A/N: btw I based the character of Alice off of Celia Hodes in Weeds.
Chapter Five: Happy Birthday
Mickey woke up the next morning with a headache from hell. He sat up in bed, rubbing his face hard. Eyes droopy, frowning, and trying not to throw up, Mickey looked over at the nightstand by his bed. The curtains were drawn, but a sliver of light was being a real pain in Mickey's ass. While staring at the digital clock and empty bottle of grape flavored vodka, Mickey reached beside of him, picked up a pillow, and threw it violently behind him, into the window. Which had the opposite effect of what he was going for; only served to let in more light. Growling, Mickey threw the covers from himself and draped his legs over the edge of the bed. He sat there, staring at his feet. A chill came over him, goosebumps breaking out over all of his exposed skin. He scratched the back of his neck and glanced up at the thermostat above the nightstand. The heat had kicked off. A terrible thing, given that Mickey's hotel room was drafty anyway. And what with him only wearing a pair of boxers, Mickey was feeling more than little cold. He looked back longingly at the rumpled up comforter and his mashed in pillow. Were the warmth was. Sighed, gripped his knees, and shoved up to stretch. Crawling back into bed would be great, except Mickey had shit to do, and it was already three o'clock in the afternoon.
"This is bullshit," Mickey mutter to himself as he stepped over, and pressed against the nightstand to fuck with the thermostat. And it wasn't like he could walk down to the front desk and bitch about this. He began spinning the dial quickly, hoping to at least hear some kind of noise irrupt from the unit attached to the window. Nothing. Mickey bared his teeth. His headache pounded. His body shivered. Worse still was that Mickey could hear the rain pouring down outside, and this only made him feel colder. Cussing the thermostat, Mickey began hitting it, lightly at first, and then so hard that it cracked.
"Fuck!" Mickey spat and hit again because no he had broken it. "Piece of crap," he growled at it and ripped the facing from the wall.
Well now he'd done it. Now even if he could manage to get this shitty hotel to come take a look at the thermostat, he would not only have to pay for repairs, but the maintenance person would probably just shrug and say better luck next time. After all, Mickey was staying in a hotel that also rented by the hour. So it was pretty fucking run down. He doubted they really even had a maintenance person.
Staring at the tare he had placed in the wall, at the various wires and such, Mickey held his forehead. He glanced down at the the broken thermostat by his feet. Pursing his lips, he gave up and stepped over the trash. Beside of his bed, in a wrinkled up pile, were his clothes from yesterday. He put those on and ran a hand through his hair, looking at himself in the scummy mirror on the opposite wall. He looked like he'd been hit by a truck. Of course, Mickey figured he kind of always looked like that. Too tired. Unkept. In a constant state of angry face. Was why he didn't really like mirrors. They made him actually look at himself, and Mickey didn't usually like what was staring back at him.
He looked away quickly, then over at the suitcase in the corner. The things inside of the suitcase were sloppily hanging out of it. His coat was hung up on the wall lamp above it. He went over and put that one, which helped with his being cold only a little. Probably because the coat itself felt like it had been kept in a freezer over night. Which it kind of had. Mickey reached into the pocket and pulled out his rolled up gloved. Put those on, then actually looked at his hands.
"Christ!" he hissed, rolling his eyes and pulling the blood stained gloves back off and placed them back in his pocket.
His hands actually ached and were turning pink from the temperature in this room. So with haste, Mickey bent down and grabbed up all of the clothes hanging from his suitcase, stuffed them inside better, then zipped it up and grabbed it by the handle. With that, he stormed out of his room, locked it behind him, and figured three months was long enough to not do laundry.
Aside from being a shithole, Mickey's hotel had great placement. Just up the block was a grocery store, the El entrance, and a laundromat. He trudged the street toward the laundromat, passing the J and S Cafeteria on his way. Mickey stopped for a second, looking into the window at the handful of people inside. It was just the usuals; the homeless man, the pimp and his whore, the mailman, the woman was pretty sure had to be deaf, and of course, the waiter, Ian. Mickey frowned as his eyes landed on Ian. The kid was standing behind the counter, leaning back on it with his elbows, looking up at the clock on the wall. Mickey envied the relaxed look on Ian's face for about the hundredth time. Then knitted his brow because of the black eye he noticed. The busted lip. Mickey hummed curiously in the back of his throat. Watched Ian lick his scabbed up mouth, worrying the wound absently. Found himself wondering what the kid did outside of working this dump. But only briefly. Mickey shook himself when he realized he was staring, and continued on his way.
After tossing his clothes into the washer, taking a piss in the muffed up bathroom, tossing the clothes then into the dryer, and scaring the shit out of two kids who had attempted stealing Mickey's suitcase while he was outside smoking, Mickey gathered up his things and left. He had about ten minutes before his meet up with Alice at the cafeteria. Mickey was glad to be getting paid something today. He was all out of coffee and now smokes.
When he walked into the cafeteria, Mickey didn't bother looking around. Just sat at his booth, glad for the absence of the pimp. Only the whore sat behind him, and somehow that didn't bother Mickey; her maybe overhearing. He sat his suitcase of top of the table as quietly as possible, given his head was still pounding. His temples felt like they were on fire. He rubbed them and looked out the window. Alice, much to Mickey's surprise and pleasure, was walking by it as he turned to look out. But he furrowed his brow at the package she was carrying. Stared in awe as she entered with it, spotted Mickey, and came to sit down across from him. She looked so guilty and obvious. Mickey groaned. He pointed at the package. "What is that?" he asked bluntly, voice aggravated.
Alice, who was in yet another dress-suit, lifted the package and sat it on the table. She too stared at it. It in all of its glory. A foot long box, wrapped in blue and orange gift paper and silver tinsel. A card strapped to the front of it with fancy string. Alice scrunched her face, unsure of herself.
Mickey held his face, trying his damnedest not to grab the package and beat the bitch with it. "What is wrong with you?" he murmured into his hand, slowly dragging it down his face and staring at Alice over his knuckles.
"You said to conceal it."
Mickey's blanched and he threw his hands up at the remark. Fucking idiot. This woman was a blithering moron. Mickey had had half a mind to drop the deal himself. If not for needing money so badly.
Alice looked startled at Mickey's abrupt reaction. Apparently realizing that maybe bringing the package had been bad enough, that perhaps she ought not have said that at all, much less so loudly. She trust the package over to Mickey, apologizing.
He seethed, grabbed the package from Alice harshly, and began stuffing it into his suitcase.
"What now?" Alice asked as Mickey zipped up his suitcase and looked angrily out the cafe window.
Mickey felt his face twisting. Felt his eyes grow twice their size. Knew he was gripping the suitcase hard enough that his hand was probably turning funny colors. "Leave, Alice," he said tightly. And hoped she would. His temper was on edge, more so than usual, given his headache had just been made all that much worse by her stupidity.
"But Allen?"
"Leave," Mickey spat. "I'll call you when it's done."
And as he continued staring out the window, breathing heavily, Mickey heard her stand. Her heels clicking across the floor. Finally caught sight of her walking across the street. It took about ten minutes after she left for Mickey's stomach to settle. Though he still thought that punching something might make him feel better. And he sighed, closing his eyes and finally pulling his face from the window. Only to jump slightly at the sight before him. The fucking redheaded punk, standing beside of Mickey's bench, arms crossed, eyes searching Mickey, full of a gleam Mickey knew was curiosity. Mickey looked up at Ian, brows knitting together, frowning a little. Did this kid think Mickey had an interest in being friends? Mickey fucking hoped not. He'd hate to crush this guy's dreams. Mickey didn't have friends. Would never have friends. Friends complicated things. Hell, knowing people well in general complicated things. "What?" Mickey asked gruffly. Hand still laying across his suitcase, protective.
Ian looked down at Mickey's hand, a crease forming between his brows and chewing his bottom lip. He uncrossed his arms, standing there open. Seeming oddly vulnerable and making Mickey feel uncomfortable, though the kid was obviously unaware of the fact. "You stopped coming in to torment me," Ian said matter-of-fact.
Mickey raised his brows and shrugged rudely. "I got bored," he stated, watching Ian scrutinize the suitcase.
Ian grinned some, breathed a laugh through his flared nostrils, and dropped down into the bench on the other side of Mickey's booth. "You think I'm boring?" Ian asked after he sat down and began picking absently at a peeling piece of the table top, where the menu had been. His eyes never left Mickey's suitcase. The grin stretched a little. Mickey thought maybe this kid was crazier than Mickey himself. Ian finally freed the piece of table top and flicked it. The rolled up junk drifted and stopped in front of Mickey, who looked down at it, confused and wanting to leave suddenly. "Well," Ian began again, confident, grin gone, and Mickey noted the fucker was still looking at the suitcase, wondered where this conversation was heading, "I don't think you're boring. You seem interesting."
Mickey's face relaxed and his picked his back teeth with his tongue, a habit he'd had since childhood. Laughed a little without smiling. "I'm not," Mickey said bluntly, even.
"Boring or interesting?" Ian countered, casually, voice there but distant all the same, cocking a brow. Mulling something over.
Mickey feared what was going through this guy's head. But decided he would play along for now. "Interesting," Mickey said, staring hard at Ian's thoughtful face. Watched as Ian's grin came back.
Finally Ian looked up at him and said, "No one ever thinks they are. If they do, it's because they really aren't."
Mickey stared for a moment, not breaking eye contact. He felt a tug at his lips. This kid was nuts and Mickey didn't know if it was in a bad way. Certainly Ian was in fact, not boring. Mickey shook his head, let the glimmer of a grin drift over his face and fall. "You have a fucked up view of what's interesting, Ian" he said, head tilted.
Ian blinked, shrugging and leaning back in the bench. "Oh yeah?" the kid chirped.
Mickey looked away and over at the prostitute as she stood up and made her way toward the restroom. Ian's gaze followed Mickey's until they both looked back at one another. Mickey scooted his suitcase closer to him, let it slid into his lap, and began standing. Like magnets, Ian's big eyes followed. Mickey looked down at Ian, suitcase in one hand, the other hand deep in his pocket, toying with the gloves and empty packet of smokes. All of this was strange. Mickey figured he hadn't intended to spark whatever the fuck was happening between him and the waiter. Had just wanted to screw with the kid's head because that's what Mickey did for shits and giggles. It had backfired. This kid had nerve hidden beneath that kidish exterior. So he stared at Ian, features turning to a frown. Then, without a word, turned on his heel and began walking away.
Mickey only took one step before Ian's cocky voice rang out behind him, asking, "Is it your birthday?"
Something about the way Ian asked it told Mickey the fucker knew damn well it wasn't Mickey's god damned birthday. Mickey knew the kid had seen the package exchange for sure now, if he hadn't thought so before. Without turning back around, Mickey said no, it wasn't his birthday. Maybe he should have just said it was to get the kid off his back. Mickey didn't why he had told the truth without so much as blinking. It was careless.
"Somebody die?" Ian asked in that same knowing tone.
Slowly, Mickey looked over his shoulder at Ian's indifferent face. No one should have put two-and-two together so quickly. Probably because no one had even paid that much attention to Mickey unless they were a cop. This kid wasn't a cop. And Mickey didn't know what to make of the situation. So he went with it. "Something like that," he said, glaring hard at Ian. He stood there and Ian staid put. They stared and everything was quite between them. Except on Mickey's part. His temples were pounding up a storm. He needed a drink to quell his hangover.
As they remained statuesque, the restroom door flung open and the prostitute stepped out, rubbing her nose and sniffling. Mickey glanced at her as she approached him, excusing herself past. Saw the powder beneath her painted finger nails. Then looked back at Ian because the whore was on her way out. Mickey knitted his brow at Ian, who was still staring after the woman, an odd look on his freckled face. Weird fucking kid. Mickey let his eyes roam over Ian curiously. "See ya," Mickey suddenly heard himself say. His voice caught Ian's attention. Because for some reason he had wanted it back on him. Ian nodded, and watched Mickey leave.
Once outside, Mickey made the mistake of looking back to the window of the cafeteria. Even from his distance, now all the way at the crosswalk, Mickey saw Ian still sitting at the booth. The redhead was stooped over the table top, holding his face in his hands, looking out the window. Mickey couldn't be sure, but he thought maybe Ian was watching him. Quickly, Mickey crossed and made his way to the hotel to ready for his hit. Trying not to think too hard on he'd just experienced.
