
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3518225.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Shameless_(US)
  Relationship:
      Ian_Gallagher/Mickey_Milkovich
  Character:
      Mickey_Milkovich
  Additional Tags:
      Season/Series_02, Season/Series_03, Gap_Filler, Masturbation, Character
      Study, Racist_Language, Homophobic_Language, Adolescent_Sexuality
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-03-10 Words: 5048
****** PB&J ******
by penlex
Summary
     Mickey's second stay in juvenile hall is a little more eventful than
     the first. Distance makes the heart grow, if not always fonder, then
     definitely more needy. And also horny. And kind of pissed off. Or
     maybe that's just Mickey all the time.
Notes
     Mickey has a few conflicting lines that have always jumped out at me,
     the first being when he tells Ian he got out early for "overcrowding
     or some shit" but then tells the kid he sold coke to the he got out
     for good behavior. Another is when he tells Ian he missed him because
     he "had to do all the fucking in juvie" versus when he tells Ian when
     Ian is in the boys' home that it's a "wise choice" not to fuck
     anybody and then "even if you get propositioned it's probably just a
     set up." So this fic is an illustration of which things are the
     truth.
     There's a lot of racist language in here so brace yourself for that.
     Also some homophobic language and some brief internalized homophobia.
     A couple sexist terms. Basically canon-typical nastiness.
     The graphic violence warning is for a fight between Mickey and two
     gay bashers. Nobody is seriously injured, and Mickey wins, but there
     is some disturbing imagery. The underage warning is for Mickey having
     a little fun by himself. I'm going with he's seventeen here. Also
     there's a little bit of non-consensual voyeurism by one of Mickey's
     cellmates, but that part's not graphic, and it's up to you to decide
     how long you think the guy was watching.
     Also, for the sake of my wonderfully dramatic writing here, we're
     pretending that Mickey doesn't say "liking what I like don't make me
     a bitch" until after getting out of juvie the second time. Bear with
     me.
See the end of the work for more notes
The first go ‘round in juvie was a certain kind of way. Being fresh meat
usually made you a target, from what Mickey had heard from his brothers and
from what he saw while he was in there, but taking a bullet had given him a
kind of prestige inside. Nothing too overt, nobody groveled at his feet or any
shit like that, but nobody gave him much trouble either. He just got to do his
time, trade cigarettes for fucking Hostess snacks, whatever.
The second time, Mickey’s ‘what’d you do’ story is good for a quick little
laugh around the joint, but isn’t special enough for it to stick in anybody’s
mind as something cool or tough or whatever getting shot was supposed to be.
Luckily, Mickey still isn’t demoted all the way down to fresh meat, so compared
to some others he has it pretty easy. He just sits with some of the guys whose
faces he remembers from last time to eat his mystery mush every day, and tries
his best not to think about how what he did isn’t really why he’s in here.
Sure, Mickey had missed Gallagher a little the first time he got put away, but
it wasn’t too bad. He had bigger fish to fry at the time, and Ian visited
anyway. Not too often, of course. That would be suspicious, and anyway Ian had
his own fish back home. It had been like a minor craving kind of thing – he’d
gotten used to having Gallagher around the same way you get used to having your
peanutbutter sandwich with jelly on it. You wish the jelly was there when you
gotta go without, but it’s not like you really need it or anything. It’s just
kinda nice. Adds a little extra.
Now, though, missing Ian is more like having an empty belly. The second the
not-so-pearly gates lock Mickey in he wants right back out again. He doesn’t
know what the fuck he expects himself to be able to do out there, but that’s
what he wants. He hopes that whole ‘distance makes the heart grow fonder’ thing
is bullshit, because he’s pretty sure he’s had his fill of fucking fondness for
the next seven or eight years.
Mickey’s certain for the first three weeks that his desire to get out is his
biggest weakness. On the cusp of wakefulness every morning, Mickey’s unfiltered
thoughts remind him that he can shorten his sentence if he tries. But acting
like a pussy in order to enable himself to participate in yet further pussihood
is just not on the cards, so just to make sure he’s not slipping up and sending
out a ‘hey come beat me up because I’m a homesick baby’ beacon Mickey is as
mouthy as possible at all waking moments.
The fourth week, a new guy comes in. Well, new to Mickey, but clearly not new
around. He sits at Mickey’s table and everybody knows him. They greet him by
name, pat him on the back, shuffle around so that he gets a certain seat.
Mickey watches carefully, but nobody seems scared or even intimidated, just
genuinely friendly. It’s weird, but not unheard of. This is a guy who rules
with love.
The usual ‘what’d you do’s and ‘how long ya in for’s are passed around. Mickey
shares his story again, and New Guy laughs and tells him plainly, “I like it.”
He reaches over to shake Mickey’s hand and introduces himself. “Hobbs. Nice
ink.”
“Thanks,” Mickey says unenthusiastically. “Milkovich.” Hobbs raises his
eyebrows at that and looks Mickey over appraisingly, likely seeing how Mickey
compares to the rest – a.k.a. small as fuck, but a little sharper, a little
more dangerous (excepting Terry of course, on that last bit).
The conversation moves more dynamically with Hobbs at the table, not to mention
there’s more of it. Hobbs himself is not a real big talker, but he’s the kind
of charismatic that Mickey’s only seen in talk show hosts or TV shrinks
(probably real shrinks have it too, but Mickey’s never seen one of those).
During a light lull, Giuliani asks Hobbs in his obnoxious nasally voice from
Mickey’s left, “That hurt or somethin’?” Hobbs has been rubbing at a scabbed
over cut on his hand for the last couple minutes, and at Giuliani’s gesture he
looks down at it with a look on his face that Mickey’s seen on Ian’s about
fifty times (that’s fifty times too many).
“My girl stabbed me with a fuckin’ fork,” Hobbs says proudly. The guys all
laugh.
“Your girl still Grace?” Jacobs asks, at Hobbs’s right hand. Jacobs is the only
non-white kid at their table. He’s like fourteen or some shit and has a little
bird footprint tattooed under his eye. He gives off the impression of some
fifty-two year old peyote-smoking, ghost story-telling, better-stay-out-of-the-
woods-kids grandpa, and nobody really knows what to make of him so he sits
wherever he fucking wants (some of the Mexicans even go out of their way to not
get on his bad side because they’re freaked about getting cursed. They’re a
bunch of spic morons, but that’s their business). Jacobs says he has the divine
wisdom of his people, and that he can do that fancy smoke shit that the old
dude did in Pocahontas. Mickey’s pretty sure most of the time he’s just making
fun of their racist asses, which is fair enough.
“Yeah,” Hobbs answers Jacobs, sounding wistful now.
“How long you been fuckin’ her now?” Ackermann wonders. His deep voice carries
easily from the far end of the table (he has to sit in the isle because he’s
fucking gigantic, even bigger than Tony, and hardly any of it’s fat, just beef.
He could probably toss Arnold Schwarzenegger over his left shoulder for good
luck, but he’s in here for stealing the dogs off of owners who put them in
fights).
“Like a year, man, shit,” Hobbs shares, widening his eyes and shaking his head
at everybody. They all whistle, shake their heads back, curse. “I’m thinkin’
Imma try to get out of here early, you know? That good behavior shit can be all
lie, right?” The cursing and head shaking around the table intensifies and
Hobbs laughs light-heartedly. Then, noticing Mickey’s awkward stillness, Hobbs
asks, “Alright, Milkovich?”
“Yeah,” Mickey says, and then impulsively adds, “Just kinda in the same boat.”
Hobbs laughs again, easy as a piece of fucking cake, and gleefully advises,
“Good luck, man. Ain’t no paddles around here.”
Mickey does his best to ignore him, takes a too-casual gulp of his stale-
tasting water, but he feels his resolve to play it bad begin to crumple like a
grumbling stomach.
-
By the time the ten week mark is approaching, Mickey’s body’s need to get
fucked has overtaken his hunger for Ian, at least in urgency. They don’t call
it thirst for nothing, apparently. Mickey jerks off of course, but you can’t
exactly go sticking your fingers up your ass when you’re sharing a tiny room
with three other fucking delinquents – one that doesn’t even have a real door
at that. And Mickey’s never been into having a potential audience anyway. But
time alone with just one hand is shaping up to be less than satisfying.
In the meantime, Mickey’s been being good. He’s doing the jobs they give him
with as much efficiency as he can pull off, and he’s also managed to shut the
fuck up. Hopefully Hobbs is right and getting out early on good behavior isn’t
a total myth, or Mickey will probably spit fire because this shit sucks
(although on the other hand it maybe isn’t so bad to take a breather and go the
passive route. Still, hopefully it’s only for another month or two or Mickey’ll
get fucking bored of it and go starting fights and shit).
At eleven weeks, Mickey’s assigned counselor brings him into her office, sits
him down on the other side of her regal-for-juvie-state-pen desk, and gives him
and uncomfortably sunny smile.
“They’ve decided to shave off two months of your sentence!” she tells him. It
takes a lot not to smile back, but Mickey’s been doing this for a while now so
he manages. The look in her eyes says that she got the message anyway, but
Mickey’d put money on it that shit like that is what keeps her from blowing her
brains out when she gets home from work every day, so he’ll let it slide. For
now. She talks for a while about what Mickey’s been doing right and lets him
know that if he’s lucky they might consider taking off two more. She also says
she’s proud of him and starts going on about “rehabilitation” excitedly. It’s
bull and he knows it, but he nods along in hopes that she’ll talk him up to
whoever’s holding the gavel in here. She shows him out of her office thinking
he’s the Second fucking Coming.
Mickey’s still feeling his success at lights out, and the high makes him
reckless and arrogant – and horny. He rolls over onto his back and glances
cursorily around the cell to check if his mates are asleep, and then slips one
hand between his legs to press promisingly on his hardening cock and stuffs
three fingers of the other into his mouth. His issued boxers are too big (he
never considered complaining because they feel like that pair that Ian forgot
in his bed that he’s been pretending not to have realized aren’t his) so it’s
easy to yank them down to the knee one-handed.
Mickey usually prefers to be on his front to do this because it’s easier to hit
on the best angle and because he can get better leverage that way, but on his
back like this is safer – at a glance it’ll be hard to tell there’s anything
more than the jerking going on. So when his fingers are sufficiently wet, he
just lets his legs splay open as much as they can with the elastic of his
shorts constricting them.
He starts it out slow, a little bit because it’s been a while, a little bit
more because he just fucking wants to. He just pets wetly at his neglected hole
while he slides his open palm around on the slick head of his dick, working
himself up to a nice heat before he finally starts pushing in, middle finger
first, steadily all the way up past the U. It don’t take long from there.
Mickey has kind of a love/hate relationship with finger-banging himself. He
loves it for reasons that obviously do not need a fucking explanation. He hates
it because it feels so good it’s difficult to keep quiet and since both his
hands are busy he’s usually forced to take in a big mouthful of fabric and turn
“pillow biter” into a literal statement, which ain’t a very nice thing to think
about when he wakes up with his own drool all over his face. Most of the time
he just goes at it again, though, to remind himself why he doesn’t give a shit.
Now, he’s not facing his pillow though (and likely would think twice about
putting it in his mouth besides), so Mickey digs his teeth into his bottom lip
instead. He gives himself a firm tug as he works in his third finger. The
sensation combo is a knockout move Mickey was very fortunate to figure out in
his exploratory years, and he doesn’t manage to hold back his hiss of, “F-uh-
ck.” He doesn’t bother trying not to cant his hips up, feet planted, and roll
them into his feeble thrusts to give them more power. He has to stop that when
the bed starts creaking though, and flops back down and just strains his wrist
instead, fuck it. Mickey holds his breath when his toes start curling to make
sure he doesn’t really moan, and finishes with a couple quiet, breathy grunts
and a hot splash onto his belly. He has a vague moment of mostly apathetic
realization that he has nothing to clean up with, before he thoughtlessly gives
in to an old curiosity and wipes the come off his stomach with his fingers and,
before he can question himself and change his mind, sticks them in his mouth.
It’s pretty terrible, but Mickey’s tasted worse. Besides, it makes him think
about what it would be like to have Ian come in his mouth, and that makes
Mickey want more despite the lingering bitterness. Mickey’s heart rate, which
has begun to slow, picks up again as he closes his eyes and lets his tongue
sweep back and forth across his swollen lip and imagines what the head of a
penis would feel like there instead. But those thoughts vanish and his heart is
racing for a different reason when the vandal in the bed across sniffs and
rolls over to face the wall.
Mickey counts to sixty before he lets himself believe the guy is asleep, was
asleep the whole time, and breathes easy again.
-
Mickey’s mood is still pretty good in the morning, and he walks with a skip in
his step that only has a little to do – directly, anyway – with the ever so
slight tingly soreness in his ass (going at it without some legit lube will do
that). He even fist-bumps Hobbs on his way into the grub line, and when Hobbs
shoots him a wink before turning towards their table with his tray Mickey’s
reasonably sure that he got some off his sentence too (he’s also reasonably
sure that Hobbs has pretty eyes and that he’d look good as a ginger, but that’s
fucking irrelevant).
Mickey’s high spirits last through the whole week, all the way to Friday
(T.G.I. Pizza Day). It’s rec time after lunch and Mickey’s dithering over
whether he wants to go to the library (he’s let Ian rub off on him too much,
ha) or outside to see if there are any benches left to work out on, standing
like a dumbass in one of the empty hallways in between the two, squishing his
lips from one side of his face to the other in thought. He startles internally
when a skinny but scrappy-looking black kid approaches him from the side.
“Hey,” says the kid. Mickey doesn’t respond verbally, only raises his eyebrows
in an impatient, silent ‘can I fucking help you’. “Hey, you wanna fuck?”
“Fuck no!” Mickey yelps, startled again by the unexpectedness of the request,
not to mention a little defensive. “What the fucking fuck? The fuck is wrong
with you?” The kid throws up his hands and takes a step back, placating.
“Hey, hey, man, chill, okay, alright, I was just asking, jeez.”
“Fucking Christ,” Mickey snaps back at him. He pulls a cigarette from his
pocket. He’s not stupid enough to try to smoke it inside, but he needs
something to do with his hands and it’s the only thing around that can be
fiddled with. The kid is still hanging around, and Mickey looks him over out of
the corner of his eye. He sticks the filter of the cigarette in his mouth and
mutters around it, “You really that fucking desperate?” The kid just shrugs his
scrappy shoulders and says, nonchalant as you fucking please, “Naw, man. I’m
into it.”
“You’re fucking what?” Mickey demands, his eyes snapping onto the kid head-on,
incredulously (and curiously), his cigarette dangling precariously from his
lips.
“I’m into it,” the kid repeats easily. He even meets Mickey’s eyes. There’s a
tense silence before Mickey takes the cigarette from his mouth and nervously
rubs his thumb where it had been resting.
“You’re serious?” he asks, much quieter than he has been speaking until now.
The kid only reprises the shrug, and then after another short silence, he
wonders again, “You wanna fuck?” Mickey hesitates before he answers this time,
too long for a no to save him anymore. It’s obvious that Mickey’s considering,
and he is tempted, but he hasn’t said yes yet either. He’s confused at himself
because he’s usually a black and white kind of guy, but for all that he really,
really wants to get laid, he feels guilty as hell for thinking about doing it
with someone other than Ian (which is fucking stupid of course, Mickey said
they were done, but here he is – apparently not done at all). Impatiently, as
if to sweeten the deal the kid adds, “Got lube in my cell.” Mickey tucks his
cigarette back into his pocket and gives the kid half of a grin.
“Don’t need it,” he tells the kid. He probably sounds cocky, but he kinda means
to. It’s something Mickey’s a little proud of – that he can relax into it so
that just a lot of spit can sometimes be enough. He doesn’t know if that’s
something that makes him a better fuck in actuality, but it makes him feel like
he is so when he gets the chance to talk it up he does.
“Right here then,” the kid amends simply, and grins with a glint in his eye
that lets Mickey know that this whole easy-going thing he’s got going for him
is about to give way to something a lot sharper and maybe a little mean. That’s
okay though, Mickey can get behind a mean guy every now and then. Well… he can
get in front of him, that is. Mean Guy pushes at one of Mickey’s shoulders and
Mickey goes with that flow and becomes the easy one now, flattening his palms
on the nearest wall and letting Mean Guy slide long fingers into the hair at
the back of his head. The fingers close into a fist, pulling hard on Mickey’s
hair and Mickey lets out a quiet groan.
“You wanna be my little bitch?” Mean Guy growls hotly into Mickey’s ear, and
Mickey has the chance to think ‘fuckin’ please don’t let him be a talker’
before the fist in his hair yanks back roughly so that Mean Guy can slam
Mickey’s face hard into the wall.
Mickey curses, out loud but at himself. He can’t fucking believe he could have
been this fucking stupid.
“Yeah, that sounds about right,” comes a new voice, accompanied by a sharp bark
of laughter. “Heard from a little birdie that you like to eat your own come.
That true, man? That’s pretty fucked up.”
“Ho-ly shit,” says Mean Guy turned Homophobe #1, still with a strong and
painful grip on Mickey’s hair. “You are disgusting, ain’t you, you little
faggot? Ain’t you disgusting, faggot, huh? Say you disgusting, faggot.”
“Shut the fuck up, Jesus,” says Mickey, and throws his elbow back as hard as he
can into the guy’s nose. The hand leaves his hair, but he gets a hard kick in
the back of the knee to replace it, hits his head on the wall again on the way
down. Homophobe #2 has long as fuck legs and is at Mickey’s side in a second to
kick him there too. Mickey can feel the bruises beginning to build, but gets it
together less than slowly and grabs the ankle attached to the next foot that
flies at him and twists it like it’s a neck he’s trying to break. Homophobe #1
shrieks and goes down, swinging his other foot at Mickey’s head on his way. He
gets a knee smashed against the wall with all of Mickey’s weight for his
efforts. He ducks out with a whimper at that, just pulls himself backwards and
lays on the ground.
Homophobe #2, on the other hand, is just getting started, it seems like. He
pulls Mickey up by his hair – what is it with the fucking hair?! – and Mickey
gets to get a look at his face. He’s a brutish, ugly motherfucker, the kind of
stringy-haired, pasty, dead-looking Aryan that only meth-heads can really be,
with a badly done Swastika tatt peeking out from the dirty collar of his shirt.
Mickey laughs even as a fist compresses his solar plexus. Good to fucking know
that his being a disgusting faggot can bring people together.
Aryan Dickhead gets in a few more pretty solid hits, couple against Mickey’s
shoulders but most on his forearms when he manages to block them from getting
him in the belly, one above Mickey’s brow that he can feel start to bleed
immediately. Then Mickey gets fed the fuck up and just shoots a fist straight
forward into the guy’s crotch. He wobbles backward with a strangled groan, but
stands upright and charges Mickey not a second later. Mickey is flattened
against the wall, the back of his head now also having the pleasure to make its
acquaintance, black spots popping in front of his eyes momentarily. He figures
fuck it at this point, and fucking head-butts the asshole. The wet crunch of
his nose breaking against Mickey’s skull, and the hot smear of his blood on
Mickey’s forehead, is nothing short of beautiful. As the guy falls back again,
Mickey plants a foot in his gut and sends him to the ground.
Mickey gets down on one knee next to the guy’s face, curls his fist and shows
his ink, then rubs it into the guy’s nose, the curve of his U pressed right
where the cartilage has separated from the bone. The guy howls for a second but
then quiets, like he thinks he can still act like some kind of tough guy after
getting fucking served by a candy ass who’s like a third of his size. Mickey
smiles patronizingly at him and his shiny tears. Some of Mickey’s blood drips
into his eye and that is both really gross and also some serious karmic
justice. Mickey gets a feral pleasure watching him try to blink it out.
“Even if I wanted to be somebody’s bitch,” Mickey tells him in the trademark
Milkovich Means Business Voice. “Ain’t nobody around who could make me one.”
“Thought you fuckers were born that way,” the asshole spits, so Mickey pulls
his fist back and is about to bring it down nice and hard when the rough hands
of a guard grab him under the armpits and lift him away. He puts up a little
fight but knows better than to try throwing any punches. As two guards drag him
away and another one keeps his assaulter-turned-victim down on the floor,
Mickey kind of wants to shout at him that the hand that was just on his face
happened to be up Mickey’s ass last night, but he can’t manage to spit it the
fuck out in front of the new arrivals. Hopefully the Nazi bastard will think of
it himself.
-
Mickey’s counselor stares at him over her steepled fingers, his file open in
front of her. Mickey’s been patched up, but he’s got two black eyes and a
tender nose, a split lip, a cut across one side of his forehead, a bruise
behind his knee, one above his hip, and more from his shoulders to his wrists.
Every time he squeezes his fists too tight his knuckles split a little. He
hasn’t stopped opening and closing his hands since he got out of the infirmary
– that, or grinning like a Cheshire cat who caught himself a sweet rat. He
attempts to tone it down for her in the hopes of getting a lighter punishment,
but he’s not sure how successful he is. Probably not very.
“Mr. Milkovich,” she sighs, sadly. “You were doing so well. What happened?”
Mickey shrugs, can feel his grin coming back despite himself.
“Somebody asks for a beat down, a beat down’s what they get,” he tells her, and
then tacks on, just to be a fucking shit because there’s no doubt he’s screwed
now so he might as well go for broke, “Ma’am.” Her mouth thins a little, but
then she just shakes her head, shuffles his papers a little bit.
“Mr. Milkovich,” she says again, and this time with what’s supposed to be
authority. She sounds like a teacher or a mom, and Mickey just doesn’t put much
stock in those kinds of rule-makers. His loyalty and/or compliance is earned
through fear or money (or disturbingly strong infatuation, which may or may not
be something else much shorter. Regardless, not respect). She describes to
Mickey the damage he did to his foes and his grin widens when he hears it’s
considerable, proud. But the thrill of his undeniable victory fades almost like
it was never there when she tells him about added time. So they’re taking away
his early release date, fine. He’ll deal with it. But then she says “six months
beyond your original sentence” and Mickey’s ears start ringing. He doesn’t hear
anything else she says until she gets to “– know you said they started it, but
if you won’t tell us why we can’t –”
“Because I’m a fag.” The words are out of Mickey’s mouth before he has any
knowledge of them existing, and he doesn’t even realize what he’s said until he
looks at the counselor’s face and sees that her eyes are so wide in her shock
that they almost look round. When he finally catches up to what he’s done,
Mickey feels like he’s been set on fire – the terror and the defensive fury are
like hot oil all over his body and in his mouth and he curses her with every
relevant slur he can think of, starting with bitch and ending with zipperhead.
Her only response when he’s done is, “Well.” She closes his file with the slap
of crisp manila and points a finger tipped with a perfectly done nail at her
door without looking at him. The nail is just a shade pointy and painted dark
and kind of reminds Mickey of his sister. He feels a little guilty, but mostly
just scared. He gets up and flees like a beaten dog.
-
When Mickey sees Homophobic Agent Double-Oh Tattle-Tale in the cafeteria he
goes over and lets a nice wad of spit make its way, slow and dramatic and
fucking nasty, from his mouth onto the douchebag’s boloney and cheese sandwich.
-
Mickey’s counselor brings him into her office again three days later. She
brusquely shoves some little halfling brochures into his hands.
“Take these quick courses and you can earn back your good behavior privileges,
as long as there’s no more fights,” she instructs. “I character referenced for
you.” Mickey stares at her, waits for her to laugh and say ‘Just kidding!
You’re fucked and I’ll be seeing you right here in revenge meetings every week
for the next year’. But she doesn’t, just meets his unsure eyes with hardened
ones of her own.
“I literally shat on everything that you are,” Mickey reminds her, completely
flabbergasted.
“Yes,” she confirms. “But you shat on yourself a little bit too, didn’t you?”
He gives her a look full of incredulousness and a little disgust. Like that’s
an excuse?! But the corner of her mouth ticks up just a touch and she adds,
“Mr. Milkovich, it’s my job to deal with fucked up little shitstains like
yourself. The establishment wants me to rehabilitate all you assholes within
the confines of a system that is not made for rehabilitation. At least with
you, I know what your fucking problem is.”
Mickey feels sick to his stomach at the casual reminder that she knows, but all
he says this time is, “Fair enough.” He stands and crumples the brochures into
his pocket, heads for the door.
“Mr. Milkovich,” the counselor calls before he makes it out. He glances back at
her over his shoulder to see that she’s writing heavily in the margins of
somebody’s file. He hopes it’s not his. “Liking what you like doesn’t make you
a bitch.” And with that life lesson delivered she gives him a Meryl Streep wave
and he is dismissed.
He takes the fucking brochures to the library and signs up for all of the quick
courses they’re requiring of him, plus a few more just for good measure.
-
The courses pass over four weeks. Mickey probably shouldn’t have taken them all
at once. He doesn’t retain much, but he manages to pass all of them so
whatever. Plus, he’s in a real fucking hurry to get out of here at this point.
There’s probably less fucking gay drama on the outside by now.
His counselor takes him into her office again and tells him that the completion
of the courses earned him back his two months off, and that the “initiative” to
take extras made him look really good. She says that if he keeps up the good
behavior from before the fight and doesn’t have any more “altercations” then he
might even be able to get a few more. She suggests taking another course just
to really bring it home.
Mickey picks a thing on Shakespeare, because it makes him think of Ian.
-
He ends up a lucky little bastard with four months shaved off his sentence, and
he gets out only a little over a month after his “altercation”. He even gets
out before Hobbs, even though Hobbs hasn’t laid a hand on anybody since Mickey
met him. Mickey gets to put on his own god damn clothes again in the middle of
the afternoon on some random fucking Tuesday, takes a deep, rejuvenating breath
of polluted Chicagoan air as he’s let back out of the not-so-pearly gates, and
exits that hellhole stage fucking left.
Nobody’s waiting for him, but that makes easy sense because the only person who
would meet him would be Mandy (and Ian, but probably not Ian this time) and
she’s in school. Or, actually, Mickey realizes as he checks the time on his
phone (no messages or missed calls), she’s just getting out. Ian’s got that
ROTC shit on Tuesdays, so he’ll still be on campus for another couple hours.
Mickey didn’t realize he knew that, but it comes in handy now, because Mickey’s
still hungry. He’s got a real craving for some fucking PB&J, emphasis on the J.
End Notes
     look me up on tumblr for stale meta n fresh memes
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