A/N: Set during the end of S22E45: One Man's Meat when Mickey gets into the fight at the pub after struggling to tell Mia about Delaney when the journalist rakes over old wounds. Dialogue in italics come from the episode.

He told Mia he was going home but he just can't face it.

Four empty walls and only the memory of Delaney to keep him company.

No thanks.

The Crown Inn is much more appealing.

Mickey knocks his drink back in one. He can't remember how many he's had now. He goes to rest his arm against the bar and slips sluggishly.

Out of the corner of his eye he catches the burly bloke staring at him again.

It makes his skin crawl.

"What's wrong with you mate ey? What you looking at me for? what's wrong with you?"

The question is thick with scotch and anger.

Underpinned with fear.

He's yelling at him to behave but he doesn't care. He wants to know why he won't stop looking.

What can he see?

He wants to know.

Does he see a victim?

A target?

Why won't he just talk to him?

The bloke turns his back and Mickey grapples for him angrily.

"I said I was talkin' to you-"

The push is a hard one that sends Mickey flying backwards but now there's adrenaline as well as fear and irritation, and he scuffles.

The bloke is bigger, more sober, his punch has weight behind it and it hurts. Mickey finds himself in the arms of the bouncers and struggles wildly slurring protests as they drag him from the pub.

He lands on the pavement hard as they unceremoniously dump him out and mutters a curse as he drags himself to his feet.

He lets out a hiss of pain.

Everything aches from the impact.

He touches his face with trembling fingers and finds them sticky with blood.

A throbbing under his eye where the fist made contact.

The graze on his cheek stings but its a good hurt.

A real hurt.

One that will fade and heal in a few days.

Not like the one inside.

The one that won't go away no matter what he does.

No matter how much he drinks.

That wound goes nowhere.

Just resurfaces every time he thinks he's forgotten.

Every time he gets back on track something derails him.

Every new relationship it hangs over him like a cloud, festering everything good.

It rots away deep inside.

Lurking. Waiting.

Constantly picked at.

By journalists and their stupid bloody questions.

By Jack and his talk about victims and their partners and their understanding when he can't even get the words out of his mouth to tell Mia.

He can't hold the tears back and splutters against his fingers.

His sob weak and fractured under the streetlight.

He's pathetic.

He fumbles in his pocket for his phone, scrolls down to Jack's name.

Cn I talk 2 u?

He stares down at the blinking curser his thumb quivering over the send button.

He ain't the surrogate son.

It wrecked his life the first time.

He deletes the text and staggers for home in the dark.

God, he hates himself.