"Where you off to?"

Lip spins around, bashes his elbow against the doorframe. "Fuck, Mandy," he sighs, "scared the shit out of me."

Her face remains blank. "Really? Was it my sneaking around?" she says pointedly.

Lip had the gall to believe he was being careful. Besides, today is the first time he and Mickey have been able to cook in the last five days so he hasn't even had to sneak around much recently. Clearly Mandy isn't as dense as he once thought.

"Look," he starts, but Mandy stops him right there:

"No, you fucking look. Is it that fucking skank again? Karen?"

It takes an extreme amount of effort for Lip not to roll his eyes. "No," he says, "and why the fuck does it always come back to Karen?"

Mandy steps a little closer. "You tell me," she says, lips turned up like how a caged animal snarls as observing tourists slowly rile it up. Except Lip hasn't even done anything; it's Mandy who's started this bullshit argument based off her own insecurities. Christ, it's always her who starts this shit about Karen. Something she simply can't let go of, move on from.

Lip doesn't stop his eyes from rolling now. "I'm not cheating on you, I'm not doing anything but seeing a friend from college, alright?" He bends his neck a little so he can look into her eyes. Yeah, he's lying but not about the cheating. And he can't tell her about the meth, not now at least: Mandy's still too pleased about them being mostly law-abiding citizens. "Alright?" he repeats, lower and softer this time, creeping forward.

She stares into his eyes for a long time and Lip holds her gaze until a small smile begins to form on her face. "Alright," she says, allowing him to put his hands to her hips and kiss her.

"I'll be back in a few hours," he whispers into her mouth. Pulls away in time to see her nod, puts on his denim jacket and walks out of the door.

...

Something is off with Mickey. His usual smart-ass sarcastic remarks to nearly everything Lip says replaced with non-committal grunts and "yeah, whatever"s. It's strange and unsettling and Lip finds himself actually wishing Mickey would go back to his aggressive, annoying self.

He puts down the beaker in his hand and faces Mickey who's sat on an empty barrel in the dark corner, phone in hand. "You're quiet today," he says, a hint of accusation in his voice.

A shrug. That's all Lip gets by way of an answer: a fucking shrug.

"PMS?"

Mickey looks up at him, glaring, but otherwise doesn't reply. Something is seriously off with Mickey.

...

They took Lip's car today, seem to have made an unspoken agreement that they'll take it in turns. He follows Mickey's instructions until he pulls up to a house he's still surprised Mickey inhabits.

His face must give away his thoughts because Mickey explains, "My uncle Tommy got me this place; his half-sister left it to him in her will or some shit," as he lights his cigarette.

Lip nods. "Pretty good deal."

Mickey snorts. "What, one house in exchange for one death?"

"Depends. Was she old?"

Mickey actually cracks a smile at that. Shakes his head and opens the car door. Once he's out he leans in through the open window, cigarette smoke drifting inside. "Still cookin' on Sunday?" he asks.

Lip palms the back of his neck; straight after she sucked his brains out of his dick, Mandy asked him to go to a friends' party with her and in his post-orgasmic bliss, he said yes. He can't exactly relay that to Mickey. "Uh, yeah, man. Though maybe a little earlier than we said?"

Though he sighs, annoyed, Mickey says, "Whatever, just text me," and walks away.

Making a U-turn, Lip begins to drive away, joins the early afternoon traffic.

He's sat waiting for the lights to change when his phone begins to ring. He reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls it out.

"Hello?" he answers, not bothering to check the caller ID.

"Hey," comes Fiona's voice, "how you doin'?"

Lip smiles; she starts every phone conversation this way. "I'm good, you?" The light turns green; Lip quickly puts Fiona on loud-speaker and the phone in his lap.

"Yeah, I'm okay. Busy tonight?"

Lip says, "Nah, I'm free."

"Come over for dinner, Tony's bringing back takeout." She adds, "And bring Mandy," like it's an afterthought; three years and Fiona still hasn't completely warmed up to Mandy. It's cool, though. He doesn't care about that anymore.

A car swerves in front of him from the lane to his left and Lip bibs his horn. Mutters, "Fucking idiot," before remembering he's in the middle of a conversation. "Yeah, yeah, we'll be there. Seven?"

"Seven sounds good," Fiona says, "See ya later."

"Yeah, bye."

...

Mandy raises a dubious eyebrow when Lip says, "So Fi wants us over for dinner tonight."

She pauses her washing up, soapy hands dripping water onto the floor. "We as in both of us? Like, you and me?" She huffs and picks up a plate, starts to scrub at it aggressively.

Lip sighs. "Yes. Me and you. Come on, you'll get to see everyone, see how Debbie's doin'." Mandy has a soft spot for her, always has done, almost adopting her as a younger sister for herself.

"Yeah, sure, whatever. So long as Carl's little pervert friend isn't there."

"He won't be. A hatred for Little Hank is something you and my sister actually share." He creeps up behind her, wraps his arms around her slim waist. It's no surprise she doesn't jump, like she's immune to such petty fear. Some hobo pulled a gun on them one night, demanding their money, and all Mandy did was scoff, say, "You think I don't know what a real gun looks like?" and then kneed him in the balls. Lip is pretty sure he'll never be as turned on as he was then.

...

Dinner with his family is just as chaotic as ever. Fighting over who gets what piece of fried chicken; Carl showing Debbie the chewed up food in his mouth; Debbie socking him on the arm in retaliation; Fiona trying to keep the peace and then giving up.

Lip and Ian sit side-by-side, watching on, amused. Mostly because while Fiona stopped playing peacemaker, Tony didn't. And being a DEA officer clearly doesn't mean shit when it comes to controlling rowdy teenagers.

Now with a drink, Mandy takes her seat at the head of the table again, to Lip's left. Her foot makes contact with his calf and he faces her.

"Think he knows he's wasting his breath?" she whispers, smirking.

Lip glances at Tony and his increasingly reddening face. "Nah," he answers, "plus I wanna see how long it takes for him to realise that they're purposely not listening to him so shouting louder is an act of futility."

Mandy snickers and takes a bite of her chicken wing.

...

He knows. He knows he isn't having a panic attack, but in the deep crevices of Lip's mind a fear begins to grow. Begins to make his heart pound impossibly harder, his palms to sweat like they're practically leaking.

Tony's a good cop. Not like he's the good cop to his partner's bad cop. As in he's fucking great at his job. Reasonable but strong-minded and driven. Could be why he managed to get a name from Adam:

Mickey Milkovich.

OOO

James and Gappy want a party. Understandable: their birthdays are two days apart, the day inbetween a Friday. And it's cool, whatever, but they want to have it at Mickey's place.

"Come on, your house is huge and everyone knows where it is! Plus your neighbors never call the cops!" James argues, following Mickey out of the kitchen and into the living room.

Mickey wants to hit him. Wants to not necessarily because of the party but because he keeps putting Mickey in situations where he and Ian fucking bump into each other. And that shit isn't good for his health. Ian is eighth on James' list of party guests.

"It's true, yo!" Ty calls from the kitchen as he heats up a Hot Pocket.

He looks between Jake and Gappy's faces, their pleading, hopeful eyes and groans. Falls back against the couch, resigned.

James jumps into his lap. Yells, "Fuck yes!" and bumps his fist against Gappy's.

Beyond done. Mickey is fucking beyond done. So much so that he lets James sit on his lap whilst he and Gappy play video games; says nothing when Ty calls him a "whipped motherfucker".

Fuck it, maybe he is.

...

Secrets are hard to keep. Especially your own. You wind up wanting to just fucking blurt everything out to the nearest person. Unload all your bullshit so that it's no longer only yours to carry around. People share secrets because it brings them closer to the people they share them with.

Mickey keeps them to himself. Always.

But when Lip pesters him, he wants to explain. Say, "Y'know your brother? I kinda want him to fuck me and then hang out with me. Oh yeah, and I'm a faggot."

Words stay trapped in his mouth, though. Locked in by shame and an instinctual fear that anyone who knows will want to kill him.

So he stays quiet and he does what Lip asks of him: puts the pseudoephedrine, iodine and red phosphorus in the boiling flask with water; watches on as Lip heats it. He works on autopilot after that. Lifting things, passing things, stepping outside to eat.

He feels like shit. All because of some fucking guy which makes it even worse. Mickey doesn't do feelings and romance and all that faggy stuff, alright? Sex is what he does. Fucking.

And it'd be fine if he only wanted that from Ian but no, of course he actually likes the guy. Fucking James and his inability to leave Mickey out of conversations. Dragging him along to talk with Ian and then leaving when johns pull up. Leaving him alone with Ian to go hang out at Dom's bar, shooting the shit until ass o'clock in the morning.

Turns out Ian is a dumbass drunk, one Mickey had to practically carry home last night he was so wasted. Ian also snores real lightly in his sleep. These little snuffling noises.

Fuck, Mickey seriously hopes he's gone by the time he gets back.

...

He is not gone when Mickey gets back.

It's coming up to one in the afternoon; they got in at four.

Mickey lets the front door close behind him and sighs heavenward. Fuck his life, man, seriously. But, hey, at least Ian's still fully clothed, right? Small fucking victories.

He toes his boots off and unzips his navy hoodie, fingerless gloves shoved into his pockets. The house is warm; Ian's cheeks are flushed a little.

And Mickey doesn't know what he's supposed to do. If he keeps staring at the guy then he's gonna have to fucking slap himself for being so gross; if he wakes him he'll feel like a dick; but he can't pretend to go about life normally with Ian asleep on his couch.

Luckily, Ian begins to make noise like he's waking up by himself. Does this nuzzle thing into the cushion and stretches out, all lean muscles and shit.

Mickey wants to scream but instead he puts on the tv. Fucking Housewives of Orange County comes on (Ty needs to stop getting his hands on the remote) and Mickey turns it up. Hopes the whiny voices are enough to have Ian up.

With a loud yawn and one final stretch, Ian eventually sits up, squinted eyes adjusting to the light.

"Hey," he croaks.

Mickey nods. "Want some breakfast or whatever?" he asks, motioning to the kitchen. God, he feels like a fucking idiot.

"Just a coffee, thanks." He gets up to follow Mickey then leans back against the counter next to the oven. "My mouth tastes like ass," he complains and Mickey smirks at his grimace.

"Not fuckin' surprised. The shit you drank, man." He only has that crappy instant coffee because he hates the stuff and Ty actually brings his coffee machine over when he's on a caffeine fix. There's no need for anything fancier. Mickey holds it up and Ian nods, looks thankful for it regardless.

The two of them turn quiet whilst they wait for the kettle to boil. Mickey avoids looking at Ian but can feel Ian staring. It's several seconds later when he asks, "What?" nervously rubbing his thumb over his bottom lip.

Ian smiles. Kinda bashful looking; eyes set on the floor, palm at the back of his neck. "Nothing," he says, glancing back up at Mickey then away again, "nah, it's nothing."

"Alright, freak," Mickey mutters on his way past him to the fridge.

Shoving Mickey's shoulder, Ian laughs, says, "Fuck off and make me my coffee," and that's when there's a knock at the door.

Mickey hands him the milk. Smirks and says, "Do it yourself, bitch." Narrowly avoids a punch and heads for the door.

He wishes he'd pretended to not be at home.

"Morning, Mickey," none other than Tony fucking Markovich says, all angelic smiles like he isn't the biggest asshole to grace the Earth.

"Yeah, what?"

Tony smiles wider. "We need to take you in for some questioning."

"What?"

Impossibly, Tony smiles even wider, bright white teeth practically glinting. Christ, just give the guy a halo and some fucking wings. "A buddy of yours, Adam O'Riley, seems to think you have some important information to share with us. Wanna put some shoes on or are you coming in your socks?"

Mickey clenches his hands into fist. Repeats 'he's a cop, don't punch him' over in his head as he puts his boots back on and his hoodie. He's halfway out the door when he remembers Ian.

"Yo," he calls, "I'll be back later! You can stay watch tv and shit, I don't give a fuck."

Clearly with a mouthful of food, Ian calls, "'Kay, thanks, Mick!"

Closing the door, Mickey rolls his eyes; just a coffee his ass.

...

Tony isn't the worst cop Mickey's met, but he's way too optimistic.

He and his partner, Greg or some shit, ask Mickey the same three questions about a dozen times. Use different words because that'll clearly trick Mickey into answering them.

It isn't working and it still isn't working by the time Mickey's decided what his alibi will be and his lawyer, Maggie, bursts into the room, afro just grazing the top of the doorframe.

"And what's this I see? Questioning my client without a lawyer present?" She smiles, heels clicking as she walks over to the table and slams down her leather briefcase. "Now I know y'all are smart enough to know that that isn't the way it works. I can always get a senior-"

Tony abruptly closes his file and stands. "You have five minutes," he says. Leaves with probably-Greg.

The lock clicks and then Maggie is on his ass. "What the fuck, Milkovich?!" She mutters under breath and takes one of the seats opposite him. Her pale pink blouse looks ready to pop open when she stretches, small glimpses of her tits showing through the spaces between buttons.

Mickey looks down at his hands. "It's cool, alright?"

"It's cool? Really? God damn, thought this guy was your friend."

Mickey shrugs. Whatever. "I can get someone to verify an alibi, it's nothin'." He picks dirt from under his nails. Friendship means jack shit to a lot of cooks and dealers. If it means they can get less time, they'll rat on their own fucking mother. Not all. But some. Mickey wasn't aware that Adam belonged in that category. The brief hurt is easy to ignore, push below other things that he's way more comfortable feeling. Like anger and annoyance. Mickey can thrive off of those two.

Lips settled in a flat line, Maggie sighs at him, head propped up by her hand. "Why not get yourself an honest job?"

Mickey snorts. "What, like you?" he says, cruel tinge to his voice. Because everyone knows that "Magic Maggie" who "can make all your legal issues disappear" is just as criminal as her clients.

"Fine then. Get your alibi sorted." She stands again, brushes her hand down her suit paints. "They're gonna let you go, anyways, but they'll be coming back soon, so sort it out." And she leaves without another word.

Five minutes later and Mickey is released. He's straight on the phone, calling Ty; he needs somebody's number.