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Summary
“Right, yeah. Sorry.” The bartender stutters. “I didn’t mean—”
“S’fine,” Mickey says. The word feels ironic, almost. Nothing about any of this is fine. He’s so fucking far from fine, the word doesn’t even feel real coming off his tongue.
The bartender is—whatever. Mickey doesn’t give a shit about this hipster wannabe trying to be politically correct. It’s the rest of it that does him in. The weight of it all on his shoulders, the blood on his hands.
“Shit’s dark sometimes,” Mickey says quietly, his voice almost unrecognizable even to himself.
He stares at the wood grain on the bar, and he keeps going, because he wants—no, he needs someone else to understand this. Or at least try to.
// post-canon: ian isn’t doing well and mickey drinks to cope
Series
- Part 2 of whumptober 2024