Chapter Text
“Jesus Christ!” Mickey yelped.
The man continued to sand there on the threshold. A stern look on his face. There was something off about him. The light from the sconce just above the door didn’t seem to illuminate him in the way Mickey would expect. The shadows of the man’s face were stark. It added to the menacing look of the stranger. Not to mention the feeling of dread that pooled in his stomach as he lingered there. That uneasy, empty, yearning feeling that he’d felt before. It raised the hairs on his arms.
“Can I help you?” Mickey croaked. He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. Trying to pull himself together..
He didn’t have the time or energy to deal with this shit. He was tired and very much done interacting with people for the day. He shook his head and threw his arms up in frustration.
“I don’t give a fuck if you want to stand there in my doorway all night, but I’m going to fuckin’ bed.” He said with more conviction than he felt.
Mickey charged forwards, calling the man’s bluff. He was hoping this was an intimidation tactic by some assholes in town or something. Letting him know there were people here in charge and it certainly wasn’t gonna be him.
Well that was absolutely fine with Mickey. He didn’t want trouble. He’d had enough trouble for a lifetime. He wanted to work on this property and be left to his own devices.
Just as he expected to make contact with the man, planning on shoving him aside and quickly shutting and locking the door behind him, the silent man suddenly ROARED and shoulder checked past him at top speed.
When Mickey turned in shock to watch him go, he wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
He clutched his chest in a way that would have embarrassed him if anyone else was around. Channeling an old lady clutching her pearls. His heart was beating so fast and hard he could hear it thundering in his ears.
Mickey dragged a hand down his face roughly. What the fuckkkkk.
What was that shit about?
He decided to call Kevin tomorrow and ask about the guy. He tried to remember his face so he could describe it to his new bartender friend:
He had been tall. Or at least taller than Mickey. Which admittedly wasn’t hard to be. He had a mess of red curls, a strong brow, freckles. Wide shoulders. Wide strong shoulders, Mickey amended as he rubbed the sore spot on his own. And he was wearing a plaid work shirt and jeans, with dark leather, very worn, work boots. Mickey figured the guy was some kind of hipster asshole judging by how high waisted the jeans were.
Giving his mind something concrete to focus on had helped him start to calm down. Once Mickey had caught his breath, he took a look into the darkness again. This dude must have been a track star by how quickly he ran off. Mickey squinted as he wondered if he had noticed any dust from the gravel road kicked up by him running off.
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Mickey spent the rest of his days that week clearing the front half of the property. It was hard work. He was dragging fallen tree limbs, hauling debris and rocks back where they belonged. Tilling the gardens that had overgrown with weeds. Some had grown so wild they towered over him. He was mostly making guesses at which plants were weeds and which were deemed worthy to be in a garden, but he figured he could always buy some seeds and plant whatever he liked later.
While it was hard, it was also rewarding. At the end of the week Mickey found himself standing and surveying everything he’d managed to do. Being able to see the results of his labour made him feel accomplished in a way he’d never felt before.
He wasn’t used to it. His whole life he’d given it his all and had nothing much to show for it. Working for his dad had sometimes felt satisfying. But never in a tangible way. Never more than the brief swoop of pride when his dad had been pleased with completing some task or another. Never more than the burst of adrenaline could give him when he was tasked with roughing someone up.
The same went for working when he was in prison. There was always another load of laundry. Another food tray, another toilet to clean. Always the low hum of anxiety in his body telling him to do more, to try harder, just in case it wasn’t enough, just in case another prisoner took issue with him.
This work. This was real. He could walk down the stone path he’d uncovered that he hadn’t been able to walk down the day before. He could sit at the marble bench beneath the willow tree now that he’d cleared all the dead branches hiding it from sight.
His hands tingled with freshly formed callous. His arms were bulkier than they’d been earlier in the week. The cut off button up he’d put on that morning showing the farmer tan he’d earned yesterday when he’d worn a t-shirt while he worked.
He took another swig from the lemonade in his hand, then pressed the cool glass to his forehead and sighed in satisfaction. The condensation from the glass mingled with the sweat on his brow as it dripped down his pale face.
The sun was low in the sky. He had been determined to finish up the front today so he’d worked a little longer than he had been the previous days.
Tomorrow, Mickey decided, was his day off.
After going back into the house to put his glass in the sink, he put on a hoodie he had hanging on the back of a dining chair. The mosquitos were just beginning to come out this week as the days got warmer. Mickey gave himself a good coating of the bug spray he found on a little shelf by the door and went out again.
Mickey took the path as far as he’d uncovered it. He didn’t have much of a destination in mind, but he was going a bit stir crazy in the evenings lately.
There was no tv, no internet, and he still only had the couple tv episodes and playlists he’d downloaded when he was in town. Those hadn’t lasted long.
Luckily it’d seemed whoever had been groundskeeper before him had left a few books. Unluckily for Mickey, however, it was all James Patterson bullshit. Good for making him sleepy enough to fall asleep quickly. Bad for entertainment. Mickey had never been much of a reader but the circumstances had him wondering if there was a library in town he could stock up from. He made a mental note to ask Kev the next time they spoke.
A flash of red flickered in the corner of his eye. The same thing that had happened that first full day there.
When he turned his head, desperately trying to keep an eye on whatever had been there, that now familiar yearning feeling dripped over him like an ooze. It wasn’t the pleasant yearning of anticipation, but the despairing yearning of a broken heart.
Mickey was suddenly completely overwhelmed with the feeling.
His’s eyes welled up with tears over something he couldn’t name. And emotion that wasn’t his welled in his throat.
He gasped a sob and dropped to his knees before he squeezed his eyes shut and doubled over into the tall grass.
He didn’t think he’d ever felt this way before. So completely overtaken with grief.
“I’m sorry. Holy, fuck, I’m so sorry.” came a faint panicked voice in front of Mickey.
Mickey opened his eyes and saw the man that had stood on his stoop the night before. But this time the man looked small. Lost, almost, as he crouched in from of him. The hard lines of his face were now softened with fear. A hand reaching out and hovering by Mickey’s knee but not touching him.
Mickey looked down at the man’s hand. It was large with long, graceful fingers. They were freckled too. Like constellations gathered on each digit.
He watched as the hand slowly inched closer and closer to meeting the part of his knee that was exposed by a rip.
As the hand finally rested there, an ice cold shiver ran up through his core. The cold seemed to fill him up now, making the edges of his vision darken.
The man whispered something that he couldn’t quite make out.
And everything went dark.