Chapter Text
From the right angle, it probably looked like some fucked-up scene straight out of a shitty old horror flick. The goddamn moon just had to be shining right on the exact spot where Mickey was digging— about eight feet long, four feet wide, and if he kept going at this bullshit pace, maybe six feet deep by next week. Nothing else around. Just a bunch of empty-ass land and some run-down buildings sitting off in the distance like they were waiting to collapse. A forgotten patch of dirt that didn’t mean shit to anybody, right in the middle of Chicago, not far from home. Mickey had liked this place ever since he found it. And tonight, it was gonna save his ass. Or so he hoped.
With a heavy grunt, Mickey let the shovel drop, the metal clanking against the dirt. He hunched forward, hands on his knees, trying to catch his fucking breath. Felt a little dizzy. No shit. It had been one hell of a night, and he was wiped—physically, mentally, all of it.
With the breeze, the middle of February wasn’t exactly warm, but sweat still trickled down his forehead. Out of reflex, he wiped at it—big fucking mistake. His shirt, his arms, his goddamn hands were caked in dirt, and now that shit was smeared all over his face. Great.
Straightening up, he stared at the half-dug hole in front of him, chest rising and falling as his breathing steadied. The weight of what he was doing finally settled in.
Somehow, his brain didn’t fucking shatter the second reality slammed into him like a freight train. But it was weird. No—fuck weird, weird didn’t even cover it. He had no goddamn clue what he was feeling. Didn’t know what the fuck he should be feeling, either. Guilt? Sadness? Relief? Was he supposed to lose his shit over this or just sit here and act like it was any other Tuesday?
Yeah, nah. Fuck that. He needed a smoke. Needed to sit here for a second with this heavy, dull-ass feeling lodged in his chest like a goddamn rock.
He planted himself at the edge of the hole, feet swinging over the side. He’d made good progress, sure, but eyeballing it? Yeah, he was pretty fucking certain he had a long way to go before he hit six feet deep. His gaze flicked over to the bundle he’d dumped a little ways back as he dug into his pocket, fingers searching for a cigarette.
It didn’t move. The dirty army-green sheet didn’t rip open, no dead fuck came charging at him to slit his throat and leave him choking in the mud. Nothing. Just silence. That tied-up thing was still, no matter how long Mickey stared at it.
He shoved the cigarette between his lips and pulled out his lighter—well, Mandy’s lighter. He’d stolen it, didn’t even think twice. A pink BIC. Fucking pink. It wasn’t like he gave a shit about the color. But there was something about it that made him hold onto it. It was the idea of Terry losing his mind if he knew his son was lighting his smokes with a faggy pink lighter—the way Terry would’ve had a meltdown over something that didn’t even matter—That was enough to make Mickey use it, every fucking time.
The irony? The stupid lighter just wouldn't light tonight. Every flick, all it did was spark like some kinda tease, but no flame. Mickey tried it three, four times, then gave it a shake, like it’d magically fix itself. Probably empty by now anyway, after all this time. The one fucking day he could’ve used it, right in front of Terry, the damn thing dies on him.
“Goddamn it,” he muttered, teeth gritted. He just wanted one goddamn smoke before he had to get back to shoveling in the fucking dirt.
Mickey’s anger disappeared the second he heard that faint crack behind him. Footsteps. Slow. Cautious. Instincts kicked in, fast. In one fluid motion, he was on his feet, eyes locked on the sound. First thought? Could be an animal. But his hand still went to the hem of his jeans. Shit. No weapon. Fucking really? He’d left it in the car—the one time he didn’t think he’d need it. And of course, now he did.
To his fucking horror, whoever was coming out of the shadows was definitely a person.
“Fuck,” Mickey muttered under his breath. This wasn’t good.
“Hey, sorry, please don’t freak out,” the voice said—shaky, uneasy as hell.
Mickey’s eyes narrowed. “Get the hell outta here, fucker,” he snapped, but the stranger kept coming, stepping into the moonlight and losing whatever camouflage there was. Mickey squinted, disbelief crawling across his face. He knew this guy. One of the damn Gallaghers. The fucking redhead. What the hell was freckle face doing out here in the middle of the night?
"Look, I don’t wanna cause any trouble, okay?" The redhead raised his hands, all defensive-like. Mickey snorted, smirking. He knew the little shit wasn’t gonna cause any trouble—hell, Mickey could probably wipe the floor with him if it came to that.
"Good call," Mickey said, his voice dripping with annoyance. "So like I said, fuck off." He expected that to be the end of it.
It wasn't.
"Or," Gallagher started, his voice already annoying the shit out of Mickey, " I'll make you a better offer.”
Mickey couldn't help but grin. The kid had some balls, he'd give him that.
“ And the fuck'd that be?” he shot back seemingly unimpressed.
Gallaghers grin turned into some cocky little smirk, as he pulled something small out of his pocket.
“A lighter, for starters.”
And the little shit actually lit it right in front of Mickey and waved it around, like he was some fucking king with the key to the castle.
Mickey raised an eyebrow, “What's to stop me from snatching that outta your pale hand and kick your freckled ass? “
Gallagher shrugged, that damn grin still hanging on his face. "Why bother making your hands any dirtier than they already are when I’m just handing it to you, Mickey?"
The asshole stepped in closer, close enough to hold the lighter right in front of Mickey. Not a BIC, but some cheap plastic thing—purple.
Mickey glanced at the bundle, then yanked the lighter out of Gallagher’s hand, maybe a little too hard. Purple wasn’t pink, but it’d do. He flicked the lighter, the flame catching, and finally took a drag off the cigarette still hanging between his lips.
He wasn’t really thinking when he held the lighter out, kinda actually meaning to give it back. But Gallagher just waved him off, didn’t even reach for it. Instead, the fucker strolled right up to the edge of the hole and stopped beside Mickey, staring down into it.
"Hold onto it for me for a while, yeah?"
Mickey’s face twisted in irritation. Gallagher shot him this small, unassuming smile, like all that cocky confidence had just drained out of him.
Then, out of fucking nowhere, he hopped down into the hole and grabbed Mickey’s shovel.
"The fuck you think you’re doing?" Mickey barked.
Gallagher didn’t even look at him, just kept digging like this was some normal Tuesday night shit.
"I’m helping you dig this hole," he said, like that explained a goddamn thing.
Mickey should’ve panicked, should’ve yanked the redhead out and kicked his ass so hard, he'd fuck off willingly.
Instead, he just sat back down, legs dangling over the edge, eyes locked on Gallagher.
The dumbass was already struggling, groaning a little as he shoveled, arms straining like he hadn’t thought this through.
And Mickey? Well, he wasn’t about to stop him. Not when the view was this entertaining.
Mickey took a long drag off his cigarette, watching Gallagher struggle with the shovel. Gotta admit, the guy wasn’t bad to look at—especially all out of breath like that.
When Mickey finally flicked the burnt-out butt into the hole, Gallagher looked up, panting like he’d just run a goddamn marathon. “This fucking sucks,” he groaned.
“No shit, Sherlock,” Mickey shot back, smirking—until he caught himself. The fuck was that about?
“What the fuck’s your deal, Gallagher?” he asked, maybe just to shove that weird moment right out of existence.
“I’m helping you dig the hole,” Gallagher said again, like that wasn’t already obvious.
“I ain’t fucking blind, I can see that,” Mickey snapped. “Why?”
Gallagher wiped the back of his hand over his forehead—same dumb move Mickey had pulled earlier, smearing dirt all over himself. “Well,” he said, still catching his breath, “I’m hoping we can share the hole when it’s done.”
Mickey’s brain short-circuited for a second.
What the actual fuck?
“The hell do you think this hole is for?”
Gallagher just looked at him, all smug and shit, then tilted his head toward Terry’s motionless form in the distance.
“Guess it’s for gettin’ rid of dirt.”
Mickey’s eyes flicked to the bundle, then back to Gallagher, narrowing. “And you got dirt to get rid of, Red?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer. No fucking way.
“Yeah, actually,” Gallagher said, not missing a beat, and kept digging.
Mickey huffed out a laugh. “What, did your hamster die or some shit?”
Gallagher didn’t answer right away, just kept at it, stubborn as hell. Then, finally—“Big fuckin’ hole for a hamster, don’t you think?”
Mickey glanced down, not about to admit the guy was making decent progress. Still, it got under his skin just a little, which was probably why he jumped in the damn hole a second later, yanking the shovel right outta Gallagher’s hands.
“Gimme that,” he grumbled.
Gallagher didn’t even put up a fight, just handed it over easily and plopped his ass down where Mickey had been sitting.
Silence stretched on for a few minutes. Mickey dug. His arms were screaming, muscles protesting with every jab of the shovel, but he didn't give a damn. Not when Gallagher was eyeing him like he was some kind of show.
"Who's that?"
The question caught Mickey off guard, making him pause for a second. He looked up to see Gallagher staring off in the distance. Mickey didn’t need to follow his gaze—he knew damn well who he was looking at.
He should’ve told Gallagher to mind his own fucking business, but instead, the words came out before he could stop them.
“Family dog,” Mickey said with a casual shrug. “Rabies, was outta control. Had to put him down.”
It was clear as hell there wasn’t a dog under those dirty sheets, but Gallagher nodded like he believed it. Eyes all soft and understanding.
“Tragic,” he muttered, like it was the saddest thing he’d ever heard.
“Nah, never liked the fucking mutt,” Mickey grunted, ramming the shovel back into the dirt, and just like that, the silence took over again.
Mickey kept digging for a while longer, but soon enough, his body started betraying him—his muscles screamed, and it was getting harder to keep up the act. Just when he thought he couldn’t take it anymore, Gallagher popped back up, grinning like an idiot right in his face.
"I can take over again," Gallagher offered, hand stretched out for the shovel.
Mickey didn’t even hesitate. He just handed it over, barely thinking about it. But for the first time that night, he actually looked at Gallagher. Really looked at him. The soft curve of his face, the freckles scattered like random little marks, the dirt smeared across his forehead. And then, Mickey noticed the fresh black eye.
He didn't even think before blurting out, "What the fuck happened to your face?"
Why the hell did he even care?
"Oh," Gallagher stammered, obviously trying to dodge the question. "That was... uh..." He trailed off, finally mumbling, "Hamster incident."
Mickey could tell Gallagher didn’t want to talk about it, and honestly? Whatever. Fuck it. Not like Mickey gave a shit.
They kept taking turns, digging in silence. After a couple of hours, Mickey had to admit the hole was looking pretty damn deep. Sure, not sure if that was really six feet deep—wasn’t like he’d brought a damn ruler.
"Think that's enough?" Gallagher asked, eyes scanning the hole.
Mickey just shrugged. "Yeah, why not."
"Okay," Gallagher nodded, and started to climb out. The hole was deep enough now that getting out took some effort.
"Should we toss your dog in?" Gallagher shot, no hint of sarcasm or anything.
"I’ll manage, tough guy," Mickey muttered, rolling his eyes as he stomped over to Terry. He stopped for a second, staring down at the figure wrapped in the sheet. That was it. After everything—years of terror, abuse, giving himself up—it had all led to this. The end. Or maybe just a new chapter. Whatever the hell that even meant. For a second, Mickey felt this weird breath of relief wash over him as he grabbed the bundle and started dragging Terry’s heavy ass toward the hole. The bastard was a fucking weight, dragging like a dead sack of shit, and Mickey let out a grunt with every pull.
Out of nowhere, Gallagher showed up, grabbing the tied-up feet and making the whole damn thing a little easier.
"Your damn dog could’ve used a diet," Gallagher joked, carefully following Mickey toward the pit.
Mickey had to admit to himself—though he sure as hell wouldn’t say it out loud—that he appreciated Gallagher playing along without asking a bunch of dumb questions. More than he wanted to admit, actually. The truth was, he was about to make a body disappear, and yeah, it wasn’t exactly Mickey's usual routine, but still. This was something that was meant for one person, yet Gallagher was here. For whatever reason.
A muffled thud broke the silence as Terry hit the bottom of the hole. Mickey stared down into the darkness, letting himself take a moment to stand there.
Gallagher didn’t say a word, just stood beside him, staring at the pit too. It wasn’t some grand moment like Mickey had imagined. No fireworks, no epic music, no hidden cameras or awards for his efforts. Just the smell of dirt, sweat clinging to his skin, and the wind cutting through the air. And there was Gallagher—quiet as hell.
Mickey snapped out of it and shot him a side-eye. "What about your hamster?" he asked, breaking the silence.
Gallagher let out a sigh. "Yeah, I left it back there to scout for a good spot," he said, jerking a thumb into the dark. "Guess I should go grab him."
With that, Gallagher shoved his hands in his pockets and started walking off.
Mickey didn’t even hesitate. "I’m coming with you," he said, no room for argument. "Can't take the risk of you running off and squealing."
Gallagher snorted, a little laugh escaping him. "You think I'd do that?" he asked, glancing back over his shoulder. "I'm just as deep in this as you. How dumb do you think I am?"
Mickey had to admit, part of him knew Gallagher had a point. As much as he didn’t buy the redhead's version of things, the dumbass had been with him for the past couple of hours, helping him dig a grave and dump Terry’s body without being much of a little bitch. So yeah, Mickey followed his lead, even if his gut still didn’t trust the guy.
They didn’t walk far—just a few minutes, heading toward some scraggly bushes. Gallagher came to a stop, let out a sigh, and started shoving branches and weeds aside. He crouched down, pulling something out of the undergrowth. And that’s when Mickey realized how wrong he'd been.
Mickey wouldn’t have blinked if Gallagher had pulled out a damn shoebox with his actual dead hamster inside, or maybe some busted-up bike he was trying to ditch. But a fucking body wrapped in a gray blanket? That shit threw him off completely.
“The fuck, Gallagher,” he blurted out somewhat shocked.
Gallagher shot Mickey a look, a little sharper than usual.
"I said shit about your dog, how 'bout you be just as subtle with my hamster?"
Fair enough, Mickey thought. He didn’t know who was wrapped up in that blanket, and honestly, he didn’t give a shit. But the fact that Gallagher was pulling this kind of stunt? That was interesting. With a shrug, Mickey crouched down and helped haul the meat bundle out of the bushes, just like Gallagher had done for him a few minutes ago. Just fair.
Mickey smirked. "And you say my damn dog needs a diet, huh? Fuckin' Teenage Mutant Ninja Hamster."
Gallagher let out a small chuckle. "He was half cockroach, too."
As they trudged toward the hole, hauling the "hamster," Mickey's suspicions started to click into place. He had a pretty damn good idea who was wrapped up in that blanket, but he didn’t ask. Didn’t say shit. Just kept walking, following Gallagher to the edge of the hole.
Another muffled thud as the hamster landed on top of the dog .
Minutes dragged on as they both just stared into the hole. Gallagher didn’t make a move, didn’t say a word. Mickey kept his eyes on the redhead, watching the wheels turn in his head—dude was frozen.
"Ay," Mickey muttered, trying to get him to snap out of it. But Gallagher was still zoned out, eyes locked on the bodies. Mickey couldn’t help himself. He snapped his fingers right in front of Ginger's face. "Earth to Gallagher," he said, and finally, Red blinked, snapping out of it and staring at him all confused.
Mickey jerked his head toward the hole. "We should wrap this shit up," he said. Gallagher didn't hesitate, grabbing the shovel and immediately getting to work, shoveling dirt back in. Mickey just stood there, stuck watching him. After all, they only had one shovel.
"Why the hell'd you come here without a shovel? You planned on digging that shit with your bare hands?" Mickey grumbled.
Gallagher shrugged without missing a beat, "Guess I didn't think it through that well." He kept shoveling, not even bothering to look up.
"Obviously," Mickey muttered, digging around in his pants pocket for another cigarette.
He yanked one out along with his pink BIC, trying to light it one last time. When the damn thing refused to work, he threw it in the hole, letting Terry spend the rest of his dead ass life with it. Gallagher shot him a quick, annoyed glance but didn't stop shoveling.
Mickey fished out the purple one next and lit the cigarette, watching the flame dance as Terry, the hamster , and the stupid lighter got buried under the dirt.
Filling the hole was a hell of a lot faster than digging it. They took turns again, mostly in silence. Mickey could tell Red still had a whole fucking mess swirling around in that pretty little head of his. And—Jesus Christ—why the fuck did that thought even pop into Mickey’s brain?
"So," Gallagher started, careful-like, "what now?"
"Now I fuck off home, take a shower, and crash in my goddamn bed," Mickey shot back. "Fucking tired."
"Yeah… yeah, I should probably do that too," Gallagher muttered, staring at his dirt-covered hands like they held the secrets of the universe.
Mickey didn’t waste another second. He turned on his heel and started walking. A moment later, Gallagher followed, their footsteps crunching against the gravel in silence.
By the time they reached the road, Mickey spotted the beat-up Milkovich car right where he’d left it. The rusty piece of shit had seen better days—paint chipped to hell, rust eating at every inch, and bullet holes decorating the trunk like it was some goddamn art piece. Iggy had lifted it from somewhere ages ago, and since then, the car had been used for all kinds of errands. Mickey wasn’t even sure this was the first time it had carried a body.
"Whatever, see ya around, Gallagher," Mickey muttered, already heading for the car.
He yanked open the door, then shot Red a look over his shoulder. "And you better keep your fucking mouth shut about tonight."
Gallagher didn’t even flinch. Just crossed his arms and hit him with that stupid, knowing smirk. "I’m not a fucking idiot, Mickey."
That was the last thing Mickey heard before he fired up the engine and disappeared the hell out of there.
Days went by. Nothing happened. Nobody asked, nobody wondered where Terry was, nobody gave a shit. And honestly, that was the only thing keeping Mickey from losing his mind over it.
No one was crying in a fucking corner, mourning that bastard. No one’s life got worse ‘cause Terry Milkovich was six feet under. Hell, if anything, the whole goddamn neighborhood just got a little less cursed. Good news, assholes—y’all can stop locking up your wives and daughters after dark. Maybe even throw a fucking block party.
Shit, Mickey probably deserved a medal. Or at least a round of drinks. Either way, he didn’t feel a damn thing about it. Not an ounce of regret.
Maybe the quiet was his fucking reward.
At first, he kinda liked it. No screaming, no threats, no one stomping around like they owned the goddamn place. Iggy and Collin were barely ever home, too busy keeping Terry’s shitty business rolling. Guess it didn’t matter much if the asshole was dead—money still had to flow. At least now, his brothers got to pocket the cash instead of handing it over to that piece of shit. Good for them.
Mandy didn’t waste a second wondering where Terry had fucked off to. She didn’t give a shit, same as Mickey. She’d been through the same terror, lost pieces of herself along the way. Now, she left for school every morning with a spring in her step, whistling some dumb tune like she didn’t have a care in the world.
And Mickey? He had the house to himself. The former fucking house of horrors.
School was long behind him, and he sure as hell didn’t have a job. Only “work” he ever did was the occasional errands for Terry, and, well—guess that gig was permanently fucking canceled. No obligations, no bullshit, just all the time in the world to do whatever the fuck he wanted.
Which, in theory, sounded great. In reality? Fucking sucked. The whole “freedom” thing lost its charm real quick when there was nothing to do but sit around and let boredom eat him alive.
Video games got boring fast, his weed stash was running low, and the whole place was covered in empty beer bottles—pissing him off every time he tripped over one. Even flipping through shitty late-night TV or carelessly jerking off on the couch while watching whatever decent fag porn he could find, wasn’t as entertaining as it used to be. And, honestly? That was pretty much the extent of his options. Depressing as fuck.
Whatever. He wasn’t about to sit around feeling sorry for himself like some whiny little bitch.
He grabbed a pair of jeans from the laundry basket Mandy had dumped in the middle of the living room earlier, bitching about how she wasn’t doing their laundry anymore. “Pick your own shit,” or whatever. Fine by him.
As he pulled them on, he felt something lumpy in the pocket. Took him a second to fish it out—a half-crushed pack of smokes and that damn purple lighter. He guessed Mandy hadn’t bothered emptying his pockets before throwing his shit in the wash. The cigarettes were soaked and useless, but the lighter still worked, so he shoved it back where it came from. On his way out, he swung by Collin’s room, swiped a fresh pack of Marlboro’s off his nightstand, then stepped out the front door like he actually had somewhere to be.
Mickey’s feet took him straight to the Alibi Room without his brain putting in much effort.
Same shit as always as he entered—the floor was sticky as fuck, the usual deadbeat assholes minus Frank Gallagher were parked at the bar, and some football game flickered on the shitty old TV in the corner, not that anyone was actually watching.
“Beer,” Mickey said, not bothering with a greeting as he nodded at Kev.
Kev smirked, all dry and sarcastic. “Always a pleasure, Mickey.” But he was already pouring the damn beer, so whatever.
Mickey dropped onto a barstool, making sure to leave a few seats between himself and the fucking disaster duo—Kermit and Tommy—because he wasn’t in the mood for whatever bullshit they had going on today.
"Hey Kev," Tommy’s voice cut through the air, grating as usual, "Where's your best customer? Long time no see."
Kev slid the beer over to Mickey, then turned to Tommy, clearly confused. "Who the hell are you talking about, Tommy?"
"Frank," Kermit chimed in, like he was in on some secret. Mickey shot him a look, irritation sparking. The guy’s stupid, little face just made him want to hit something—no reason, just the way it was.
Kev snorted, "Frank? Yeah, right. To be my best customer, he'd actually have to start paying for his shit," he laughed, tossing his hands up. "Other than that, who the hell knows? Probably out there scamming someone, like always."
Mickey didn’t need to guess. He already had a pretty good idea where Frank was, and it sure as hell wasn’t some big con job.
He kept his mouth shut and took another swig of beer, tuning out the idiots babbling about Frank’s “greatest hits” of scams. It wasn’t like he needed to hear it—he’d seen enough of Frank’s bullshit to know the score.
His mind wandered, though. He couldn’t help it. Wondered why the hell Gallagher had killed his own old man. The redhead didn’t exactly seem like the type, but Mickey was sure that’s what had gone down. Frank was no better than Terry—same worthless, self-serving asshole, just a different shade of scum. Mickey didn’t know much about the Gallaghers, but Frank was practically a local legend for being a shithead. Everyone had been screwed over by him. Hell, he’d been dumb enough to get mixed up with Terry once. But what really stood out, the thing that made Mickey’s skin crawl, were the stories of Frank throwing his own family under the bus without batting an eye. That shit told Mickey all he needed to know. Frank was just another piece of shit, no different than Terry.
Red probably did the world a solid, just like Mickey. Two fewer assholes walking around—couldn't ask for a better outcome.
They oughta make it a damn holiday.
“National Get Rid of Your Piece of Shit Father Day.”
Sounded like a good time.
But then that fucking image of Red, frozen there in front of the hole, kept creeping up on him. Staring at it like a damn deer in headlights. Mickey didn’t know why it bothered him, but for some reason, the only question that came to his head was if Red had taken it as well as he’d pretended.
Mickey slammed back some beer like it would erase the thought, but it stuck around, digging at the back of his brain and making him feel way too fucking weird.