Archive of Our Own

Sand pillows around him in divots, shifting to accommodate where he reaches his hands into it. The grains are cold, damp if he sinks his fingers deep enough. They’re hard, running in a coarse wash over his skin. He grips a handful, ripping it from the ground and holding it in front of his face, watching as the sand cascades and falls into his lap. He lets it go, lets it collect and bury itself into the denim of his jeans. He’s fascinated with it, with the way the sand flows like water but feels hard as a brick if he squeezes it. 

The sky is slowly lightening, the dark of the night slinking behind the ocean. In comparison with the heat of the day, there’s a chill in the air, in the light breeze. It brushes his hair and strokes his cheek and makes him shiver, the disembodied touch empty. His eyes sting when it slaps him across the face, burning and freezing all at once. 

While his hands rummage through the sand, looking for some purpose which he’ll never find, Mickey watches the sea. The tide steps a tentative foot forward and then retreats as if afraid, only to return moments later. Water that is bitter and swarmed with salt overlaps itself, folds itself over and never fills the same space. It’s bleak, the repetitiveness. Mickey wavers between a desolate longing to become a part of the waves, to belong there, root his soul in the ocean or to be grateful for his humanity. The sea lacks the ability to die, to appreciate anything, to do anything but brush against the shore but never completely reside there. It’s stuck, trapped and doomed to bob in a gentle wind and rage in a storm for eternity. There’s no release and no feeling, no appreciation for the sunrise or the sunset or a blissful afternoon or a calm night. He, at least, has the kindness of mortality. Options, freedom. He has the capability of remembrance, so that he can recall when the sun shone and heated his shoulders even when winter has spread like a virus. 

When he finally gets up, his bones will snap and creak and remind him that he is impermanent. He will leave an imprint in the sand until it is washed away. 

But for now, he allows himself to rest. With the whiskey bottle in his hand, he can sink into the grief that haunts him. The sun begins to brush its fingers at the seam between the ocean and the sky, painting it with streaks of colour. Pinks, golds, yellows, oranges spill from it and cover the blue canvas. Mickey has never been one to appreciate beauty in the natural world, but even he can understand the attraction of the extravagance. Compared to the astounding magnificence of a sunrise, he is nothing. The ocean is so wide, expanding so far that he can’t see the edge of it. Sitting here is like sitting on the cliff of the world, looking out into a deep abyss. 

If he were to take a small boat on those waves, how far could he get? How long until the ocean raged and swallowed him? Buried its teeth into him and filled his lungs with something he can’t breathe? 

Whiskey is not a good substitute for the warmth of love. Mickey learnt it long ago, and yet it’s the closest thing he’s ever found. There’s a solace in the pain of swallowing it, something deserved and cruel which satisfies his soul for a moment. He enjoys the feeling of swimming in numbness, leans into the lack of comprehension. 

Whiskey is not a good substitute for the warmth of love, but alcohol is said to heal wounds external and internal. Perhaps if it were just a scratch, it might be helpful, but it’s certainly not alleviating any of the torment befalling his heart now. 

Mickey doesn’t look beside himself, at the lacking space. Instead, he stares ahead at the gurgling water. There’s no need to look to check - he knows he’s alone. 

The thought of being here was always a comforting one when he was alone in a cell. Dreams of sunny beaches and margaritas and sunglasses kept him alive. And he’d thought that even alone, it would be better than the confinement of barred windows and walls of concrete. A metal palace. There’s nothing that feels better about this. Everything around him is bleak, and even the ocean rolls like it’s in mourning. 

He can’t find anything good inside of him. It’s all bitter. All the memories, those pesky things swarming him, feel stained with pain. When he and Ian were young they were in love, but Ian grew up. Despite toxic soil, he flourished and moved on. Mickey didn’t have the space for it. And now he feels pathetic and juvenile for even daring to consider that Ian might still want him. Of course he doesn’t. What was he thinking? Mickey was just a puppy kind of love for him - practice, teenage practice, for him to know what a relationship was like. More likely, what a relationship shouldn’t be like. 

Here, like this, drunk and disorientated, Mickey lets himself grieve. Two days, he’ll allow himself. He’s entering the second, and then he’ll figure out what comes next. 

All he wanted was Ian, but he understands why Ian needs more than that. Mickey thinks he would be able to survive on Ian’s air alone, but Ian has always needed more. His despair has no ointment, no healing balm besides the swimming drink. All he wanted was to love and be loved, as gay as it is. He wanted it when he was young, and grew never to hope for it. Cruel, then, that Ian showed him it and then showed him out to live without it again. It’s harder to remember how to cope. 

Ian was never going to come. 

He could have told Mickey that. Mickey would have let him come to the border, he thinks. He would have been able to brace himself before the crash, rather than being blindsided by the abandonment. Embarrassment chews him up only to spit him back out again, as he remembers the border once more. Standing there in a dress, like an idiot, full of hope, only to be gently let down. Ian’s good, he didn’t want to hurt him. Tried to be kind about it, but Mickey understands the message. He should have from the beginning, shouldn’t have even tried, shouldn’t have expected anything.

Mickey used to be independent, living without a care at all about anyone else. Everything he wanted or needed, he could get himself. On the drive to where he is, he threw self preservation out of the window and let it be crushed by the wheels of great trucks. 

When did Ian teach him that he was worthy of love? When did Ian show him how good it felt? 

Mickey wants that. He wants to be loved, but he’s alone. Was there something he could have done differently? If he ever gets Ian back, he’ll make sure he doesn’t do anything to fuck it up again. He’d be different, whatever Ian wanted. And he’s a fool, he reminds himself bitterly. They’ve always pushed and pulled like the tide, so Mickey’s grown to think that there’s going to be another chance. This time, there’s no next time. There’s no if he gets Ian back. 

Mexico is permanent. A no refunds kind of choice. 

Maybe he could drink himself dead. He’d have to drink more than just the remainder of this bottle, that’s for sure. Eventually, though, he could drink so much that his blood would become toxic and his liver would give out. Then he’d die, on this beach, ruining the view. He’d become paler, almost green, and his hair would be ratted with sand. His body would stiffen. A stray dog would probably find him before any people do. A stray, starving dog would take a bite out of him before even it realised that he’s not worth it. Or maybe if it was starving enough it wouldn’t care. Maybe a whole pack of dogs would find him and destroy his corpse before the people did. And then the people would, and they’d get a good look at his half-eaten face and call some authority. That authority would come and speak over his lifeless body in a language he wouldn’t be able to comprehend. They’d find fake IDs but nothing real, and they’d know nothing about who he is. They’d bury him in an unmarked grave and no one would hear a thing about it. 

Somehow, that thought is more horrifying than the thought of walking the world like he’s got one foot out the door for the rest of his life. He doesn’t want the permanence of death, would much rather the unpredictable morality he’s found himself in. 

Mickey wonders if people have souls. If there’s a whole line of souls waiting at the gates of maternity wards, excited and nervous about getting the chance to live, love, be happy and be sad. He wonders if any of them have been alive before and yet still choose to live again. He wonders if his soul was once waiting at the door of his house for his mother to give birth, and he wonders if it was excited about it. He wonders if his soul chose this, or if there was another alternative. He wonders if his soul knew what it was getting into before it made the choice. He guesses that souls probably know a lot, so it probably did. Despite everything, Mickey feels like his soul chose this life. 

The thought is peaceful, like there’s something for him once he does die. A chance for a redo, or for some other thing that souls do. 

If his soul chose this, fuck-ups and pain and all, then there’s something blissful about living it. Not ending it too soon. Giving his soul the chance to be human. 

But if there are next lives, Mickey thinks he’ll be a dog next. 

———

The beach was peaceful compared to the city of Culiacán. Mickey has no idea where that fucking beach was - only that it was somewhere desolate and no one batted an eye at the homeless drunkard who sat in the same place for two days straight. 

The afternoon is blistering with heat, the sun scorching his arm where he’s propped it against the open window. It’s worth it for the cool wind hitting his elbow as he drives. Mickey has his sun visor down, blocking the worst of the glare hitting his eyes. Traffic is bad in this part of town, and he isn’t getting very far. That’s okay, though. He has some time. 

It took him only a few hours inside of this freshly stolen car to realise that the air conditioner is broken beyond belief, leaving the metal can to swelter and make him sweat. He only has the radio, which plays music mostly plays music in Spanish. There’s the occasional American pop song to make his ears bleed, so annoying and over-played. Pop was never his genre, and he definitely prefers the foreign music because at least he doesn’t have to hear what they’re droning on about. 

In front of him, the traffic stills to a halt again, red brake lights clogging up the road. Mickey scratches his jaw, feeling his stubble coming through, then reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the passenger seat. The carton is crushed and all the warnings are in Spanish, but it’s the same Morley’s brand he knows. With one hand loose on the steering wheel, he tucks one between his lips and a second behind his ear for quick access and then lights the one in his mouth. The nicotine and tobacco fills his mouth, and he listens to the crackle of the burning paper as he takes a breath of it. Smoke billows out and steams up the car. 

Mickey phoned his father from his burner at the end of his time at the beach. 

He’d sat in his old stolen car and flipped through the stack of money that Ian had left for him. Thumbed through the cash and felt the absence in his chest. He remembers the anger and appreciation, the two schools of thought warring in his mind, clashing swords and brandishing guns. He had battled and torn himself up over the money, eyes flickering between the cash and the bin at the side of the car park. 

In a moment of rage, one side won, and he’d piled out of the car in a rush. Mickey had stumbled to the bin and stuck his hand in the mouth of it, about to drop the money into its belly. Something made him hesitate, some counter attack from the other side of his mind. It asked him who he had become, to throw away money over some heartbreak. Is that who he was? He’d been taught to get cash in any way he knew how, and he was going to throw it away? Like a stupid, pathetic little bitch?

Just because Gallagher broke his heart, doesn’t mean that Mickey has to lose his brain as well. 

So he’d taken his hand from the bin and sat back in the car, angrily chucking it into the glove compartment. Just as angry, he flipped open his burner and dialled Terry’s number. 

The man hadn’t changed since Mickey last saw him, when Terry tried to murder him for being gay. He seemed not to remember that, though, and only called him a faggot twice. 

“Can you get me a fucking job or not, dad?” Mickey had asked, sounding much like those spoilt rich brats when they realise that there’s a world beyond Daddy’s money. He was playing into the cards of nepotism, relying on his father’s success in illegal business. It was twisted, almost laughable, how similar he was in that moment to the filthy rich. The only difference was the nature of the work. 

“I’ll see about it. Y’know, it’s a tricky job, escaping from max. Can’t believe you’ve not been picked up.” 

Mickey had felt his eyes watering unwarranted. It was ridiculous to cry because his father had some semblance of pride in his voice. Fucked up, too, that Terry chose that to be proud of. He hadn’t replied. 

“I got some contacts down there, could use you for some shit. Would help me out, too, been needing some more coming in.”

If Mickey’s lining Terry’s pockets with money, he’s got a use to him. 

“Think you might’ve met this guy once. He’ll give ya a call.” 

“Okay.”

“If you pull your faggy shit down there, Mick, swear to fuck, I’ll come down there and bury you six feet myself. Fuck that, they’ll do it for me, and they won’t be as kind as I was to ya. You’re lucky I’m even givin’ you a second fucking chance. They’re not so fucking nice, probably fuck ya before-“

“Yeah, fuck you, you fucking prick.” 

Mickey had hung up the phone, then smacked his head against the steering wheel three times. 

But despite that, the guy Terry talked about had called him, given him a time and a place. So, Mickey’s driving through the state of Sinaloa, stuck in traffic in its capital city, Culiacán. He’s got some map in an actual phone he had to buy with Gallagher’s money, because there’s no way he could use one of those paper maps. 

He makes actual at four in the afternoon, managing to get the car down some back alleys and into the street that Terry’s guy told him to go to. He gets there at around five, sinking of sweat, ocean salt, cigarettes and drink. Mickey doesn’t look great, and even though he’s going to speak to people in a cartel, it’s still a type of job interview. If he goes in looking like a fumbling bum, they’ll laugh him out the door and he’ll have nothing. 

Pulling the car into a side street, he uses the razor he bought before leaving Chicago. It’s a plastic one, cheap, but it does the trick to getting him slightly neater. He dry shaves his face using the small mirror in the visor, careful not to cut himself. Nothing is more pathetic and juvenile than obvious razor cuts. There’s some hair gel in his bag too, which he uses to neaten the windswept mess on his head. Deodorant, to mask some of the sweat and maybe translate the rest of the grossness on his skin to seeming tough and masculine. It’s what they’d expect from Terry’s son. 

In the mirror, his lips are cracked and no matter what he does, he can’t conceal the dead of his eyes or the greenish pallor beneath them. It’ll have to do. 

Confidence is like a coat that he can shrug on and toss to the side at will, and he pulls it on before he walks to the meeting place. With a gun at his hip and his Milkovich scowl, he looks the part of a criminal who can do the job well. He’s tightlipped and brash and hard around the edges, got the tattoos and the meanness of the perfect man for grunt work. Prison muscled him, so despite his height he appears as though he can crack some skulls. 

God, Mickey thinks, he hasn’t come far at all, aside from in distance. He’s still in the dirt, rotting with his roots. Back to working for Terry and his people. Nothing has changed aside from the weather and the language. Some people don’t get redemption, they stay in the thick of shit all their lives. 

———

He deals with drug dealers a lot. He is a drug dealer himself, but he also gets the boring task of managing the rest of them. Organising the idiots, telling them what to do and where to go. Most of them aren’t used to a cartel - only accustomed to street-level shit. Standing at corners and waiting for some jittery motherfucker to come alone. Mickey doesn’t know how they were promoted to doing the bigger deals, but he does know better than to ask questions. 

One guy, a big, beefy wall of a man, sticks by his side. His English is good, and he helps Mickey with the translations. Obviously, he’s not just a translator, he’s also a good negotiator. They work together well, even if they don’t speak to each other often. Mickey doesn’t know his name, just calls him Bull like everyone else does. There’s a tattoo of a bull on his shoulder, and Mickey has no idea if the guy got it before or after the nickname. He doesn’t particularly care. People call him Milkovich, or some variation of it. Milky, Milk, he even heard Vich once, which was strange but preferable to the other ones. It’s definitely better than having some ridiculous street name. Gringo is also common. 

He’s found that Mexico has a lot of clubs. Wherever he goes, there’s some kind of seedy club for him to stow away in. It’s never as good as he once had it, with Gallagher, but it’s some type of orgasm with a real human and not just his hand, so he takes what he can get. Mickey’s found there’s a variety of reactions to Americans here, some people hate him for it, some people think he’s stupid for it, some people think it’s kind of hot. Mickey, again, is largely indifferent to what they think about him. Most of them are down to fuck, and that’s all Mickey wants from them anyway. 

Some ask for his name, say they need to know whose name to moan, say they like to know people’s names, say whatever stupid excuse they want but they ask for his name. Mickey has never used his middle name before, mostly ignores it, but in seedy clubs in Mexico apparently he does. The first guy to ever ask what his name was, Mickey hadn’t hesitated. Alex. 

Not once has he bottomed here. He’s pretty much forgotten what it feels like to have a good dicking-down, but he’s not going to get fucked by these guys. He does the fucking, and it’s fine. Usually, he goes for people who don’t look anything like Gallagher, so that Mickey doesn’t have to think about him. The one time he went for a ginger, Mickey was all shaken-up afterwards and threw up the next day, even though he’d hardly drank the night before. 

That’s another thing, the drinking. It’s becoming somewhat of a problem. 

A problem he has no desire to even consider fixing. 

At first, he lived in that stolen car. The money Gallagher gave him would have been enough to cover rent for a few months in a run-down apartment, but it sat in his glove box and burnt a hole in it. Mickey waited until he’d pulled in enough from working for the Sinaloa cartel, and then he moved into a run-down apartment which sits in the edges of Culiacán. It was exciting, surprisingly, to move in. The apartment was shoddy and had mould in the ceilings, but it was the first time he’d lived anywhere that was just his. Not his father’s house, not the Gallagher house, not prison, just his. And the land lady’s, Gloria’s, but she was warm and sweet and seemed to really like Mickey. He gets his rent in on time, so perhaps that’s why. 

Mickey moved in with a small rucksack which only had a few things in it. His razor, a few burner phones, deodorant, lube, hair gel. Parts of his disguise for the border that he didn’t throw away. The earrings, the mascara. He didn’t know he still had them, and walked three blocks to throw them away. There was no desire inside of him for anyone to see girly shit like that in his trash. It’s a very fast way for people to start thinking he’s gay - even if that whole disguise was one of the least gay things he’s done. 

In the bag was also a few pieces of clothing and a shirt which Mickey knows belonged to Gallagher. Again, he hesitated over the bin. Hesitated and hesitated and, like the pussy he is, stashed it under the creaky bed. 

The days are easy, boring. Same shit he’s been doing since he could walk. Nothing’s new to him. 

Aside from the homesickness, which swirls in bitter tendrils inside of him. It’s one month in Mexico where he gets his third tattoo. A Grim Reaper felt fitting. So that he can tell himself that he’s letting the past go, that it’s dead to him, but also still have it. It also reminds him of the beach, about how he thought about dying but decided against it. Beneath it, he asks the guy to put ‘Lado Sur Siempre’. Spanish, because that’s where he is now and probably will be forever, but ‘Southside forever’ because, well. Because. 

Mickey finds that Spanish isn’t all that hard to learn. Not when it’s all he’s surrounded by. He picks it up pretty quickly, and manages to hold a few conversations. Mostly, he can understand it and tries to speak is as little as possible, because he knows it makes him sound dumb. Compared to native speakers, he just sounds like he’s fumbling over the words and doesn’t know what he’s doing. Hopefully, he’ll get better at it, and then maybe he’ll be able to actually talk to his land lady, Gloria, since she doesn’t speak even a lick of English. 

He doesn’t hate it. Loneliness is sufferable and monotony can be easily cured by the constant fighting. His knuckles are bruised and bloody a lot. Gloria makes a fuss about it when she sees him come home like that, and she brought him into her apartment once when he was bleeding heavily from his lip and had a black eye. Mickey didn’t catch a lot of what she was telling him - she was talking too quickly - but he knows it was admonishing. She’d given him an ice pack and cleaned his lip despite how often he protested, then started yelling when he took the ice pack off for a second. Gloria gave him some stew and wouldn’t let him leave, tutting at him and dragging him back every time he tried. She’s strong for a small woman, and she doesn’t take his bullshit. 

There was a sad look in her eyes. That night, she’d brought a picture over for him to look at. It was framed, with an image of her, younger, and a young boy next to her. She had looked at it sadly, pointed at the boy and told Mickey that his name was Nicolas. Then she pointed at Mickey’s black eye and split lip and bruised knuckles and had teared up. Mickey got the message. Her son did what he did, or something along the lines, and Mickey could guess that it didn’t end so well for him. 

“qué diría tu madre?” (what would your mother say) Gloria had asked him. 

Mickey knew none of those words but ‘madre’, and could easily figure out what she was asking. 

He had shrugged. “Dead. Muerto.” (dead)

Gloria frowned and stared back at the picture, muttering something under her breath. 

She let him go, eventually, after he’d finished the stew and had stopped bleeding. Getting back to his own apartment felt lonelier than ever. He had stared at his reflection in his dirty mirror, at the reduced swelling on his eye and the tiny plaster she’d put on his lip that did absolutely nothing, and promptly burst into tears. Crying is a rare thing for him, it only really happens once a year. But suddenly he was sobbing, desperately sobbing, and wished to be somewhere, someone else. 

————

One and a half months in Mexico, and he’s sleeping in the unclean mattress in his apartment. He has to be up at four a.m. to meet a supplier, and then talk to some of the higher-ups in the afternoon. It would be busy and full of long drives, so he’s trying to get some much needed beauty sleep. 

Trying being the key word, because it’s fighting him and Mickey was losing, badly. 

There’s an itch under his skin, one he can’t name. A regular anxiousness, as if he’d forgotten something or missed something when he knows he hasn’t. He tries everything short of knocking a bat over his head. He jerks off, paces, does some push-ups. Despite it all, he can’t seem to make his brain shut down. 

In a moment of pure senselessness, he kneels down beside the bed and pulls out Gallagher’s shirt. The material is worn, soft. Mickey worries the fabric between his fingers and brings the cold memories of Gallagher wearing it up to the surface. How it hung on his shoulders and stuck to his chest when it got hot. Mad with loss, Mickey breathes it in, trying to get some hint of him in his lungs. He was the only drug that Mickey fully fell victim to. It smells like must after being under the bed for so long. 

He can’t even imagine what Gallagher smelt like. It’s faded away, and the only thing that can bring it back is if he smells it again, but he can’t because the stupid shirt lost Gallagher’s stupid smell. Mickey curses himself for never asking which detergent he used, or for not smelling it while it still had the remainders. 

Mickey’s tired, but his brain won’t stop firing chemicals which are making him crazy. It’s on some impulse that he rummages through his drawers and checks every single burner in there. Mickey knows he kept the one he had for Gallagher, but they all look the exact same as each other. He’s insane, deeply so, as he checks each one for Gallagher’s number. Mickey won’t call him, he’s not that much of a masochist. He doesn’t need to feel the sting of fresh heartbreak again. 

He just wants to look at it. Touch it. And then he’ll grab Gallagher’s wad of cash which is still pretty much the same amount that he gave him, and Mickey will look at that too. Flick through the paper again. Remember with joy instead of regret that he gave him all his money. He’ll remember kindness. 

The burner he’s looking for is one of the last he checks, because of course it is. It’s dead, so Mickey charges it. Like a psychopath. To torture himself with their brief back and forth texts. 

He wants to remember feeling like he might be loved. He wants to remember feeling hope. He wants to remember a time before he was heartbroken, completely. He wants to remember feeling. 

Anxiously, Mickey waits for it to charge. During the spare time, he flips through the money again. Deliberating over the possibility of sending it back. He knows he won’t. He needs as much as he can get from Ian’s ghost. 

The burner lights up his room. His room is his entire apartment, that’s why it’s so cheap. So the light of the phone springing to life is easy to notice.

Mickey’s desperately reaching for it before he can take a breath. He doesn’t expect anything, but for some reason he’s anxious and eager to open it up.

When he takes a look at the screen, though, his stomach drops. 

16 New Voicemails

The only person who ever had the number to this phone was Ian. The last one dates to yesterday. Yesterday. 

Ian’s been calling him. This whole time, Ian’s been calling him, leaving messages and trying to talk to Mickey. For the third time that year - a new record - his eyes start to spring with tears. If Mickey was truly pathetic, truly just a thug from Ian’s youth to forget, to feel sorry for… then why would Ian be so desperate to talk to him?

16 voicemails. Mickey has been in Mexico for about fifty days. That’s about one voicemail every three days. Mickey checks, and Ian left more missed calls than voicemails. 23 missed calls. That’s about one call every two days. 

Mickey’s hands are shaking. 

——

He doesn’t open them. Mickey doesn’t open them, hoping that there will be a new one at some point. The excitement of not knowing what they could say is a reprieve from the hot days spent either handling money or waiting to handle money. People think being in a cartel is exciting. It’s not. It’s a chain, just like in any successful business. Mickey is a low-level manager. If it were a retail company, he’d have a desk job and be ordering cereal and organising shifts and firing people. Because it’s a cartel, it’s a mostly standing job where he orders meth and coke and organises drug dealers and hurts people. 

The higher-ups, including the guy Terry knows who Mickey recalls blearily from his childhood, tell him he needs to go out of town for a few days. It’s an operation where him and a few others need to break into some guy’s place. Mickey’s been told that he betrayed the cartel. He’s a rat and a thief. They want Mickey to find him, get back what he stole either in money, drugs or valuables, and then bring the fucker back. 

Mickey won’t have to kill him. But he’s under no illusions about what his bosses will be doing to him. 

Him and Bull have drive down to the state of Jalisco to where the man is apparently staying. Mickey’s never met him; he dissented a long time ago and it took whoever’s job it is to find people a long time to find him. It’s an eleven hour car journey from Culiacán to the small town of San Sebastián where he’s hidden for the better part of two years. A long time to be stuck in a metal box with Bull. 

In preparation, Mickey packs a small bag with the necessities. Gun, change of clothes, wipes in case the motel’s shower is disgusting, switchblade, toothbrush, toothpaste. Burner. The burner which Gallagher hasn’t called since that 16th voicemail. It’s been two days since that message was left and even though the maths isn’t exactly accurate, Mickey keeps thinking about how Ian should have called by now. If he leaves it here, he won’t be able to stop thinking about it and he’ll be distracted. If he takes it, well… he still won’t be able to stop thinking about it but at least he’ll be able to check it. 

As he goes, leaving as soon as possible as per orders, Mickey passes Gloria’s door. His Spanish has improved. He could probably have a half decent conversation with her. And she’d worry, Mickey thinks, if he took off for three days without an explanation. She worries enough when he’s back in his apartment late. 

Mickey knocks on her door and stands outside until she opens it. There’s a smile on her face when she sees him, and Mickey raises his eyebrows at the gun in her hand. Gloria’s a small lady, much shorter than Mickey and he’s not exactly tall. Dark brunette hair falls in a curly bob around her face, which has the beginnings of small wrinkles on it. She’s pretty, around middle age and up until now Mickey thought she was very sweet and naive. 

Once she recognises him, she places the gun on the table she keeps by the door. 

“Mickey.” Gloria greets, smiling. The only reason she knows his name is because he had to sign documents for rent, although she thinks Mickey’s last name is Johnson. He’s an escaped criminal, obviously she can’t know who she is. “Quieres comida?” (do you want food?)

“No, gracias.” Mickey replies, trying to both understand her and translate his own thoughts. Gloria smacked him for not saying ‘thank you’ on one of their first conversations, so he’s careful about manners around her. “Soy… Voy… Me voy ciudad por… dias.” (I am... I go... I'm going to the city for... days) Mickey tells her uncertainly. 

Gloria smiles at his stumbling, but she narrows her eyes and tilts her head with a dangerous glint. “Por qué?” (why?) She asks.

They both know why he’s going. Mickey shrugs. “Uh... visitar un… amigo.” (visit a... friend) Saying he’s visiting a friend means Mickey’s at least not rubbing it in her face, what he does for a living. Maybe she can pretend he’s seeing a friend. 

Gloria gives a genuine giggle, but it’s not until she speaks that he knows it’s at his expense. “No tienes amigos.” (you don't have any friends)

Rude, Mickey thinks. He rolls his eyes, doesn’t bother arguing. Trying his hand at lying is something he’ll do once, but there’s no point a second time. “Hasta pronto.” (see you soon) Mickey says, turning to leave. 

As he goes, he feels a small but firm hand on his arm. “Mickey. Ten ciudado.” (be careful) Gloria insists. 

Mickey nods. “Yeah. Always am.” 

A gentle smile appears on her face, sad eyes sitting above it. 

“Adiós.” Mickey says in the most obnoxious American accent he’s ever heard. 

——— 

Bull chews with his mouth open. He’s scoffing down some crisps and humming along to the radio, but Mickey can’t stop thinking about the disgusting sound of his mouth processing food. 

“Can you chew with your mouth closed?” He snaps.

“Nope. Can you drive above the speed limit?” Bull retorts. 

Mickey escaped from prison, and as much as no one here has given him hassle for it, he isn’t going to draw attention to himself doing something as foolish as speeding. He doesn’t reply. 

The bare road stretches in front of him, a straight path of tarmac for as far as he can see. No bends or twists in the road. It reminds him of the trip down to the border. A cigarette hangs out of his mouth, halfway burnt. Ahead, the sky is entirely blue and the sun is bright, directly above them. It’s calm, quiet. Just the buzzing of the radio music and Bull’s chewing. They’ve never tried talking to each other, never held much trust for anyone. It’s why Mickey respects him, why Bull respects Mickey. 

As they drive, Mickey feels his pocket vibrate. Keeping half a mind on the road, he rummages through the pockets of his jeans for the source of the buzz. His eyebrows furrow in confusion when it’s not his main phone. When he registers which phone it actually is, he’s tossing the other phone into the cupholder and scrambling for his second one, the special one. With his thumb, he flips it open and stares at the screen. 

Ian’s number flashes on the phone, blaring. 

“Boss calling you?” Bull questions. 

Mickey flips the phone closed. “No.”

“Who?” 

“Someone else.”

“Who?”

“Mind your own fucking business.” 

Bull laughs, shaking his head and going back to looking out the door window. Mickey doesn’t know what’s so funny. 

——— 

They reach the motel at midnight. It’s a meagre place, with only three rooms available. A man who Bull calls Casper meets them there, and they all take separate rooms. Mickey locks the door to his and then slides the latch closed. For good measure, he knocks a chair under the door handle and stashes his gun beneath his pillow. 

The room is bare bones, just a bed, a TV stuck to the wall, a little bathroom and a stack of drawers. Mickey dumps his bag on the ground and takes a fast shower, since he can’t see any cockroaches or mould in it. After cleaning himself up at the sink, Mickey slumps on the bed. The mattress is thin, the walls have paint peeling. Homesickness plagues him. Not only is he away from his real home, from Chicago, but from the apartment he’s settled himself in, a new type of home. 

He thinks he can listen to the voicemails now. 

Mickey, initially, wasn’t sure if he should ration them or not. Listen to one every week. But, if Gallagher’s still leaving them… he wouldn’t have to. Unless he stops. And someday, he will. Mickey has never cared much for the future. 

Extending the torture of not knowing, he flips the phone open and closed with his thumb until the pressure in his lungs reaches a new level of insufferable. Sucking in a long breath, he flicks to the very first one that was left. 

I just got back home and Monica’s died.

Ian begins, laughing in a damaged way, like it’s not funny at all. Mickey frowns. He’s talking as if they’re continuing an old conversation, no greeting to be seen. 

You won’t hear this. Or I hope you won’t. You’re too smart not to throw this phone away the second you crossed the border. 

Mickey winces. No, he isn’t. Clearly. 

I hope you’re doing okay. Don’t get yourself killed. I’m… I’m sorry I couldn’t come. I’m sorry you had to look at me like that again. You’ll find someone else, someone better. Easily, I think. Someone’s bound to be charmed by your antisocial personality. Hey, it worked on me, right? 

With the phone at his ear, he brings his fingers to his lips. His heart is pounding, as if it’s slamming its fists against the prison of his ribs and trying to get out, back home. Like hearing Ian’s voice triggered it, like a dog smelling its person, and now it needs to be back in Ian’s hands. 

I can’t believe she’s dead. She was… a lot. But… y’know. She’s my mum. 

Mickey feels for him - he understands complicated parents as much as anyone.

Was, I guess. 

Ian corrects. 

We’re going to do a funeral. Everyone else is happy, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. 

Mickey hears him let out a long sigh. 

Don’t die, Mick. Please. For all I know you could already be dead. I think I’d… know somehow, though. Like I’d feel it. Stupid, I know. 

Ian laughs again, breaths of hurt. 

Don’t test that theory, though. I won’t call again. I just wanted to tell you she’s dead, and that I’m sorry, and I miss you, and I’ll be really fucking pissed at you if you’re dead too. 

The recording beeps and then ends. Mickey stares at the phone, his mouth open and eyes watering. Not again, he won’t cry again. He allowed himself two days to wallow in his loss, he won’t do it again. Never again. The phone asks him if he wants to delete the message and Mickey presses ‘no’ with careful fingers. He can’t lose Ian and lose his voice, it would be too much. 

Also, Ian’s as bad at lying to himself as he is at other people. Saying he won’t call again, ha! Sixteen other voicemails say different. 

Instead of playing the next one, he plays the most recent. The one left today. 

Hey Mick. Me again, obviously. 

Yeah, obviously, Gallagher. 

Is Mexico nice? D’you sit on the beach? 

Not since that first day. 

I imagine you working in a bar. You’d be good at it, good at getting the customers to quit whining. 

Ian’s aspirations and optimism are wildly unrealistic. 

I imagine you with friends. You never had friends here, and I don’t know whether that was because you don’t like people or because people don’t like you. 

Probably some of both. 

But maybe over there you’re different. Without Terry hovering over your back, maybe you can make some friends. A- a boyfriend. I hate that thought. Do you know how much I hate it? So much. So, so, so, so much, Mickey, and I have no right to hate it. 

It makes Mickey a little happy that Ian hates it. Just a little. Jealous motherfucker. 

I do want you to be happy, though. And alive. Please, Jesus, tell me you’re alive. 

Alive and healthy. 

Me and Trevor are kind of back into it. I guess. It’s fine. Good, yeah. It’s good. Just…

Not as good as him, Mickey thinks, smug as anything. 

Not like you. 

He knew it. 

Do you think you can love two people? The only person I’ve ever loved is you. I can’t… I don’t know how to stop. No one ever teaches you how to stop loving someone. 

Mickey swallows, feeling his heart clenching. His heart is begging him, he can feel it begging him to go and find Ian. So that it can feel whole again. His heart, face miserable and hurting is looking at him with pleading eyes and tugging on his aorta. Please, it says, can we go home? 

And I figured, y’know. I could just love you quietly, without you being here. And then just love Trevor too. Have one deep down and one on the surface. 

He doesn’t know how to feel about that. 

I can’t love him while I still love you, Mick. My brain doesn’t work like that. And I can’t seem to stop loving you, so. What do I do? Never be happy with anyone else?

Ian sounds angry, as if Mickey did this to him. Mickey did nothing. Ian chose not to come. 

You’re such an asshole! I mean, why did you have to go? Really? Couldn’t have waited another few years? I would’ve dropped everything. 

Maybe Ian thinks that. But Mickey had another thirteen years on his sentence, he served a year and a half. Ian didn’t stop loving him for that time, so he says, but thirteen years? That’s much longer. 

I don’t want to stop loving you. Maybe that’s my problem. 

Ian grumbles, then the line goes dead. 

Well, Mickey thinks that’s the first time they’ve had the same problem at the same time. 

—————

Him and Bull are in the car, watching the target’s house. It’s a small cottage with white walls and an orange roof. The whole town is quaint and petty, Mickey didn’t realise it in the dark. It’s tiny, he could do a lap of it in an hour. Well, that’s an exaggeration, but it really is small. Nothing like the city of Chicago. In the centre, he and Bull passed a church, the spire of it peaking out over the tops of the houses. Its roof was a teal colour, shining in the light, and Bull told him it’s a Catholic church. Said he wanted to go in once this is done. Mickey told him that it was a stupid idea, since they’d have a man in their trunk. Bull told him that Casper would take the guy in the trunk. Mickey still scoffed at him, then Bull said that Mickey more than anyone could do with a bit of praying, so Mickey clamped his mouth shut. He doesn’t want to know what he means. 

The whole town is embedded in a rich forest. The type of place Ian would want to do something awful in, like hiking. One day, Mickey will come back to the town and linger in the forest, just to see what San Sebastián looks like from a distance. Something so secluded and peaceful sounds like heaven to Mickey. Only having to speak to people if you have to, not having anyone poking their nose into your business. Heaven on a hillside. 

There are no cars on the drive, so they’re both assuming that their guy isn’t home yet. All that’s left to do is wait. Mickey smokes cigarette after cigarette, watching the house but thinking about other things. He’d like a life, he thinks. Something without bruises would be nice. He might get bored of it. This was the type of thing Mickey imagined when he thought of Mexico, but on a beach or cliffside instead of a mountain far from the coast. 

Bull grunts beside him, nodding his head to the Honda parking on the drive. Mickey has no idea where Casper is, but it’s not his business. They watch as their guy gets out of the car and opens the other door for someone else. A beautiful woman steps out, dark, long hair flowing down her back. She laughs at something he said, tossing her head back, and he takes her by the waist and leads her inside with a grin on his face. 

“Let’s go.” Bull says, once the happy pair are inside. 

Mickey feels dread, cold, scorching dread drain the colour from his face. 

“Shouldn’t we wait ‘till night?” Mickey rushes, panicked at how Bull reaches for the door handle. 

Bull creases his brows. “I wanna be home by dinner tomorrow.” He scoffs. 

“But- y’know, it’s the middle of the day, someone could see-“ Mickey tries, but Bull has one foot out of the door. 

“You see anyone around? ‘Sides, they know what’s good for ‘em and they’ll keep quiet.” Bull slams the door, and Mickey wrangles the seatbelt of him and stumbles out the door. 

What the fuck is he doing? Acting on instinct alone, he tries to block Bull’s way. 

“We haven’t thought this through all the way.” Mickey pleads. 

“Not much to think through.” Bull bulldozes past him, moving like a tank and storming up to the door. 

He thumps his big hand on the door in an authoritative knock. Mickey’s heart is pounding and his head hurts from the desperation inside of him. They can’t do this. He’s happy, this guy, whoever he is. Someone loves him. He loves someone. Mickey can’t be part of his death sentence, and he won’t just stand idly by and let it happen. His choices are dwindling though. 

“We’re not fucking doing this.” Mickey orders, trying to sound important. As if he has any say over what Bull does. 

Bull raises an eyebrow at him. He leans in close, sneering. “If you don’t have the balls to do it, you can wait in the fucking car. I’ll make sure I let the boss know.” 

Mickey sneers right back, puffing out his chest. 

The door swings open, and the woman from before answers, the one with the tossing-her-head-back laugh. “Hola. Como te puedo ayudar?” (hello. how can I help you?) She says, smiling like she’s never seen danger in her life. Well, danger's on her doorstep now.

Everything happens quickly after that. 

Bull storms past her, knocking her against the wall, and slams the door shut behind him. Mickey follows at his heels, because he’s not sure what else to do. The woman jumps up as fast as she fell, yelling at them both and screaming, gripping onto Mickey’s arm. Then, she starts begging, pleading. 

“No, no, por favor, por favor, no no.” (please, please, no) Over and over, and it makes Mickey’s ears hurt. Makes his heart hurt. 

“Find the other shit. I’ll find him.” Bull orders Mickey. 

Numb, he nods, as Bull starts rummaging. 

He searches through doors, ignoring the woman as she sobs and pleas with him. 

“Policía!” He hears her say, and then the click of a gun behind him. 

Mickey turns, Bull points his pistol at her. He says something dark, threatening, and she cowers, holding her hands up and muttering some more pleas. 

“Don’t.” Mickey implores, snarling it to Bull. There’s no reason for him to kill her. 

Bull growls at him, betrayal in his eyes. He pockets the gun, though, although the betrayal remains. 

“Make sure she doesn’t call anyone.” Bull tells him.

Mickey nods again. He was sure it was an empty threat anyway. There was no need to shove a gun in her face. He goes back to looking through the cupboards. Bull’s heavy step thumps on the stairs, continuing his search for wherever her husband has scrambled off to. Coward for leaving her, Mickey thinks. 

“Got any money anywhere?” Mickey asks the sobbing woman. She looks at him blankly. “Dinero?” (money?)

She nods, shakily. “Sí, sí. En el garaje.” (yes, yes, in the garage) She breathes, pulling herself to a draw and pulling out a key. 

Mickey gestures for her to take him to the garage. How the fuck is he meant to know where it is? She guides him to another door, hidden by the kitchen cabinets. With shaking fingers, she unlocks it, begging and pleading all the while. There are tears streaming down her face, he can’t look at her. 

He steps into the garage behind her once the doors open. “Where?” He asks. 

Then, a sudden barrel in his face. The garage must be where they keep their guns. The woman points it at him, shouting and crying. Mickey closes the door behind him. It’s heavy, pretty sound proof. 

She won’t shoot him. He doesn’t think so, at least. Mickey still doesn’t try his luck, holding his hands up and taking a few moments to survey the room. He narrows his eyes. There, under an old-timey car, are the legs of the target. He’s not hiding at all. He’s just working on a car, behind a thick door. He hasn’t heard them. 

“Hey! Hey.” Mickey says, kicking the legs. 

The man comes rolling out with a look of mild inquisitiveness on his face. Until he sees that it’s not his lady, it’s a random guy with knuckle tattoos and his lady is sobbing and cradling a gun like a child. The man jumps up, shoving Mickey back and wresting the gun from her hands. He looks more steady with it. He’s used one before, Mickey can see it in his eyes. 

Mickey grits his teeth. He has a gun in his pocket and he’s doing nothing with it. He doesn’t have time for this. 

The man is clearer now, up close and personal with Mickey. He gets a good look at his face. 

Recognition sparks something from deep in his brain. 

“Nicolas?” Mickey asks, curious and shocked. 

The man takes a step towards him, shaking, holding the gun to Mickey’s head like a promise. 

“Tu madre es Gloria.” (your mother is Gloria) Mickey realises aloud. Gloria’s son. Holy shit. 

Nicolas shouts something, something accusing about Mickey hurting his mother. He’s about to shoot. Fuck. 

“No! No! La conozco! Amigo! Mi arrendador! Por favor.” (I know her! friend! my landlord! please) Mickey shouts, feeling as if he’s staring down the barrel of his own death. If he dies because he speaks shitty Spanish, he’ll be so mad. 

Nicolas’s gun wavers. Mickey scrambles to the table at the side of the room, where a napkin is. He searches rapidly for a pen. Without hesitation, he notes down Gloria’s number. Her and Gallagher’s are the only phone numbers he’s ever needed to memorise. 

He hands the tissue over. “Largo!” (get out!) Mickey orders, pointing to the garage door. He hopes it isn’t locked. They hesitate, and he wonders if he said the wrong word. In a hurry, he hopes they at least know some English. “Go! Fucking leave! Go! Go!” He repeats, and they finally get the message. 

Nicolas grabs his girlfriend’s arm and tugs her towards the garage door, stopping his gun pointing. On the way, he opens up a drawer and grabs a wad of cash from it. 

“No! Just go!” Mickey yells. 

Nicolas manages to take a handful, then he’s handing it to the woman and tugging open the garage door. Thank fuck. He must have kept his car keys on him, another spot of luck - or maybe he’s just been in a cartel for years and learnt preparedness - because he flings open the door of the Honda while the lady throws herself into the passenger seat. They drive away at an astonishing speed, smoke puffing out of the exhaust and tires screeching. 

Hurried, Mickey grabs the garage door, hoping to close it, hoping for it to go unnoticed that he freed them. Just as he starts pulling it down, he catches sight of Casper at the end of the driveway. A cold, deadly slap to the face. That’s why he’s going to die. Casper thins his lips and shakes his head minutely, but that’s all he gives. 

Mickey’s a dead man walking. 

Despite that, he slams the garage door closed and starts piling the remaining cash from the drawer into the duffle bag which he brought. There’s a lot of it. Plenty. Enough to satisfy the higher-ups. 

It doesn’t matter, though. 

Mickey has the sinking feeling that he’s not going to live much longer. 

He leaves the garage and is greeted by Bull, red-faced and seething. 

“They fucking got away!”

“What? How?” Mickey asks, pretending to be mystified. 

Casper appears at the front door, slinking silently into the kitchen. 

“They got the fuck away!” Bull screams to Casper. 

Casper hums. Mickey’s pulse is in his ears. His eyes are panicked and he hopes Bull thinks it’s from the failure and not the imminent death. 

“Back alley.” Casper answers in a voice startlingly American. Mickey thinks he picks up a New York accent. 

He blinks, dumbfounded. 

“Fuck!” Bull shouts, punching a hole in one of the walls in a flurry of movement. 

“Got this, though.” Mickey inputs, mouth dry, shaking the duffle. He can’t stop watching Casper. 

“Yeah, great.” Bull snaps. “Did you have something to do with this? You fucking gringo, faggot, pussy-“

Mickey raises his eyebrows at the onslaught, feeling righteous even if he did do it. “The fuck are you saying? Why the fuck would I do shit? It’s my ass on the line as much as yours!” Mickey yells back, getting in Bull’s face. 

“Nothing could be done.” Casper says, calmly. “No need to fight, boys.”

“What the fuck do we do, then?” Bull rounds on Casper, spitting the words. 

Calm and collected, Casper brushes the spittle from his cheek. “We go back and tell them what happened. I found him once, and he can’t run forever.” He points out, darkly and looks at Mickey with a fast intensity. 

Mickey glares back. 

———

They go back to the hotel, no one speaking to each other. Even if Mickey somehow makes it out of this alive, he’s lost Bull’s respect. Made an enemy, and that’s never good. 

Once inside his motel room, Mickey collapses on the bed and listens to another of Ian’s voicemails. It’s just a recap of his day, the message twenty minutes long, and Mickey plays it as he falls asleep. 

The next morning is dewy. Mickey slips out of the room early after a fitful sleep, making himself a strong cup of coffee. None of the others are awake yet, so he takes it outside and sits on the steps of the motel. Surveying the houses around him, he sips from the hot cup. The sky is already light, birds chirping. When he breathes, the air is fresh, satisfying. He can smell the hot of Mexico air. There are a few cars driving by, a few children playing football on the side of the road, kicking it between each other. They’re laughing, some with small gaps in their teeth. They’re so small. 

“Dangerous move, back there.” A voice behind him says, startling Mickey into spilling his coffee over his lap. 

He recovers, and eyes Casper up with caution. Decides to look back ahead of him, at the peace in front of him. 

Last night, he deliberated over calling Ian for the first time and leaving a message. Saying goodbye, saying this might be the end of the track for him. But what would be the point? Ian thinks he’s alive, will continue to think so whether he’s dead or not. There would be no purpose in calling just to terrify him, hurt him. No, if he dies, he would rather Ian go on believing he’s breathing. 

“Notice you didn’t say anything.” 

Casper sits down beside him and sighs. He’s old, wrinkles and dried skin on his face. Wearied by time and what he’s seen. Done. What he’s done. 

“Did you want me to say something?”

Mickey says nothing. Just averts his gaze from Casper and takes another swig of the coffee. 

“As far as I know, they slipped out the backdoor. Came down the side of the house. Got in their car. Drove away.”

Processing it, Mickey swallows and nods. “Okay.” He says, throat dried up and croaky. 

“But this is the job, kid. This is what we do. Learn to cope.” Casper’s voice is blunt and hardy, lacking the gentility of compassion. 

“And if I can’t?”

Casper pauses, Mickey feels him look at him. “I know who your father is. Terry Milkovich is not a kind man. He’s got no honour, no mercy. So don’t act as if you don’t know what happens if you can’t.” 

“How can you talk about honour?” Mickey chuckles drily. 

Casper frowns. “I know honour. Doing what I do, I know who I’m working for. I know what I am. I don’t pretend to be different. But I don’t lie, that’s honour. And I would never hurt a child. Never mind my own child.” 

Mickey’s hands twitch around the coffee. 

“They like you because you have no one. They look into people, and they found nothing on you. No dependants, no family you’re close to. If someone tried to get information out of you, who would they look for? That’s why you’re useful. But it also means that one mistake and they aren’t making threats. What do you threaten a lonely drunk with? Death?” Casper laughs like it’s ludicrous. “No. One chance. That’s all you got. They won’t threaten death, they’d just do it.” 

Mickey blinks at him, at the explanation. What’s he gotten himself into? 

I imagine you working in a bar. You’d be good at it, good at getting the customers to stop whining.

He should have listened to the voicemails before he called Terry. Maybe he would have chosen a different path. 

“Guessing they got someone on you, huh?” Mickey notices. 

Casper hums. “Granddaughter. She’s an angel.”

Mickey nods. 

“Don’t let them figure out that you have someone, too.” Casper warns. “You’re a good kid. Did a good thing. Good doesn’t last long in this kind of work.”

Casper gets up and leaves, vanishing like a ghost. 

Mickey’s heart jumps to his throat. How can he know? There’s no feasible possibility that Casper found out about Ian. Aside from the tattoo on his chest which he never shows, there are no attachments. Nothing. Fuck. 

What’s he done?

Bull stops in the church on the way home, while Mickey loiters in the door, wondering if anyone hears the prayer he repeats in his head. 

Let me live. Let me get back home. Let me go back to Ian.

————

Mickey considered walking into the forest and trying to hide, but he’d be found. Inevitably, he would be discovered and then killed. He isn’t wasting his one chance on two months at best of freedom, freedom paired with constant fear.  

He’s on his best behaviour after that. No more clubs. Strict obedience. He doesn’t see Casper again. He gives Casper’s story to the higher-ups and they don’t care one way or another. Nicolas clearly isn’t very high on their radar. 

Once he’s back, Mickey bursts into his room with drained bones. He needs to shower. To listen to more voicemails. He needs to get through this. 

On his bed, though, is Gloria. She’s crying. 

“Uh- what-“ Mickey starts, confused. 

She runs to him, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing so tightly that all the air in his lungs slips out. “Gracias, gracias, gracias. Mi hijo. Mi amor. Salvaste a mi hijo.” (thank you, thank you, thank you. my son. my love. you saved my son) Gloria sobs. 

Mickey realises she’s laughing, grinning, while she cries. He stands in his room, arms by his sides, as his landlady cries at him, praises him for saving her son. He guesses that Nicolas called her. Awkwardly, he lets her do it, until she wears herself out. 

Once she’s done, she gives him a large smile. The sadness in her eyes is vanishing. One of her hand pats his cheek. “Sabía que eras bueno.” (I knew you were good) Gloria tells him. 

Mickey startles at the words. I knew you were good. Never in his life has anyone thought that about him for longer than a heartbeat, never mind knew it so certainly. 

Gloria leaves, telling him that she’s going to make him dinner the next day, all the days after that. Mickey doesn’t think he deserves a reward for what he did. It wasn’t out of the goodness of his soul, or any shit like that. He did it to avoid guilt, to avoid being a monster. He doesn’t think he would have been physically capable. 

——

Life continues and continues. Drones on and on. Never lets up. 

Mickey listens to the voice mails and cries more than he ever has. 

Then, the final two messages. 

The first ran ice through Mickey’s veins.

Mickey. You’re a real life angel, did you know that?

Ian’s voice sounded alien, distant. Mickey knew that voice. Fuck. 

Have you ever read the Bible? It isn’t hateful, it’s people that make it hateful. Those people need to be stopped, Mickey. You don’t know how many there are. So many parents. So many people like us. Conversion therapy. A joke, right? Parents are meant to love their children. Christians are meant to love their neighbours. Why aren’t they? Why! I’m going to save them. Did you know that? I’m saving people, Mickey. I’m saving them. 

Mickey hoped beyond hope that someone would help him. Someone out of Ian’s huge family, surely, would be able to stop him. Help him. Shove meds down his throat until he stopped ranting about angels and the Bible and God. 

But then, the very last one. 

I’m getting locked up, Mickey. 

He sounds more sane. Mickey’s relieved until he registers what Ian’s saying. He panics, immediately. 

I blew up a van. Manic. Got less time because I’m bipolar. Jesus, I’m going to prison. I might come find you. We could sit on the beach, like you said. 

Mickey’s heart clamps. Ian can’t do that, no. He remembers Casper’s words - don’t let them figure out that you have someone, too - and it wouldn’t be safe for Ian here. For either of them. He couldn’t run through Mexico fast enough without someone catching up. 

I probably won’t. I mean, you’ve probably moved on. Plus, I can’t leave it to you alone to deal with my shit. It wouldn’t be fair. I’d miss my family, too, Mickey. At least this way, they can visit. 

Good, good. That’s the logical, level-headed Ian that Mickey knows. 

I’m so sorry for not visiting. I’m so scared, Mickey. I see you, in my head, how scared you must have been, too. Fifteen years. You were only twenty. Barely twenty. You must have been terrified. And so lonely. I’m so sorry. 

Mickey feels himself tearing up even as he starts to move. He has to go. His heart is tugging on his aorta again. It’s angry, now, no longer full of misery. Go back home! It yells. He needs you! This time, Mickey’s listening. He has a plan. 

I hope you’re doing good. I’ll survive this. It’s just… fucking terrifying. I miss you. I love you. Goodbye.

None of Ian’s previous voicemails ended with a ‘goodbye’ before. It can’t be a good sign. 

He pulls on Ian’s shirt, pockets Ian’s burner and Ian’s money. Hurried, he writes Ian’s address on the back of the envelope and shoves the burner inside of it, too. Mickey races down the hall, starts pounding on Gloria’s door. 

She opens it, again with the gun. 

“Tengo que ir.” (I have to go) Mickey gasps out. “Toma esto, por favor.” (take this, please) He pleads, handing her the envelope. “Publíquelo en esa dirección. Gracias. Tengo que ir.” (post it at that address. thank you. I have to go)

“Qué pasa?” (what's going on?) Gloria asks, accepting the envelope thrust at her with bleary tiredness. Her voice is peaked with worry, verging on hysteria, despite how she's laden with sleep.  

“Mi amigo me necesita.” (my friend needs me) He pants. “Tengo que ir. Volver a America.” (I have to go. back to America)

Gloria nods, mouth open. She’s shocked. He is, too. But there's a relief in her, too. As if she expected something horrifying.

“Gracias por todo.”([thanks for everything) He tells her, and he means it.

She smiles, then. Warmth and motherly energy spilling from her features. She reaches up, pats his cheek. “Go.” She tells him, in a heavy accent. Maybe she picked up some of his English, because that’s the first time she’s spoken it. “Safe.” Gloria orders, waggling her finger in his face. Mickey nods, safe, safe, he’ll be safe. “Call.” 

Mickey nods. “Yeah, I will, I will.” 

Gloria waggles the envelope, as if accepting the duty he’s given her. 

And that’s that, because Mickey’s sprinting down the corridor. 

At the early hour it is - because Mickey only ever listened to Ian’s voicemails at night - the streets are almost empty. He speeds down them at a ridiculous pace. To the police station. It’s the only place he can think to go. 

It takes him fifteen minutes to reach it, and even that feels slow. Mickey leaps from his car, not bothering to close the door behind him. He has Ian’s shirt on, so he can take it with him whereever he ends up. 

He’s half-way up the stairs when a hand grips his arm and tugs. Mickey fights it, psychotic in his haphazard scramble from the stranger’s grip. 

The arm doesn’t budge, dragging him to the side of the police station and setting him against the wall. 

“If you do this, I’ll have to come looking for you.” Casper tells him, voice hard. 

Mickey stops fighting when he realises who it is. “What?” He gasps. 

“I’ll have to come for you.”

Mickey furrows his eyebrows, too desperate to understand. 

“Who do you think found Nicolas? Who? Me! I did! That’s my whole fucking job! I’d have to come find you too, and trust me, I’m good at my job.” Casper spits, dark and terrifying. 

“How did you even know?”

“I said they look into you. I meant me! I looked into you. I tapped your fucking phones, got access to all your burners. I didn’t tell them about fucking Ian Gallagher - who said his full name in one of those long, sappy fucking voicemails he left, by the way! I told them you were fine, had no one. I don’t lie, but I lied for you because Terry Milkovich is a fucking monster, and I think his kids deserve better than that! And now, you’re fucking up your chance because some idiot got himself locked up! You have a chance! You have a life!” Casper implores. 

Mickey snarls, shoves him off. “This isn’t any kind of fucking life.” 

Casper twitches, chuckles in rage. “You’re making a mistake.”

Mickey nods, yes, he’s been known to make those. 

He starts walking away, because Casper won’t stop him. He might come looking for him. He’d probably find him easily. But Mickey thinks he could convince the man to let him live, maybe. What kind of life is he living down here, anyway? If Casper killed him when he’s happy, with Ian, maybe that’s a better way to go than miserable and alone. He doesn’t know. Doesn’t have time for some philosophy on what’s a good way to die. It’s all ugly. But he’ll die someday, and he’d like to see Ian again before that day. He’d like to die loving someone and feeling loved. It’s all he ever wanted. 

“I won’t say anything about you.” Mickey tells him over his shoulder, genuine and clear. Casper gave him a chance of survival down here. Without him, he would have been fag-bashed instead, or maybe Ian would have gotten killed. Casper let him get away with releasing Nicolas. Even though the man is threatening his life now, he’s saved him twice over. That means something to Mickey. 

Casper watches him go. “Maybe I won’t look too hard.” He mutters. 

—————

He has to wait hours for them to find an English-speaking officer to interview him. He managed to get across that he’s turning himself in, that he has information, but there’s no way he could give all that information in accurate detail in Spanish. It wouldn’t happen. He’d say the wrong word and end up getting a drug mule done for murder. 

The woman shows up with a tight bun in her hair and an accent Mickey doesn’t recognise. Something European. Maybe German. He doesn’t care how a European ended up in a Mexican police station. 

Before he tells her anything, he establishes what he needs. She expects the reduced sentence part, and says she can see about how low it can be depending on how good his information is and how cooperative he is. But she doesn’t expect the request for a specific prison, a specific cell part. A specific inmate. She leaves the room to consult with someone, and after that Mickey’s sure that there are people watching through the fake mirror on the wall. Probably the Chief and translator, if Mickey had to guess. 

He gives out what he knows bit by bit, like a dripping tap. Trying to solidify a deal as he goes. There’s no lawyer, but Mickey’s familiar with the police. He knows how they work. He knows she’s bullshitting about pretty much all her threats. 

Mickey spends a day and a half in that station, admitting to his crimes and ratting out everyone he knows but Casper. Bull gets a lot of shit. Mickey collected information on most of the higher-ups simply by watching them and listening. It’s useful shit, he can tell by the sparkle in the officer’s eye. The sharp edge of knowing they’ve caught someone, a lot of someones. Mickey agrees to go on record, to testify. He reads all the shit they give him to sign through and through. 

And

he gets what he wants. 

He’s on a private jet back to Beckman, shackled to the two officers beside him. He’s still wearing Ian’s shirt. He does intake, they lock Ian’s shirt up in his locker, which he’ll get when he’s released. Once inside, he hires a state lawyer, one that’s free, who he meets with and explains everything to. Mickey wants to make sure he’s getting the most important part of the deal. 

When Ian’s tall frame comes into view from the new batch of prisoners, Mickey realises how worth it everything was. 

Mickey heads to his cell, their cell, and is joyed at the absolute relief on Ian’s face. No terror. Mickey fixed it. 

Ian’s leaping on top of him, and his heart pounds again. It sings at being held by the right hands once more. At coming home. The memories aren’t painful anymore, hope returns, walking through the door with flowers and a ‘hi honey! I’m home!’ as if it never left in the first place.