Chapter Text
A social worker dropped him off at O’Hare International Airport — Mickey’s last moments in his hometown of Chicago. He couldn’t say it was a sad moment, but there was a tinge of something close to sadness as he boarded the plane to Forks, Washington. The social worker tried to be casual about the whole ordeal, but in her attempt to do that she tried too hard and made it impossible for Mickey to ignore the urge to cringe.
He was adopted. At 17 years old. Who the fuck adopts a seventeen year old?
Mickey just hoped he wasn’t being sent to some sort of sweatshop or some shit disguised as an adoptive home. He’d had this family before as a foster home several of the numerous times growing up when Terry Milkovich got CPS involved in their shit. They were nice enough, but it’d been a few years since he’d seen them, and apparently he was only going to the dad of the family. The whole thing seemed sketchy as fuck, and yet the state of Illinois and this guy made some sort of arrangement and now this guy assumed legal responsibility over him.
So long as there was no hard labor involved, Mickey supposed it couldn’t be too bad.
Flying over the city of Chicago, Mickey said a silent, short list of goodbyes to himself. First, to his his sister Mandy who was scooped up by a different family who had fostered her before, and then to his his brothers Iggy and Jamie. And he didn’t forget to add a quick ‘fuck you’ to his old man as they flew over what he believed was Cook County Corrections.
He’d never even heard of Forks before the other week when he was informed that his new adoptive father was saving him from the level fourteen group home he was shoved into this last time Terry got arrested. But from what he’d been told it was cold, damp, and small.
So small that the town didn’t have its own airport, and so his new dad (which he would refuse to call him, no matter what the fucker expected) was picking him up from the airport in Port Angeles and driving them the hour or so down to Forks.
Mickey rubbed absently at his brow, a nervous tick that allowed him to gulp in a giant breath of air to settle his uneasy stomach without people noticing so much. It was a gesture that suggested boredom rather than anxiety, and he preferred it that way.
The cringiest part of this whole fuckin thing was that he hadn’t even talked to the guy who adopted him. All information about the adoption and his move was handled through the social worker and Mickey just did whatever he had to do to get out of that group home. He’d miss his sister and brothers, he’d miss his shitty fuckin neighborhood, but he would not miss hustling and dodging gangs and police, and definitely wouldn’t miss answering to Terry Milkovich whether the man was locked up or breathing down his neck. Though he was nervous about this whole thing because it all seemed so… well, un-legit, if that could even be a word. He was ultimately more eager to get the fuck outta dodge and so was ready to do whatever it took to get there… Wherever the fuck “there” may be...
He had only one duffle bag of clothes to take with him to his new place, so he didn’t even bother with baggage claim, walking briskly to the exit where he was told his new adoptive father would be picking him up.
Indeed, amongst a few other people with signs reading passenger’s names, stood a tall white guy with a thick but well-maintained brown mustache holding a sign that read “Mickey” in bold hand-written letters. He walked up to the slightly familiar face, anxiety roaring through his stomach trying to figure out how much had changed since the last time he’d been in this guy’s custody.
“Hey, bud!” The guy greeted a little too brightly.
“Uhh, hey,” Mickey replied simply. “Charlie, right?”
“Yeah,” he replied as easily.
“Uh, good to see you again?” Mickey said awkwardly.
“Yeah, yeah!”
They stared at each other an awkward moment before Charlie finally gestured for them to turn around and get to the car. Approaching the cop car, Mickey realized aloud, “Oh, right. You’re still a cop…. Thought there may’ve been a career change in with the move.” Charlie smirked as he unlocked the cruiser.
“No, Mickey, that seems to be the one constant in my life.” Mickey worked to school his expression, knowing that judgement and annoyance was surely burning behind his eyes. He opened the passenger door with a tattooed hand and remembered when he’d gotten a lecture about their message: Fuck U-Up. Needless to say, Charlie and Renee Swan hadn’t cared for Mickey’s choice of ink when he’d showed back up on their doorstep at thirteen with a threat scrawled across his fingers. Renee had even cried about it as though it meant the kid had killed.
Charlie’s eye caught the ink on his knuckles as he buckled his seatbelt and he looked away with a barely audible huff of disappointment.
“Still have those tattoos I see,” Charlie remarked as he started the car. Mickey examined his tattoos.
“Um, yeah. That’s kind of the thing about tattoos… They’re permanent.” Mickey tried to reign in his sarcasm and snark since he was dealing with a cop, but what the fuck kind of dumbass comment was that? Out of the corner of his eye Mickey saw Charlie shrug.
“Could’ve faded,” he defended. Whatever. Just wanted to not feel like a total dumbass. Mickey decided to say nothing and Charlie drove in silence. Thirty minutes into the hour long drive, he finally spoke up again. “There’s not public transportation around Forks like there is in Chicago.” Mickey turned to face his guardian.
“Guess I should’ve expected that,” Mickey grumbled, returning his attention to the passenger window.
“Yeah, I know you’re used to the El and buses but the public transportation system isn’t quite what it could be — definitely not what you’re used to.”
“So… I’m walking everywhere when a bus won’t work?” Mickey guessed.
“No, actually! I was able to get a good deal on a car for you.” Mickey’s whole body flashed to face Charlie, at least as much as could be allowed in the seat.
“A car?!” Mickey couldn’t hold in his shock. As uncomfortable as he was being around a damn near complete stranger, he was still grateful to the guy for getting him out of that awful group home. What more did he really need from the guy? He was already giving him free room and board as far as he knew and now a car?
“A truck actually. A Chevy, fixed up by a buddy of mine’s son down at La Push.”
La Push? Jesus, what was it with the North Westerners with their weird ass town names?
“Um, thanks. I really appreciate it. Y’know I really don’t have any cash or anything so I can’t pay you back or cover insurance or anything,”
“Don’t worry about that for now. Just, get adjusted and I’m sure you’ll find somewhere to get a part-time job. Until then, just work on making yourself comfortable.”
This was all so foreign to Mickey — someone doing something nice for him without expecting the favor to be repaid. . He also got the sense that Charlie was trying to make a deal with Mickey: He’d be generous and do what he could to give Mickey a happy home so long as Mickey behaved. They’d been down this road before back when he and Renee were still married and fostering together. Mickey was loyal to his dad to a fault and in those days specifically Mickey had no intention of stopping his routine. Charlie had tried to crack the whip and at every turn Mickey defied him — one of multiple reasons the name Charlie Swan had shocked him when he was informed that he was being legally adopted out of the system. Back then, Charlie finally learned to handle him — like a normal person capable of intelligent thought and good choices, Terry Milkovich be damned. And though Mickey hated being some shrink’s textbook case of something or other, he did respond well to Charlie treating him with that kind of trust and respect. And Mickey fully expected that method to continue working considering he was already cringing at the thought of doing anything to let Charlie down.
The silence got uncomfortable in a hurry so, after thrumming an unspecified beat against his knee with his fingertips, Mickey decided to inquire about his welcome-to-the-family gift.
“So, uh, Chevy?” Charlie nodded, a slight smile perking on one side. “What year is it?” Charlie visibly winced as though he’d hoped Mickey wouldn’t ask.
“Well, a lot of work’s been done on it, but it’s a decent number of years past what we’d call ‘its prime.’” Mickey’s brows furrowed and he shot a look at Charlie.
“Like… decades?” Charlie turned on his turn signal and exited for Forks.
“Yeeeah…. It’s early sixties. But, I promise, the thing runs great!” Mickey’s brows shot up in disbelief.
“Well, I sure as fuck hope so, ‘cus I won’t know how to fix it.” Charlie chuckled lightly.
“I’m sure Billy’s boy’ll be happy to pitch in if it needs something more than maintenance. Other’n that I’m sure you and I can figure it out!” Mickey turned his look of sarcastic disbelief away from the police chief, certain he was already pushing his luck with the cursing a moment ago.
Heading into Forks, Mickey was struck by how green everything was. He’d been prepared for more foliage, extra trees… like one giant park. But that didn’t even cover it. This was unlike anything Mickey’d ever seen before. The general surroundings were so green that not even the sidewalks looked completely grey or beige, almost like the leaves and grass were reflecting off the pavement to give it a more Earthly hue.
“There might be some culture shock at first. I know it’s weird going from such a major city, and such a rough part of that major city, to such a small town.”
Small was an understatement! They’d been in Forks city limits for about twenty minutes and Mickey had seen maybe a dozen people out and about at four PM on a Tuesday! By this point in Chicago, rush hour was already under way and the El was probably on its way to a delay as well.
He supposed the area was pretty, but it was still weird. No building was above three stories high here, and he was probably being generous in assuming one of them was that high. Still, it was quiet and maybe he could finally relax for once.
But with time to relax would eventually come boredom, and that was what Mickey dreaded the most. The kids in this town probably grew up together since diapers. How was he supposed to get to know anybody? Granted, he didn’t really care to, but… Hey, even a Milkovich needed someone to talk to. But considering a cellphone was on the list of things Mickey wouldn’t get unless it was gifted to him, the only chance he stood of talking to his sister or brothers again was if Charlie ended up being one of those weirdos who still paid for a landline.
Mickey’s leg started bouncing in agitation, and yes anxiety, at the thought of how long it’d probably be before he heard from his siblings. The back of his neck prickled at the thought of just how alone he was going to be. This was something he hadn’t even considered over this whole process. He’d just heard “away from Chicago,” which translated to “away from Terry Milkovich,” and did whatever he had to do to make this happen. He knew his sister was about to lead a happy life, and he knew that his brothers could do no more than he could do to help bust him out of the group home without a social worker hunting him down.
Charlie and Mickey pulled up to a decently sized two story house about twenty minutes later. Mickey took his time to examine the small yard, the tall trees, the plentiful grass and the ivy snaking up the side of the porch beams.
He’d heard the word ‘quaint’ somewhere before and for some reason, the word seemed to fit though he couldn’t recall precisely what it meant.
“What do you think?” Charlie asked in a murmur. Mickey flicked his eyes to the police chief for a quick second before returning his gaze to the porch and wide windows looking into what was probably the living room.
“Looks nice… Comfortable,” Mickey finally replied. Charlie gave him a half smile.
“Yeah, it is. I hope you feel the same about the inside.” Mickey sucked in a quick settling breath and exited the car, reaching to the floorboard for the duffle he’d stashed at his feet during the car ride.
In the driveway, Mickey noticed a dulled red truck that definitely screamed ‘60s!
He stopped in his tracks to take a look at the thing in interest. Charlie turned when he noticed Mickey wasn’t following.
“Ah, yep, there it is!” Charlie beamed proudly. Mickey scratched at the back of his neck awkwardly.
“There it is…” he murmured. “And you’re sure it runs?” He asked after an awkward pause.
“Definitely. Billy and his boy Jacob dropped it off and I took it to fill up. You know how to drive a clutch right?”
Mickey turned to face him, brow arched. Where the fuck did this guy think Mickey would learn to drive a fuckin clutch?!
“I’ll teach you,” Charlie murmured awkwardly and continued into the house. Mickey huffed an irritated sigh and followed.
The place was a total bachelor pad, much to Mickey’s pleasant surprise. Leather sofa and worn-in LaZBoy recliner settled in the center of the living room with simple lamps on either end of the furniture, a case of movies — a feature Mickey’d have to check out later — directly adjacent to a huge TV — had to be at least 50 inch — and a mantle with ample selection of bourbons and scotches greeted Mickey on his right. To the left, a simple kitchen with a small dining table off to the side, almost like a nook, was lit bright from sun streaming in through large windows.
“Your room’s up the stairs, last door on the right. Sorry we’ll be neighbors, I never really expected to… well, do this!” He laughed awkwardly. Mickey’s brow arched, a sarcastic comment circling in his chest which he refused to satisfy by voicing. The way Charlie said that though, it made Mickey feel like he was an impulse-buy item, and it felt… gross.
He tossed the duffle over his shoulder and hiked up the stairs to his new room, relieved to find the space was neutral in every sense of the word. The walls were painted a light tan slightly darker than beige and on the bed Charlie had provided a navy duvet that looked so comfortable, soft, and warm, Mickey was tempted to go ahead and burrow under for a minute or two. Instead, he opted to lay his bag on the bed, try out the small lamp on the pressed wood side table, and take in the rest of his room. A matching desk sat directly in front of a decently sized window which Charlie had generously covered with a sheer black curtain, a matching curtain covered the window by his bed too. He rubbed at the back of his neck again and bit his lip as he fought a yawn. He wasn’t even tired, it was just as though his body was already screaming at him “BOREDOM CENTRAL! FIND EXCITEMENT!”
Mickey chose to go ahead and place his clothes in the small closet directly behind the bedroom door and the short stack dresser at the foot of the bed. He knew he’d have to figure out a way of acquiring heavier apparel. For now he had four thermal tee-shirts, a week’s worth of jeans, an assortment of tee-shirts he’d collected for the past several years, most of them with the sleeves cut off and small holes scattered through the fabric, and the winter coat he’d carried over his arm. So far, the Washington climate wasn’t too brisk, but he’d been warned that winters were going to be brutal, though Mickey was confident he could handle it since he’d grown up in the windy city.
He took one more sweeping glance at the room and grimaced, rubbing aggravatedly at his forehead with his knuckles. Everything surrounding him was just… alien. Nothing was his, he owned nothing and was completely at the mercy of Charlie Swan. He knew it wasn’t like that, and that he was supposed to be this guy’s child but… how did that work with a seventeen year old? Mickey was practically an adult as it was and was fixed in his fucked-up ways. Hell, did Charlie even know all of the raps he’d beat back in Chicago? Mickey had faced a state judge three times and barely evaded juvie each time.
He huffed a breath and folded up his empty duffle bag into a neat square. The fact was he was here. And though the hardest part of this whole thing was going to be leaving his past self behind, the thing was that he got to, was allowed to. With all of the shit he was forced into and all of the shit he willingly got himself into, Mickey never had the chance to actually think about who he precisely was.
Since childhood, he’d been Terry Milkovich’s boy — the perfect ingenue who would take over the family business with the Ukrainian mafia. And even though he’d never wanted that life, he’d accepted it because he knew that at the end of the day he had no choice.
But now he had a choice! And the choices are what freaked him out so badly. How could you pick a direction when the only direction you’d ever known was the only one completely unavailable to you?
He tucked the duffle bag under the bed, and returned downstairs to get some shit straightened out with his new guardian.
The stairs were sturdy, but his heavy steps still thundered as he descended them. Charlie didn’t say anything, but Mickey made a mental bet with himself on how many times he could descend the stairs like that before Charlie demanded he slow it down — two weeks max before the hardass cop took over and started acting like a “dad.”
The guy pulled out a beer for himself and Mickey was almost irritated that he didn’t pull a second one out for him until he remembered where he was.
Living with a cop… This was going to be fuckin tricky. Before this, being in group homes was the most amount of time Mickey spent without booze, and though he wasn’t an addict or anything, there was no denying that it was a habit for him to grab a cold one to settle with most nights. That was one thing Mickey definitely couldn’t do until he either got bored enough or comfortable enough to yank some beer from a convenience store somewhere. In the meantime, Charlie asked if he wanted a Coke or water, to which Mickey replied, “whatever.”
Charlie passed him a cold can of Coca-Cola, which Mickey chose to imagine was laced with some Jack.
“All settled in?” Charlie asked. Mickey shrugged.
“Don’t really have much to settle.” Charlie sighed and sat at the head of the table.
“Mickey… let’s talk.” Mickey nodded and joined him at the table, taking a healthy sip of his soda as Charlie took a gulp of beer. “I want you to be comfortable here. I know you came from… well, some shit. I know!”
“Do you?” Mickey challenged, brows raised defiantly.
“I do. I know more about you than you think. Your dad had you doing some shady shit back in Chicago and he started you out young. But I also know who you are when you aren’t around him. You’re different. You want to do better than your old man, I’ve seen it. And I think you can do that here in Forks. There are great kids here, kids who have fun and enjoy being young without causing trouble. And there’s no need for you to do what you were forced to, or what you learned to do, for the sake of survival. None of that is necessary anymore.”
Mickey licked his bottom lip to smooth the dried skin before biting down — another anxious tic.
“The community knows you’re coming,” he continued. Mickey released a dark chuckle.
“Great. Lock up the houses for the first time in thirty years, the hoodrat’s comin’ to town,” Mickey mocked. Charlie’s expression remained serious and open.
“I get it. I do.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Chief Swan, but I really don’t see how that’s possible.” Charlie sat back in his chair and nodded gravely.
“Your school’s small, like the rest of the town. Only three hundred and fifty-eight students now, including you. It’s going to be a huge adjustment for you but I want you to trust me enough to come to me with this process. A’right?” Mickey wanted to mock him again, but the sincerity in his eyes cut Mickey short. “Do your best to keep your nose clean here… Catch up on your schoolwork. Apply yourself like you couldn’t before. That’s why I did this... because I never forgot you. Why do you think Renee and I got you three times?”
“‘Cuz Cook County’s got lazy fucks for social workers and wanted to stick me with someone who wouldn’t bitch about the Milkovich kid.”
Charlie, despite himself, laughed at that and scratched the back of his head, brows raising as though saying ‘touche.’
“Well… It’s also because Renee and I really liked havin’ you around and you don’t deserve the cards you were dealt… And I want to help you get somewhere in your life.”
It was so fuckin corny… and yet Mickey’s hard exterior softened a little bit at the level of sincerity. School was always a joke to the Milkoviches. Why fuck with reading, writing, and arithmetic when their society was consciously doing everything it could to keep the bottomfeeders like them down no matter what they did? Terry Milkovich taught his kids to take from the ones who took from them and to work to keep them from getting anything in the first place. It was a philosophy that seemed to work pretty well for them…
But maybe not.
“Don’t expect me to go callin you Dad or nothin… I already got one. He’s a piece of shit, but he’s mine,” Mickey replied decidedly.
“That’s fine,” Charlie promised easily. Mickey nodded and after a long, awkward pause, stood from the table to go gander at the movie selection. He didn’t see anything familiar in the collection… No Seagal, no Van Damme, not even Stalone!
He heard the oven click on, then the approaching steps of his new guardian.
“Ever see the Matrix movies?” Charlie asked behind him. Mickey turned to face him and shook his head. “Classics! C’mon, there’s a whole trilogy if you like the first one.”
Mickey sank deep into the sofa, drinking his Coke and watching the movie… Enjoying it so thoroughly that when Charlie asked if he wanted to continue the trilogy Mickey shrugged in agreement. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d just sacked out on a sofa and did nothing… But even if he had done it before, it certainly didn’t feel this relaxing.
Mickey was wary of how quickly he was settling in already. Something wasn’t right here… This just… it wasn’t him! He was a fuck up, he was born and bred to be what he was. Milkoviches didn’t just have impromptu movie nights (especially not sober). In his family, a night in involved wrapping or bagging product, filing serial numbers off various weapons… maybe a Seagal movie in the background to their own party with copious vodka and coke (the real coke, not this over-sugared soft drink in his hand).
Once the movie was over, they sat down at the dining room table to eat dinner and they discussed the film. Though the broiled steak was delicious and the conversation was good, this whole thing felt false somehow, like Mickey was putting on an act.
This was all a sham. And Mickey knew it.
Even as Charlie wrote down instructions for how to work a stick shift, which he promised would be easy from this truck because it was so old it was only a three gear, and tried to hype up Forks High again, Mickey couldn’t escape feeling like a stranger in some benefactor’s house. For now, that’s exactly what it felt like, probably because that’s exactly what it was. As Mickey sank into the strange mattress of a bed that wasn’t his, Mickey realized he really didn’t know how he was going to live up to these new expectations. This first day of his new life was nice, it really was. But it also wasn’t him. Then the crushing realization occurred to him that... No matter where he was, someone was always going to try forcing him to act a certain way, be a certain way. It was a shitty fucking feeling, even enveloped in the warmth of downy covers and smooth, fresh sheets on the softest mattress he’d ever lain in.