The kitchen faucet is dripping. It's echoing this plip plop plink over and over again like a serrated drill opening up his skull and jack hammering into it. The worst part is that sometimes he thinks that it's stopped and then plink.

He snaps his hips forward again and again and wont that god damned sink just fucking –

"Stop!" The body underneath him is hissing and crumbling in on itself. "Jesus that's too hard, you're being too rough."

Mickey is suddenly overwhelmingly aware of the sweat covering his hands. It's not his and it momentarily makes him want to gag. He wipes them off onto the bed sheets and pulls out from whatever fucking mistake he and his dick fell into.

He pads the short distance across his shitty one bedroom apartment to the kitchen and practically tares off the rusted handle and curses loudly when it greets him with a slightly more rhythmic drip.

"I'm sorry I just – I guess I'm just not used to that roughness or –"

Mickey cuts him off. "It's whatever I don't care."

"I'm sorry."

He snaps and turns to face the man who was officially overstaying his welcome. "Jesus fucking Christ I said it's whatever what the fuck do you want from me a hug or some shit?" He needed a cigarette. God what time was it even? He was going to be fucking late for work. "Just get out."

Like a wounded animal licking his wounds the man dragged on his clothes and slunk out without another word – just a sidelong glance like something was just stolen from him. Mickey considered that a compliment because he was a selfish thief and it's all he had so who cares. He doesn't make them fuck him – they want to be stolen.

His stomach is churning. The smell of the sweat on his skin is lingering and it's not familiar. It's sour and scared and pricey like someone who had the audacity to buy body wash from someplace other than cvs.

The sound of gunshots begin to go off and Mickey blunders around the pile of clothes he threw somewhere on the floor. 1 shot, 2 shot, 3 shot – he had 5 before it went to his voicemail and the caller was told to 'fuck off I probably wont call you back'. He only goes to snatch it up and answer because he doesn't think that he'll be able to hear it from his boss in person. If he was going to get chewed out tonight he was only going to be able to not commit murder via the phone.

5th gunshot – fuck.

He has a shitty phone that probably wasn't even sold in stores anymore. The front screen was cracked and it didn't have working caller id but it worked so who cared. It gave off an eerily green glow from underneath the used condom he'd ripped off probably the night before from another no name fuck. It was actually kind of gross.

1 shot, 2 shot… "What the fuck?" No way would his boss call him twice in a row. No one cared that much about the bouncer at a titty bar.

"What?" He spit out the word after tossing the condom in the trash and pulling on some pants.

"Hey Assface." Mickey tripped on the bottom cuff of his jeans and wacked his head into the doorframe letting out a loud hiss. "Are you okay?"

He felt his body start to go cold. "Why the fuck are you calling me?"

"Is that really how you're going to greet me? We haven't talked in what is it – 5 years now?" His sister sounded exactly the same. Not that he thought she would sound difference but fuck if he knew what 5 years would change. She could've been a man now for all he knew. "Nothing to say Mickey? Are you fucking kidding me?"

"How did you get my number?" It was the first coherent question in his mind.

"Lip found you for me." There was a pause. Lip Gallagher. The Southside. His sister and a Gallagher –Gallagher. "He actually gives a damn about my peace of mind and wanted to help me figure out if my own decent piece of shit family member I had was still breathing or not."

Silence.

"Where are you?" Her voice was small and it made him cringe. This was his fault.

A siren blared past the open window and New York City cried out. "It's better if you don't know."

He fumbles with one hand to light the Marlboro red now dangling from his lips. It was his last one. New York had made him even more of a smoker, which he didn't think was possible. If he wasn't done in by his past then he was sure lung cancer was going to be the sweetest bitch of all.

"Mickey, god damnit." His sister breathes out a heavy sigh and he knew that sound. Could pin point it anywhere. He had worn her down more than she should have let him. "Dad's dead."

"You still with Lip huh?" Gotta say I bet against that."

"Did you hear me?" Mandy's voice was wary. "Dad, he died yesterday."

Mickey watches the ash burn down his cigarette. It was nearly one in the morning now. He was definitely fired.

He sits down on the end of his bed and tries to regain control of the muscles in his right leg. It's jumping up and down like how he used to get when he did too much coke in one run.

"How did he die?"

She clears her throat. "Heart attack."

He can't help but scoff. A fucking heart attack. The world was god damned funny sometimes. It would take something as simple as a heart attack to take down Terry Milkovich, Live large and die simple. Death is the ultimate little black dress, the bitch is simple and swift and ruthless but she doesn't need much to do you in.

His phone started to beep. Call waiting? Is this a fucking joke? In 5 years Mickey had barely received 10 calls and now, now he was getting two at once?

"Mandy jesus hold on someone else is calling me it's probably my fucking boss calling to fire me."

"Wait there is something else Mickey hold on –"

He clicked over and sucked hard on the smoke as if trying to kill his lungs more quickly. It was all unraveling now anyway. "What?"

And he really should have hung up. Shouldn't have even waited for the smooth voice to materialize on the other end of the line. He knew it at that moment. He knew before his name was even breathily spoken – he knew who was on the other line.

Time lurched and dragged all at once after that. His fingers fumbling idiotically to click back over to his sister. Mandy god damn it. If Mickey really thought long and hard he could probably trace everything bad in his life back to her. If he hadn't given half a shit about her when she was born he'd probably be dead by now and lets be honest – that would have been so much easier.

"Mickey?" She sounded relieved like she hadn't believed he'd come back. "I need to tell you something. Please it's about Ian, he's back."

He held his breath and bit down on his lip through the filter of his cigarette. He could taste the blood.

"What?"

"Hey Mick."

"The fuck is this?"

"I- I need to talk to you."

Mickey's heart was racing. Yea, he fucking knows he's back. He's on his other line.