Chapter Text
Part One: Run Home
South-side. He guessed it had been close to five years since he had seen his old neighborhood. He hadn't even seen Chicago in nearly three, since moving out of Illinois. Hadn't spoken to anyone aside from his sister since a year after moving. And he'd have been happy to fucking keep it that way, his forgetting this shithole, if not for the phone call he'd gotten two weeks prior to this lovely first of February. So here he was, standing below his old stoop, hands in his jacket pockets, thumbing the letters marring his dirty knuckles.
Mickey licked at his chapped bottom lip, gnawed on the dead skin for a minute as he eyedballed the front door. His eyes flicked around the yard. The over turned sofa, home to a family of rats, probably, was still surrounded by ancient beer cans. The snow covered most of them, but he made out at least a hundred. The thudding and whir of the El zipped by overhead, and Mickey, now slowly walking up the broken wooden steps, made out the distinct sound of shouting as the loudness began to fade. The shouting grew closer to his back as he reached for the doorknob. He gave the knob a turn, only to find it locked. He banged four times with the side of his fist, then took a step back, waiting. Briefly he glanced in the window and watched the reflection of three girls go by his back. The tallest of the three slapped the black one as they speed walked. For a moment he expected a fight, but the trio kept walking, with the tall redhead glaring hard at her victim, daring. The shouts drifted as the front door creeped open.
And there she was.
"You letting me in or what?" Mickey sighed, raising his brows and shrugging.
Mandy opened the door and stepped aside as Mickey entered. She shut the door as her brother shifted about anxiously, rubbing his nose with his thumb, sniffing, and squirming against his thick coat. The silence was lengthy after the lock clicked into placed. Only the sounds of Mickey drifted through the messy home. Mandy watched his eyes dart about the living room.
"Damn, this place fucking smells," he said.
Rolling her eyes at Mickey's back, Mandy stood beside him and patted his shoulders hard. She laughed without mirth.
Fifteen minutes later, the youngest two of the Milkovich siblings were seated at a cluttered dinning-room table, each with a cup of java in hand. Mandy cleared her throat and leaned back in her chair, one arm over the back and the other holding her mug firmly atop the table. Mickey hunched over his own mug, face drawn as he stared into the blackened water.
"I'll be honest," Mandy was the first to speak since their settling in, "I didn't really think you'd show."
Mickey looked up at her from under his lashes. When he finally spoke, his voice was gravely, "He was a piece of shit, Mandy. I only came so I could piss in his casket."
She nodded, suddenly interested in the kitchen tile.
More silence. This time it was Mickey who broke it.
He stood abruptly from the table, his chair screeching loudly, startling his sister, and dumped his mug into the sink. He spun around, leaning against the counter, and crossed his arms over his semi-clean red t-shirt. "I'm glad he's fucking dead," he commented casually. "How'd he bite it?"
Mandy skewered her face and sat upright, slamming her fists on the table. "Christ, he's our fucking father, Mick!" she growled.
"Shit," he smiled, "goddamned father of the year!" And he waved both of his arms out, then dropped them. They clapped against his oil streaked jeans.
She glared at him and shook her head.
Just watching her face shift through emotions, Mickey could see Mandy trying to find a decent defense for their deceased father. "Good luck with that," he quipped as an afterthought. "He ain't worth defending."
Her heavily colored eyes searched his, and finally Mandy grabbed her mug and stood beside her brother at the sink, rinsing both dishes. Mickey turned his neck and watched her. Somewhere between his mug and hers, Mandy had apparently decided to wash all of the piled up shit in the sink. He saw the steam coming up around the bubbles, saw her pale skin turning pink, and heard her wipe at her red-rimming eyes with a soap-sudded sleeve way before his tough sister began sobbing. Mickey's eyes widened momentarily and he quickly reached around to turn down the hot water. He sneered down at the food and soap, then yanked the plate from his sister's hand and began washing it himself. She sniffed hard and then grabbed up some silverware.
And so they stood there and washed fucking dishes.