Chapter Text
Ian stands in his tiny kitchen, carefully unfolding the paper from his coat pocket. The print is large and there are tabs with phone numbers on the bottom. He knows he was supposed to tear just one off and not take the whole thing, but something made him look over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching before he pulled it off the bulletin board.
The books are still on the table. He had grabbed a book by Hemingway and a mystery novel, and considered a book about cats just because he feels like he doesn’t really know anything about them. His phone is sitting there right on top. He grabs it and dials the number on the flyer before he loses his nerve.
His cat rubs against his leg. He’s about to reach down to pet her when a woman answers.
“Malcolm X.”
“Hey, I’m calling about a job? I saw a flyer at the library yesterday? I don’t know what you need from me, but I—“
“You have to come in with a resume,” the woman says quickly. “You can’t just email it, you have to have an interview and bring it in when you come.”
“Um, I’m,” he stammers. “Um, I don’t have a degree.”
“You don’t need your college degree.”.
“No,” he says. “I mean, I didn’t finish high school. See, I had this, like, medical problem? And then I had to—”
“Look.” She sighs. “I’m not the one who makes the policies. I don’t know about all that.” In the background, someone starts yelling something. “Hold on.” There’s a scratching sound like she has her hand over the mouthpiece, and then the murmur of her voice.
He contemplates hanging up, but then she’s back.
“He says you can come in tomorrow morning,” she says. “Write this down.”
He spins around, scanning the counter for a pen. He sees one stuck in the rooster mug he brought from home when he moved into his own apartment.
“Okay,” he says, but she’s already saying something.
“10 a.m. You’re gonna want to walk all the way down to—”
The cat starts to yell at him. He already fed her. He scowls and nudges her away with his foot, but she yelps in protest. He scribbles on his hand to get the pen moving.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “What was that?”
The woman sighs again, loudly. “I said you’re going to walk all the way down the main hallway and go to the right, then through the double doors and you’ll see a door immediately on your left.”
He shakes the pen. “Okay.”
“No, that’s not the right door. You want to take the one down the hall to the right. Can’t miss it.”
He looks down at the pen marks on his hand. He can’t even read his own handwriting. “Is this on the side with the library on it or the other side?”
“It’s the library side, but you don’t go in the library, you go down the main hallway. I already said that at the start.”
“I must have missed it,” he says quickly. “I’m sorry, I’m a little bit-”
“Distracted?”
Fuck. He tosses the pen in the direction of the rooster mug. Misses.
“I’m sorry, it’s my cat. She’s so loud.”
“10 a.m. He doesn’t have a lot of time, so make sure you’re prompt.”
“Mr.?”
“Walker,” she says. “Mr. Walker. Bring your resume.” She pauses. “Do you know how to write a resume?”
“Yes,” he lies. That’s what the internet is for.
“Don’t be late,” she says, and hangs up.
Ian looks over at the cat, still pacing around her bowl. He shakes his head and scoops her up. She’s still skinny. Marbled orange and black, the tiniest hint of white on her toes. Tortoiseshell, it’s called. He found her under the train at Holman eating garbage in the snow a month ago. Scooped her up. Brought her home.
“Okay Bill. You win.” He dumps some food in her dish and gives her a scratch before setting her back down.
The studio is so small he can see his bed without even moving his eyes much. He hasn’t made his bed yet. Fiona would have his ass for that. The army, too. But he doesn’t have to answer to either of them anymore. He makes it anyway. He lets his hand linger on the side of the bed that isn’t his. It’s been a while since someone laid there.
Meds. Okay, yeah. He heads back into the kitchen and grabs them from the windowsill. He shakes three into his palm and throws them back with the last of his coffee.
The internet says he needs special paper for a resume. Something with a watermark. But first he has to write it. He finds a free template and starts to type.
What should he say? Good reader? Fast reader? Voracious reader. Big words are good. He should write that he tested out of English in high school, right? Right. They’ll like that. Will they like that?
He leans back in his chair. Should he just scrap it all? Write down the truth? Mentally ill fuckup drops out of high school so he can join the army under his brother’s identity? Should he include how he just barely stayed out of military jail because of his mental health crisis? Should he wax poetic on becoming an underage sex worker with a drug habit? Fess up to being hospitalized three times? Nah, no one wants to hear about that. Not even him, and he’s the sad bastard that had to live it.
He manages to cobble something together. He grabs his wallet and laptop and heads out for the copy store down the block. They’ll tell him what to do. Somebody, somewhere, needs to tell him what to do.
*
The train doors can’t open fast enough. Shit. Fuck. He checks his watch. 9:47. He takes the stairs two at a time, pressing people out of the way. He murmurs apologies, but doesn’t really mean them.
Malcolm X isn’t too far, and even though the sidewalk isn’t fully shoveled off, he doesn’t slip when he runs. February sucks. Old dirty snow under his shoes. Grey skies that refuse to give any shred of hope at all. Spring feels so far away.
Shit shit shit. Okay. Library side is around the corner. He slows down, heart pounding. He throws the door open and looks down at his smudged hand. Oh, fuck him. He can’t make out a word. Focus. Down the hallway, right? Double doors. Check. Door on the left, okay. Now where? Down the hall. Wait, there are two doors. Right? Left? He looks down at his hand.
“What you need help findin?”
He looks up, straight into blue eyes. “Mr. Walker?” He takes a step forward. “I’m sorry I’m late, I’m Ian? Ian Gallagher?”
The man scoffs. “I’m not that stupid fuck. I’m just one of the sorry assholes that has to be here for my probation.”
“Oh,” Ian says, trying to figure out how to exit this situation and get where he needs to go. He glances down at his watch. 10:06.
“I boring you?” His voice is tough, but when Ian looks up, the man is cracking a smile.
“Yeah,” Ian says, “I mean, no. I mean, wait.”
The man laughs and points to Ian’s right. “In there.”
“Thanks,” Ian pants.
“Eh,” the guy says. “Take a fuckin’ breath. You look like you were runnin.”
Ian huffs out a smile. “I was,” he says. “I’m late for my appointment.”
“Breathe” he says, and there’s something about this guy’s voice that’s soothing, despite the almost sarcastic delivery. He grins and shakes his head. “What are you doing—”
The door swings open
“Mr. Walker?” Ian extends his hand, but he doesn’t take it. “I’m sorry I’m late, I’m Ian Gallagher. I got a little lost, and...” he turns.
“Mickey,” the man says.
“Mickey,” Ian says quickly. “He had to tell me where your office was. I’m sorry I’m late.”
“You said that already,” Mickey says behind him.
Mr. Walker rolls his eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the library with the rest of them?”
Mickey laughs. “You the principal now?”
Mr. Walker ignores him. “Come into my office, Ian,” he says, and steps aside. “Thanks for your assistance, Mr. Milkovich.”
Ian glances back just in time to see Mickey walking backwards down the hall, grinning, dragging his hand down the wall. For a second Ian feels like he’s back in high school. But this isn’t high school, and it’s not a time to be attracted to a guy who gave him directions for five seconds. Christ, it’s been a long time, though.
“Mr. Gallagher?”
“Right,” he says. He thrusts the folder at Mr. Walker, who chuckles and takes it. He gestures to a chair, and Ian sits.
Ian folds his long hands as Mr. Walker looks over his sad excuse for a resume. He tried to pick the right kind of paper. The right font. The right everything. He wants so badly to just be right for once.
“You don’t have your degree?” Mr. Walker’s eyes don’t leave the paper. “Not a GED, anything?”
“No, sir. I had this medical...thing, and I couldn’t finish.”
“And you want to teach?”
“Yes, sir.”
He closes the folder. “Why do you want to teach?”
“Because I like to read,” he says, and something clicks over in him. A confidence. “And if someone wants to read, I wanna help.”
“Have you ever been a tutor? Maybe kids in your neighborhood?”
“My brother,” he says, but then wonders why he brought Lip into this. “He did, but I didn’t. I helped a friend with her English homework a lot, but she never, like, paid me.”
“Who was your favorite English teacher? I know some of the teachers at your old high school.”
“Mrs. Simmons?”
He smiles. “Grace Simmons,” he says. “She’s a good friend.”
“She’s a great teacher,” Ian says. “She’s the one who told me I should teach. And she’s the one who got me hooked up with that program at the library. I took the test.”
Mr. Walker nods. “And you passed the test?” He opens the folder again.
“I can’t find the certificate, but I did pass it. I could take it again.”
“Not necessary.”
Ian clears his throat. Mr. Walker doesn’t look up for nearly a full minute.
“Do you know that this job pays almost nothing? It’s minimum wage. It’s nearly volunteer work. We just had a hard time keeping volunteers. Not everyone wants to deal with the parolees in particular.”
Ian opens and closes his mouth. “Are they all on parole?”
Mr. Walker shrugs. “Not all. But ever since NPR started that series on prison programs someone got a wild hair up their ass and now here we are.”
“And no one can read?” He furrows his brow.
“These guys,” Mr. Walker sighs. “They’re guys who got a tough break. Non-violent offenses. Drugs, mostly. And they aren’t stupid. It’s an easy check mark on the P.O’s playbook. Gets them in good graces. They don’t want to read the great American novel, okay? It says here you like to read, but these guys just want to fill out job applications and read bills, maybe read books to their kids. Honestly, most guys can read fine. Like I said, the radio gave someone a wild hair. It’s a quick couple weeks and then they rotate out.”
“A couple weeks? Someone is supposed to get better at reading in two weeks?”
“That’s the introduction. If they want to stay on they can get approved by their P.O. and do a short course. That wouldn’t be you, though. We have real teachers for that.”
“So this is more like tutoring, then?”
There’s a short nod. Mr. Walker puts his hand on Ian’s folder. “Listen,” he says slowly. “Let me talk to Grace and see what she has to say about you. If she remembers you in a positive way, you and I can talk. I’ll see if I can talk with her today, and then I’ll call you.”
Ian can’t help beaming. “Thank you, sir. I’m-”
“Woah woah,” he says. “Slow down. We’ll see.” He stands up and extends his hand. Ian quickly stands up, gives a hearty shake.
“Thank you,” he says again, backing out of the doorway. He tries to play it cool. He’s never been able to play anything cool.
He makes a stop at the water fountain outside the double doors, and wipes at his chin. He’s walking outside and sliding on his fingerless gloves when he hears a voice.
“You get that job?”
Mickey. He’s leaning against the building, cigarette in hand. It isn’t lit. He’s patting his pockets.
Ian shrugs. “Don’t know yet.” He pats his own pocket. “You need a lighter?”
“Yeah, man.”
Ian doesn’t smoke all that much anymore, not like he used to, but he still has a lighter in his pocket. He passes it over. Mickey’s nails are short and his hands look chapped.
“Don’t know where my gloves are,” he grunts. “If my sister still lived here it'd be her fault.” He pops the cigarette in his mouth and lights it. “She can never keep track of her shit.”
He doesn’t know what to say. Mickey’s coat is big on him, and his ears look cold. Everything about his appearance says he’s cold, but his voice does not waver and he does not shiver. He blows the smoke out his nose and glances down the street. It occurs to him, then, that Mickey’s lips are not chapped in the slightest. He stares at them, pillowed and soft-looking, and they part slowly as Mickey pops the cigarette in his mouth.
“What.”
Ian shakes his head. “Nothing. Just thinking.”
“What,” Mickey says again, grunting around the cigarette in his mouth. “You need a smoke or something?”
Ian shifts his feet. “Sure. Why not.”
That’s when he can see the cold, just a little bit, in Mickey’s trembling fingers as he opens the pack, singling out a single cigarette and passing it over with the lighter.
The cigarette tastes good. Ian leans against the building too.
“So what’s the job?”
Ian breathes the smoke out. “It’s tutoring,” he says. “I guess.”
“What kind?”
“Reading.”
Mickey pauses. “Like, how to read?”
Ian nods. “I guess,” he says again. “But I don’t know if I have the job, yet. I’d probably still bartend though, even if I get it. Sounds like this doesn’t pay much.”
Mickey kicks at the snow. “Where’d you learn how to bartend?”
Ian hesitates. He can see it now. Him in a glittery tank top behind the bar, laughing and matching patrons shot for shot. Lights flashing, music thumping, men, men, men. He shifts his feet.
Mickey chuckles. “Too personal?”
Fuck it. “I learned at this terrible place in Boystown, but now I work at this place called The Alibi. Not in Boystown.”
There’s a little flash in Mickey’s eyes, and then he looks down. He kicks at the snow again. “Where?”
“The Alibi? It’s over by-”
“No,” he says quickly. One shoulder shrugs up. His ears are pink from cold. “Where in Boystown?”
Ian fidgets. He tries hard to read him, but Mickey’s head is still down, the toe of his boot brushing the snow off the sidewalk.
It was the first place he worked, after all that happened. Before the Fairy Tail. Before the hospital and all that happened next. “The White Swallow. It’s, you know.”
Mickey cracks a smile but doesn’t look up. “What. Gay?”
Ian can’t feel his feet. He doesn’t think it’s just because of the cold sidewalk on his thin sneakers.
“Yeah,” Ian says. “Gay.”
Mickey looks up, his eyebrows shooting up, wrinkling his forehead. “So you are?”
Ian hasn’t lied about it in a long, long time. Who is this guy anyway? It doesn’t fucking matter. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m gay.” He sets his jaw a little for good measure. “That a problem?”
Mickey laughs and flicks his cigarette into the street. “Okay, tough guy. You can put that chin away. I don’t give a shit.”
Ian plays with the lighter in his hands. It’s quiet. He takes one final drag from his cigarette and drops it, crushing it with his shoe.
“Here,” he says, extending the lighter to Mickey and not looking up. “In case you need it later.”
He looks up into blue eyes, steady on his.
“Thanks,” Mickey says, before coughing once, twice. “It’s fucking cold.”
Ian nods. He jams his hands in his pockets and stands there. “Thanks for the cigarette. I better get going. Let you get back to...what do you have to get back to exactly?”
Mickey grins. “I’m in a class. Maybe you’ve heard of it. Lookin’ at all these squiggle things on a piece of paper.”
“The reading class?”
“You make it sound like someone is teaching us our ABCs. We read shit like National Geographic, mess around on computers learning about how to fill out forms. It’s an easy thing to show the parole officer. That’s all.”
“Still,” Ian says.
“Still what?”
“It sounds nice,” he says, and then regrets it when he sees Mickey’s eyebrows raise up again. “I mean, I like reading, so.”
“I don’t,” he grumbles. “Not good at it. Never have been. Fuck it. Who cares, right?”
Ian shrugs. He looks up at the icicles hanging from the roof of the building. Soon, he thinks, soon this will all melt away. No cold ears, no stolen gloves. In two months, the lilacs will be getting ready to bloom. And in two weeks there won’t be any more Mickey. Two weeks, Mr. Walker said. That’s all. And then he’ll probably be gone. Maybe he’s already been here a while. Who knows. Maybe Ian won’t even see him again.
Ian checks his watch. “Good luck,” he says. “I gotta get my train.”
Mickey nods and reaches for the door handle. “Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“The White Swallow is a shithole. But at least it wasn’t The Fairy Tail. That’d be so much worse.”
Ian’s jaw is still wide open when Mickey lets the doors shut behind him.
*
The next morning, Lip answers the FaceTime call right away.
“I need you to look at my clothes,” Ian says. “I got a new job tutoring reading at Malcolm X and I don’t know how I should dress.”
“I thought you were still working at The Alibi.”
“I am,” he says, smoothing his pants. “I’m just doing this, too. I still can’t believe I got this job. The guy called Mrs. Simmons from high school. Remember her? I guess she still really likes me.”
“She’s hot,” Lip says. “If you weren’t gay...”
“She’s like 50.”
“So? You fucked Kash.”
“Don’t remind me,” Ian groans. He plays it off as annoyance, but the truth is he doesn’t like thinking about it. “Okay, you ready?”
He turns the camera on his clothes. It’s the best outfit he has. Black pants, green sweater. The one thing he doesn’t have are decent shoes. He keeps meaning to get some, but he never has the money.
“Looks good to me,” Lip says. “But it’s Malcom X. Do you really need to dress up?”
“Probably not. But I thought it might be good to make an impression on my new boss.”
“Who is he?”
“Some guy named Mr. Walker.”
“No,” Lip says, sucking on his vape pen. “The guy you like.”
Ian scoffs. “I don’t like a guy.”
“Bullshit you don’t. And you only dress up for old guys. Is there a 70 year old there? 50 too young for you?”
Ian rolls his eyes. “Goodbye, Lip.”
He slides the phone back in his pocket and grabs his coat. He pauses at the mirror by the door and smooths his hand over his hair. Good enough.
The train isn’t late this time, and Ian takes his time walking to the building. Someone cleared the sidewalk and he can see the cloudy stain of salt. If he had nice shoes they’d be wrecked anyway, he thinks. Might as well not have them.
Mr. Walker told him to go right to the library, so he heads down the hall, through the double doors, down the hall, and to the left. He hears voices as he gets closer.
“You did not,” someone says. “No one does that when they’re a little kid.”
A familiar voice. Mickey? Mickey. “I did a lot you wouldn’t believe. You don’t grow up with the world’s shittiest dad without getting some scars. Pistol whipped me more than once.”
“Jesus,” someone else says. “I feel like a pussy. The worst I got from my old man was—”
Everyone stops talking when Ian walks in. There are two other men sitting there with Mickey. One on top of a table, one in front of an old computer.
The guy on the table covers his mouth with his fist as he laughs. “Can we help you with something?”
Ian lets his backpack slide down his arm. “I’m here for tutoring,” he says. “You know, for reading? Writing too, maybe?”
He glances over at Mickey, who has a crooked grin. “What are you all dressed up for?”
Ian ignores it. “Have you seen Mr. Walker? He’s supposed to meet me here and tell me what to do.”
The guy at the computer laughs before starting to type something. “That asshole? He’s not gonna come in here.”
Ian shifts his feet. This suddenly seems like a very bad idea. “Maybe I should go,” he says.
“Sit down, Red.”
Ian turns. Mickey is looking down at a magazine. He doesn’t look up.
“Sit,” Mickey says again. He pushes the chair opposite him out with his foot. “Come on.”
The guy sitting on the table heads over to an stained overstuffed chair. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a book. He catches Ian looking.
“What,” he says. “You think I can’t fuckin’ read? How else do you think I passed the time in the joint?”
Mickey laughs. “Why don’t you go back to sticking your whole goddamn paw in your mouth before you turn a page, Rex.”
“Leave it,” Rex says. “At least I know how to read.”
“Ohhhhh,” the guy at the computer says. “Burn.”
Ian turns to Rex. “What are you reading?”
Rex holds up the cover. “The Devil’s Bed,” he says. “I liked his other books better.” He calls over to the guy at the computer. “I already told you a million times. They’ll track your porn.”
“I’m not looking at porn,” he says back.
“For once,” Mickey says. He grins and looks straight at Ian again. His eyes are so blue. His big coat rests beside him on the table. “Thought I told you to sit down.” He kicks the chair again.
Ian sits.
“I’m looking at jobs on this computer, assholes.”
“O’Leary, you aint gonna get a new job with your attitude,” Mickey says. “Your parole skank’s gonna have you tarring roofs in the spring.”
“Better than bagging groceries,” O’Leary mumbles under his breath.
Ian squeezes his hands together under the table. Mickey’s teeth are straight and white, his lips curled into a smile as he looks over Ian’s shoulder. When he catches his eye again, he smiles back.
“We’re gonna get in trouble with the teacher,” Rex says.
“I’m not a teacher,” Ian says. “I just thought I’d help out.”
“Another savior complex,” Rex says.
“No,” Ian says quickly. “No, not that. I just thought I could—”
“Relax,” Mickey says, leaning forward. “Just ribbin’ ya." He looks past Ian. “Why don’t you dicks do something? I’m trying to learn how to read here.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Rex says, and goes back to his book. O’Leary slides earbuds into his ears.
“He’s definitely watching porn,” Ian says, peering over.
“Oh yeah,” Mickey says. “No doubt about it.”
“So,” Ian says.
“So.”
“What are you reading?”
Mickey slides the magazine over.
Ian picks it up. “The library subscribes to Guns and Ammo? Seems a little on the nose for this neighborhood.”
Mickey takes it back. “Nah. Brought it from home. My dad had a whole stack by the toilet. My sister threw most of them out when he died, but I snagged a couple.”
“Your dad’s dead?”
“Thank Christ,” Mickey says. “I hope he’s rotting in hell.”
“He was still your dad though,” Ian says quietly. “Are you okay?”
Mickey clears his throat. “More than okay. Wish I coulda killed him myself. Some Nazi shanked him in prison. Hope it hurt.”
Ian thinks about the guns he used at ROTC. He was a good shot. A great shot. It’s been years since he’s held one, though. He watches Mickey look at the magazine. He can’t tell if he’s reading or not.
Ian pulls a notebook out of his bag. He’s been thinking about what to say to him. His pen pauses above the paper a moment before he starts to write.
Were you serious about the Fairy Tail? He slides the book across the table.
Mickey looks down at the paper, but doesn’t pick up the pen. “You can just ask,” he says.
Ian knows he shouldn’t hope. He should just forget that he thought about what Mickey said for a long time last night.
He leans closer, voice low. “Are you? You know?”
Mickey shrugs.
Ian takes the notebook back. Are you out? He drops the pen on top of his words and holds his breath when Mickey picks it up.
His handwriting is terrible, but Ian can read it when Mickey pushes the notebook back across the table. Sure.
Do these guys know?
Mickey looks at the paper for a while. “No. Not like I care, though.” He picks up Guns and Ammo and shakes it. “I know how to handle myself if someone has a problem.”
“Seriously?” Ian hisses. “You’ve...killed someone?”
Mickey shakes his head with a laugh. “Of course not. Beat a guy up once, though. Before I learned how to deal with it. Took me a while to deal with it.”
“Do you go out? Like, to, you know. Those places?”
“Nah. Not unless I need it bad. Not really my scene. Hate all those lights.”
“They take getting used to,” Ian says.
“Wait. Fairy Tail? You work there too?”
Ian nods and reaches for the paper, but Mickey puts his hand on top of it and doesn’t let go.
“Danced,” he says quietly.
Mickey leans back with a laugh. “You were one of those?”
Ian shrugs. “Among other things,” he mumbles. “I don’t like to think about it. It wasn’t a very good time in my life.”
Mickey’s smile fades just a little, just enough. He lifts his hand off the paper and picks up the pen. Ian notices that he grips the pen so tightly, right above the ball point, all his fingers smashed together.
Sorry.
“It’s okay,” Ian says. “It’s over now.”
“You’re better off without that place anyways,” Mickey says. His eyes are soft and beautiful. “All drugs and dicks.”
There’s a noise from behind them. “What’s all drugs and dicks? Your dream job?”
Ian opens and closes his mouth. Might as well test the waters. “A club I worked at,” he says quickly. “A gay club.”
Rex laughs. “Sounds like it sucked from what I heard.”
“Why don’t you mind your own business,” Mickey says, annoyed, just a little too quickly.
“This book is boring though.” Rex tosses it on the ground. “What else am I supposed to do?”
“Pick a new one?” Mickey gestures around them. “It’s a fucking library.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Rex stands and disappears into the stacks.
Ian meets Mickey’s eyes, but Mickey looks away before he speaks. “Why’d you say that?”
Ian shrugs. “Why not? I’m not closeted.”
“Yeah,” Mickey whispers. “I know, but you gotta watch yourself just in case, you know? Had to watch my back in prison. So I wait until I know someone. Even then you won’t catch me at a pride parade.”
“You won’t catch me at one either.”
Mickey grins wide and closes Guns and Ammo. “You wanna get out of here?”
Ian’s eyes widen. “You mean should we, like—”
“Sure,” Mickey says, looking at his lips before his eyes flick back up again.“You wanna?”
Ian looks at his watch nervously because he isn’t sure what else to do.
“What, you got somewhere you gotta be?” There’s a little bit of an edge to Mickey’s voice and his smile drops.
“Yeah,” Ian says. “Here. I’m supposed to stay for four more hours.”
Mickey stands up. “Well, I gotta go,” he says sharply.
“Go where?” Ian stands up too. “You don’t have to. We can just talk.”
“Whatever,” Mickey says, and zips up his coat. “See ya.”
Ian sits down slowly. Guns and Ammo is still on the table. It’s wrinkled and bent. He sighs. Yes, he just turned down sex after a long dry spell. But he doesn't fuck strangers anymore. He’s done enough of that for four lifetimes.
But is Mickey a stranger? A stranger is someone whose name you don’t know, who you can barely see under the lights and the drugs and all the rest of it. A stranger is some guy who makes eyes at you in the dollar store and you end up jacking off in the alley. He’s at least talked to him, which is more than he’s done countless times before.
Mickey’s different. He just is.
“Great,” he mutters. He puts his head down on the table and taps his forehead against it twice. “Fuck.”
He feels a firm hand on his shoulder. Rex laughs. “You really screwed that one up.”