#i just think andrew and mickey would be like a couple stray cats is all. on sight

[alcego]

somehow, i don't think this is what you had in mind. anyway. cw for Mickey-typical use of the f-slur in the slurious way & canon-typical violence. enjoy?

The Alibi is as busy as it ever gets, which is to say enough to look occupied but hardly enough to pay the bills. For some reason, tonight this also means that the bar is loaded and Kev's actually slinging drinks instead of dragging his sticky cumsock of a rag over the counter and telling Frank to fuck off.

Someone small and blond shoulders his way onto the stool next to Mickey. He's not local--that much is obvious from a quick glance--and he's dressed worlds too nice to be slumming it at the Alibi.

"Seat's taken," Mickey lies, irritated by the uninterrupted stitching on the fucker's 'fashionably' worn leather jacket. "Try again never."

The guy barely acknowledges him. Just raises a finger and all a sudden he's got Kev at his beck and call, tossing him a shot of their most expensive vodka with a predatory gleam in his eye.

Mickey, still three beers short of drunk and well past pissed off, sneers at the guy. Says, "Back your faggoty ass up and find someplace else to drink that watery shit. You got the whole pick of the litter out there."

The guy's face doesn't really change, but it's ice-cold. Like how Ian got, sometimes, before they got the meds right. That hollow vacancy where feelings were supposed to be. The guy says, "I don't like that word."

"Fuck do I care?" Mickey scoffs. "What're you gonna do? Stab me?"

By the time Mickey realizes there's a knife at his gut, it's a little late to do shit about it. He laughs instead, eyebrows launching off his forehead, and even knowing he might be getting real close with his insides soon isn't enough to distract him from the fact he's taller than this fucking guy by a long shot.

Ian's gonna get a kick out of this, once he's done kicking Mickey's ass.

"Yo, whoa, hold on there--" Kev, interjecting, smiling placatingly at the blond midget who's thinking about stabbing Mickey with the same expression on his face he ordered shots with "--we're all friends here, yeah? Just, ah, put the knife away."

The vein in the guy's temple throbs. The knife digs in a little more. Mickey thinks a light stabbing is preferable to losing all street cred to some psychotic midget. That's his whole job, his livelihood, and he ain't throwing that down the shitter because this guy thinks he's all high and mighty for having a knife, of all things.

Ignoring Kev, Mickey jabs a foot into the midget's knee, knocking himself off his stool and onto his feet at the same time. His stomach's a little wet, which he hopes is from spilled beer, but he's not feeling real confident about that right now, for obvious reasons.

"Fuck!" Kevin cries, as if Mickey doesn't see the guy picking himself up off the ground and throwing a haymaker into Mickey's jaw.

Thanks. Lotsa help. Why the fuck did nobody mention this guy could fight? This scrap should be one and done, but here Mickey is, honest to god fighting this short-stack.

"Jesus, Mickey! Watch the knees--"

"The fuck do I care about his knees?" Mickey snarls, throwing a punch past the guy's hold on his sweater and catching his cheekbone. "Who's side you on, anyway?"

"The fucking NHL goalie's, man!"

Mickey shoves the guy off, keeping a wary eye on him even though he seems more subdued (if visibly angrier) than he had a second ago. Kev is pointing to the piece of shit flatscreen in the corner, and when Mickey looks, there is a remarkably short goalie on the screen. Hard to say if they're the same person with the cage, but sometimes Kev is smart. Most times he's dumb as shit. From that scrap alone, Mickey's thinking he's onto something.

"What's a pro hockey player doing at the Alibi?" Mickey snaps. "Surely you got better things to do than slum it up here."

The guy--whose name Mickey did not catch, thanks--glares at him but says nothing. Just goes back to the bar and grabs the whiskey Kev poured for him, no doubt on the house. As if the guy needs the help.

"What? Too good to talk to the little guy? Is that it?"

Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Mickey makes a you seeing this shit? gesture at him before grabbing his beer and sulking stubbornly at his spot on the bar. The guy does not acknowledge him. Seems to be pretending Mickey doesn't exist. Mickey's about three seconds away from tossing him out of the Alibi on his ass when the door opens and a scrappy, auburn twink stomps his way in.

His eyes light up when he sees the guy, and flash with very real violence when he notices the blossoming red of his cheek. Mickey pretends not to notice him. Starts wondering just what it is with short assholes in his place tonight. Makes it about as far as thinking he should call Mandy's old number and ask her if his star charts said anything about pissing off tiny asshole fags, because he knows it would piss her off, too.

He catches the reddish haired guy (not nearly as bright or as alien-looking as Ian's) asking about the bruise again. Picks up on the blond's eyes flicking toward him for a half second. Knows, about a half-second before it happens, that he's not putting up with shit tonight.

Shortcake Number Two throws a wide, sloppy punch. Mickey catches it. Grapples with the guy until he's off the stool and has about a millisecond to realize the knifey blond really does not care for this at all.

"Oh fuck me," Mickey manages, right before he gets stabbed. Lightly. In the thigh. Because that totally matters and makes it hurt less, and makes it much more dignified when he hops straight into the bar while clutching his bloody leg. "Goddamn it, the fuck's wrong with you knifey motherfuckers?"

"I've been told it's an attitude problem," Shortcake Number Two says, looking like he wouldn't mind throwing another punch or ten. "Haven't really been working on it."

"Mick," Kev whispers urgently, notably doing nothing to help Mickey with his little bleeding problem, "that's Neil Josten."

"Who?"

Kev gestures at the TV. Presumably this means Neil is also a hockey player, also with the NHL, and also in his bar for some goddamn reason?

"Like I fuckin' care who he is," Mickey snaps. "Go slum it somewhere else, assholes. I've bled here enough times that you couldn't kick me out if you tried."

Neil glares at him. Openly. With full hostility. Mickey thinks he remembers some uproar about a mafia reject in the NHL and thinks he should really get some sort of heads-up system for when he's about to get himself into shit with fuck-off big crime organizations. Make a little calendar notification for Ian: Get stabed by Mafia Rejecks 1 & 2, By Goz!

"Come on," Neil says, looking at Mickey while talking to his (fuck) boyfriend. They're too close to be anything else. "There's a guy off the corner who sells a passable sandwich."

"Oh, Corner Joe?" Kev asks. "Yeah, I wouldn't buy from him. He gets all his stuff out of people's trash cans. Probably all weird and gross."

The blond -- whose name Mickey still doesn't know -- turns to face Neil slowly. His blank expression doesn't change, but it's chilling nonetheless. Neil scowls at Kev.

"It was fine."

"That means nothing, coming from you," the blond says dryly. He looks at Kev. Raises an expectant eyebrow.

Sure enough, Kev recommends them a restaurant, and actually makes it a real recommendation instead of pandering to one of the many ongoing scams like he's supposed to.

Neil and his stabby boyfriend leave, paying Mickey no more attention than they would an annoying cat. Mickey, who is still bleeding down the back of his thigh, makes a what-the-fuck face and gesture at Kev and, for good measure, asks, "What the fuck?"

"Neil's from the neighborhood," Kev says, like this explains anything.

"So? You're siding with those gentrifying fuckers now?"

Kev shakes his head. "No, man. There's something about him. He acts like a stray cat, you know? I can't shake him."

"As long as his psycho boyfriend stays away, I don't care."

Kev makes a disagreeing sound. "I wouldn't count on it. They're kind of a package deal, like you and Ian."

"Fuck you mean package deal?" Mickey snaps. "That supposed to be some kind of gay joke? 'Cause it sucks if it is."

Kev stares at him for a long second. "It wasn't. But you can pretend it was if it'll make you feel better."

"Fuck off," Mickey says, and drinks his beer, and decides to empty the register next time Kev is distracted as retaliation for what was Absolutely a gay joke. He's not ready to think about him and Ian and him-and-Ian, even if they are technically kind of ghetto married, even though Mickey's real married to someone else.

He was three beers to drunk, right? He can close that distance pretty fuckin fast if he has to.

Pleeeeeeeeease, could someone write a fic about Andreil and Gallavich in the same universe 🙏 I would pay to see Mickey and Andrew in a room being smart mouths, talking about their redheaded boyfriends, being the "I hate everyone but you" trope, being violent and bffs, idk I just wish that would happen 🥺