A/N: FYI the premise for this story has changed. As is obvious by the new summary. So if you'd like to not be confused, go back and skim of the end of chapter one again. Or wing it. Your choice.
Enjoy.
Chapter Three: Cornered
The hotel Mickey now lived in was a block from the cafeteria, home of the shittiest coffee Mickey had ever had. Lately, he made it a point to go into that cafeteria with a glass of his home-made iced coffee. Just to sit there and slurp it loudly while staring at that teen-aged waiter who apparently still remembered Mickey from his first visit with that woman, Karen-not-Katelyn. Even though it had been a month since then. Mickey never bought anything, just sat there in a window booth, amusing himself. In his mind, this exchange with the waiter, whose name was Ian, was the most fun he had experienced in years. The kid was probably sixteen or so. Probably still being weened off his mother. Mickey pictured them as a kind of withdrawn pair of mortal enemies, forever in a silent war over who would be the first to break. Mickey always figured Ian would break first. Would finally quit with the death glares, grow a pair, and come over to slap Mickey's coffee from his hands. Maybe pour the coffee in the dirty looking pitcher down his throat until Mickey drowned from it. Ian looked the passive aggressive type. And Mickey fancied himself good at reading most people. It kind of came with the territory of growing up as he had.
Presently, Mickey sat at his booth, starring over at Ian above the rim of his glass, straw tucked between his lips. Half-way finished with his coffee. Most of the ice was melted by now. Because he drank it slow. Was doddling tonight because he had nothing better to do with his time. He watched Ian go into the kitchen, the doors swinging closed behind him. He came back, drying his hands off on a paper-towel before handing over a check to one of the only other people sitting in this shit-hole at closing hour. As the redhead stood back up, smiling at the old man sweetly and laughing at some joke which was probably stupid, Ian glanced over at Mickey. Mickey smirked against the straw, holding the kid's stare. Ian broke eye contact and stomped over to the counter. Rummaged through the register, counting out the old man's change. Of which Ian would probably only see a few cents, if any, as his tip. Mickey's eyes followed Ian faithfully. He tapped his fingers on the table top.
Ian was tall. Probably around six feet four inches. Taller than Mickey. But then, a lot of people were. Ian, though, he was too tall for a teen. And if he was going to be that tall, Mickey thought Ian ought to have been too skinny and have lanky arms as well, with a permanent puss face. So that the guy could at least model. Tall people should always be models, Mandy had used to say. Kind of dramatic, really.
And not only was Ian tall, but the kid was build broad. Like a fucking amazon. And he might have even been attractive. But then, Mickey didn't really think in those terms. Hadn't really ever found much any anyone to be attractive in all senses of the words. Here and there, bits and pieces. But never as a whole. Once when he was younger, Mickey had grown an interest in a singer for a band he liked. But the thoughts had made him uncomfortable with himself. Because the person was male. So Mickey had stopped listening to the band all together. Since then, Mickey hadn't really allowed himself room to think that way again. And was kind of annoyed that he had gone there with this gingered punk.
He watched Ian hand over the money and laugh at another comment. The guy was fishing for a tip hard with this old man. In fact, Ian had been fishing hard with every customer to have come and gone within the hour of Mickey's sitting. Come to think of it, the kid's usually relaxed face was hardened with stress. Mickey knitted his brow, examining the aspect he hadn't paid attention to until now. One thing he was fond of about Ian was how the guy always looked refreshed. Something Mickey wasn't capable of. Tonight Ian had dark circles under his green eyes, a droop to his lips, and creases between his brows. Mirrored Mickey's always expression. And Mickey didn't know why he gave a shit what was eating Ian. Why the fuck it bothered Mickey. After all, the kid was basically a stranger. He only knew Ian's name because he'd paid enough attention to his name tag for once, just last week.
Ian tugged loose his auburn hair from the ridiculous looking visor that was apparently part of the company uniform. But only for a minute, then push it back up. He stood off to the side, out in the open, not really paying attention to anything besides re-adjusting the visor. Until Ian looked up and saw Mickey staring at him still. He then rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. Stormed off to the kitchen again.
Mickey sighed and looked down at his coffee, stopping his drinking momentarily. He licked the bit of moisture still on his bottom lip and looked down at the menu taped down to the table top. The cafeteria was strange. All of the tables had menus taped to them. And the waitress or waiter always came over without a pad to write on, and just took the order from memory. Not like the list of food choice was long. So Mickey guessed that was what made the job of waiting tables here easy. Plus the place was usually pretty empty. He stared at the options, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Eyes drinking in the side orders.
When Ian finally came back out, Mickey turned out to be the one to break the cycle. The teenager jumped, having been heading to the restroom with his back turned, when Mickey tapped his shoulder once, a little too hard. More like a slap, really. Gasping as he spun around, Ian stared at Mickey, slack jawed. His eyes looked Mickey over quickly, assessing. Ian's arms were up over his torso in defense. Eventually Ian scowled, asking Mickey, voice full of bitterness, if he could help him with something.
Mickey shrugged, holding up the menu he had cut free from the table with his pocket knife. "I'm hungry," he said simply, jiggling the paper about.
Ian took a small step back and crossed his arms. He rolled his eyes, huffing. "Well we stopped serving fifteen minutes ago," Ian informed Mickey, unamused, clearly thinking Mickey was fucking with him. He looked away from Mickey's face to the menu. "And that's technically vandalism," Ian said, pursing his mouth.
"Couldn't read it very well taped down," Mickey said, licking the crook of his mouth.
Ian rolled his eyes again. "Doesn't matter because the cook already fucking left," he bit, surprising Mickey with the sudden attitude, then turned tail and went into the rest room.
Mickey couldn't stop himself from grinning after Ian had gone. He glanced back at the last two people leaving the cafeteria. Every night, upon closing, it was always just Ian and the dishwasher. Who Mickey had always thought might have been the cook. Apparently not. Though he didn't remember seeing a cook leave. Must have gone out the back way. He stood there, waiting. Looking back at the menu, still grinning a little as he gnawed his lower lip, then spat a piece of dead skin. His coat and glass of coffee sat alone at his booth, and Mickey looked over at them once, then back to the restroom door. Wasn't sure what he was even doing. Lumped it down to his being bored out of his skull. He scratched his head, raising his brows once and then wadding up the menu. Tossed the piece of yellow paper at the restroom door, then stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The action must have gotten Ian's attention because the restroom door flung open and the redhead stood there against the frame, scowling at Mickey.
"What do you want, you creep?" Ian growled lowly, whispering as he looked over at the kitchen door. "Ten seconds and Kash will be out here with a shotgun to blow your guts away," he threatened, looking back at Mickey, eyes hard.
Mickey barked out a blunt laugh. "Really?" he asked. "All of my guts?"
Ian looked uncertain how to respond, finally settled for looking down at the crumpled up menu by his sneakered feet.
"I'll need them, though," Mickey said, thumbing his bottom lip, "to digest the eggs I'd like to order."
Ian laughed without mirth, shook his head as he tilted it back, hands on his hips now. "You know what," Ian began, still looking up, "if it will make you leave, I'll cook you some eggs my damn self."
"Whatever works," Mickey said, face still indifferent. He fought not to laugh at himself for this.
Fifteen minutes later, Mickey sat at his booth, coffee drained, coat on, working on his ketchup drowned eggs. Ian stood at his booth, propping himself up with one arm, staring down at Mickey, his freckled face hard to read for once. Mickey put down his fork, swallowing his first bite of the eggs, and looked back at Ian. "Just remembered," Mickey said, serious, getting kind of sleepy being as it was after midnight, "I hate eggs." And he was being honest. Eggs reminded Mickey of Mandy. Mickey hadn't actually eaten eggs since the day of her funeral, two years prior.
Ian blanched. Stared at Mickey, blinking. Ian's face twisted. He snorted, obviously surprised at his own reaction, and covered his mouth. Then burst into laughter. Ian turned around, hiding his face completely. Mickey watched the kid's back shake from the laughter. Mickey licked the ketchup from the side of his thumb as he watched Ian.
The door to the kitchen opened and the dishwasher, a slender, middle eastern man in his forties, graying already by his ears, stepped out, confused. "Everything okay, Ian?" Kash asked, peering at Mickey.
Mickey sucked away the ketchup, keeping his eyes keen on Ian as the kid finally turned around, hand still cupping his mouth. The creases by his eyes were a dead give away that Ian was smiling. Mickey thought it was interesting that he had solicited this kind of a reaction out of the kid who seemed to find Mickey's very presence annoying.
"Everything's fine," Ian said, the amusement thick in his voice. He pulled his hand away from his mouth, a grin stretched across his goofy face.
Kash untied his apron and tossed it over the counter top beside of him. He straightened out his black sweats and looked between Mickey and Ian. "You going to be all right if I go on?" he asked. "It's getting late. I'm supposed to be home by now. Linda is probably worried." Mickey didn't miss the strange glare he was getting from Kash. Wondered at it only briefly.
Ian looked over at Mickey, who was half watching him, half looking over at Kash. Then turned his attention back to Kash. Ian nodded, waving the dishwasher away, saying, "I'll lock up. See you tomorrow."
Which was how Mickey ended up with Ian sitting across from him, watching Mickey eat the eggs, despite the previous claim. Ian had sat down almost as soon as Kash left. Had gone over to lock the door, and had then sat down without even asking. Mickey ate almost all of the eggs. Ian never said a word. Just watched. When Mickey was finished, Ian stood up, stretched, and waited while Mickey gathered up his glass and stood up beside of him. They left the plate sitting on the table and walked out together, Mickey the first out the door. And Mickey wasn't sure why he hung back and watched Ian lock up. But he did.
Sniffing and standing there facing Ian, Mickey suddenly felt a little awkward. He guessed because he was sleepy, and Mickey's guard always went down too much when he was tired. Looking over Ian's gray and white uniform shirt, Mickey was all too aware that Ian was staring back at him and rocking on his heels. Finally Mickey met Ian's eyes, thumbing his lower lip.
"See you tomorrow?" Ian asked, grinned like he fucking knew Mickey well or something.
Mickey shrugged. "Yeah," he said casually, "whatever." And without another word, broke eye contact and trotted across the street in need of his uncomfortable hotel mattress.
The cycle had been broken. Mickey wasn't sure how he felt about this.
