away the progress they'd made. "You don't have to do that," Ray told him. "I can afford it."
"I can buy my own," Mickey repeated, still quietly, but with great firmness.
Ray stared at him, perplexed. He would not have pegged Mickey as too proud to take charity. He'd taken everything else Ray had offered without any such qualms.
Mickey had given the clerk his money, and had the man put his sneakers in the box so he could wear his new footwear out of the store.
As they left, the younger man smiled wryly at his cousin. "Stupid, right?" he admitted. "Hand-me-downs are one thing, but—"
"I understand," Ray assured him. And he did really. They were from the same stock, after all.
And a man looked after himself.
It was an attitude he approved of.
A novel sensation, approving of Mickey.
"Come on," the older man said, grinning affectionately at his stiff-necked young cousin. "You can buy me a beer."
Mickey's brow furrowed questioningly. "I can buy you—"
Ray winked, and explained, "Well, I wouldn't want you to offend you by offering you charity."