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It's after four in the afternoon when Lip comes home to find Mickey fighting back tears on the front steps. And, shit, a crying Milkovich – even just a misty-eyed one – is never a good thing.
“Hey,” he starts, words shakier than he's comfortable with. “It's kinda' cold out here. Why aren't you inside? Isn't Ian home?” No response comes, and when all that Mickey does is look away... Lip takes a seat beside the younger man. The feeling, the foreboding ache is just there, and, all at once, he just knows. “Did he say why he left, this time?” Mickey takes in a breath, and Lip awaits the the ever-popular, and always-expected 'fuck you', or 'go fuck yourself'. What he gets, however, is a half-choked sob that leaves him staring after the other in something akin to shock.
“I-I...” Mickey pauses. Sniffles, and sighs, slow and forceful. “It's my... my fault.”
He hates to ask, but after the last time, Lip almost feels close enough to justified in his actions. “What did you do?” It's not accusatory – at least, it's not meant to be, because Lip has to face facts. Given Ian's recent states, Mickey could have left his shoes in the wrong place, and Ian would have used it as an excuse to run for the hills.
Again... Mickey sighs. “It's... It's something I wouldn't do...”
Lip forces a smile. Knocks his shoulder against Mickey's. “What didn't you do? Coke? Let him borrow money? Blow him in the shower? What?”
Almost immediately, Mickey scowls. Then, he looks right back down, and for a short, frightening moment, Lip suspects that the other man is about to bawl. Instead, he shrugs. “I wouldn't get an abortion,” he admits quietly. For the first time, Lip takes in Mickey's position, curled around himself on the steps, knees to his chest, arms wrapped 'round his legs.
“You're pregnant?” Lip asks, stunned beyond his own thoughts.
Here, Mickey jerks his head up. “No, dickwad. It was so good, the last time, I was just wantin' to remember how it felt to have your brother walk out on me.” A cold shiver seems to pass through him before he breaks eye contact with Lip. Apparently, there's something terribly interesting about Mickey's shoes. Lip keeps a peaceable silence, until Mickey finally mutters out a barely audible, “Yeah, I'm fuckin' pregnant.”
Lip hesitates. “I'm not sure if I should congratulate you, given the situation.” Already, he regrets saying that. Karen had popped him a good one the first time he'd said it to her. Mickey could easily do the same, only difference being, a slug from a Milkovich would hurt like all hell. Granted, all that Mickey does is raise an eyebrow, but still. “But, fuck it. I'm gonna' be an uncle! And, if you're not getting rid of it, that's gotta' count for something, right? So, congratulations, man.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Let's not get ahead of our fucking selves, here.” He's wearing that look, the expression that screams his discomfort in a horrified silence.
“What, you're actually getting an abortion?”
Mickey has the grace to look affronted. “Fuck, no! Jesus Christ, Gallagher. Get with the program, here.”
“Hey, fuck you, man. I'm just askin'.”
“Yeah? Well, ask me again when you regenerate a few brain cells, huh?” He scoffs. “All that dope you keep smokin'. It's finally rotted through your skull.”
“Oh, yeah, speakin' of.” Lip holds out his hand, expectantly. Beside him, Mickey raises that eyebrow a bit higher.
“The fuck you wantin'? I'm broke. You know that, already.”
Lip shakes his head. “It's not about that. You know what I want, Milkovich. Now, hand 'em over.” Mickey's lip is curling upward, and, yeah, he's probably going to regret this course of action, but it's a risk he'll have to continue to take, at least until he is successful in his present task. “I'm not gonna' have you smokin', and giving my niece or nephew asthma. Now, c'mon. Hand over the pack.”
It's a long moment, before Mickey finally shakes his head. “No can do, homeboy.”
“Excuse me?” Does he really think he's going to get off that easily? That Lip is just going to let him walk away with the contraband? “Don't make me pat you down.”
Mickey scoffs. “Much fun as that would be for at least one of us – and it's not me, by the way – my answer ain't changing.” Lip is a half-second away from jumping to his feet and strip-searching the other man, when Mickey's lips twitch into what could pass for a shy smile. “I already crushed 'em... I mean, at the time, it was just to piss Ian off, but...”
Settling back down, Lip takes his own turn to shrug. “Long as they're gone, then.” He could accept that answer, if absolutely nothing else. “So... What are you gonna' do, now?”
“Eh...” Mickey sighs, whether borne of indecision, or hesitation, Lip won't venture the guess. “I've got no idea. I mean, my old man's due outta' the joint in a couple a' weeks. Soon as he finds out, a back-alley abortion won't look half-bad, in hind-sight.” Something about that sends ice shooting up Lip's spine, and it's not hard to figure out what that mentioned 'something' is. “I'm pretty sure I've still got the rest of an ass-whoopin' comin' for what went down after Yev's Christening.”
“Ah, fuck.” Lip sighs, fingers reaching for a smoke, and pulling back at the last second. No need to pollute the air quite so close to his relation-to-be. “Well, I don't think it's a good idea that you go home, anyway.” It's an offer, not his most well thought-out, but it still manages to be serviceable. Hell, it isn't as if Mickey hasn't been living his life ninety-ten, Gallagher home to Milkovich. “And there's an otherwise-unoccupied bed upstairs, yeah?” Mickey flinches, and Lip elbows him gently. “Come on. You know you don't have to go anywhere.”
Mickey spares Lip a hesitant glance, before looking back down toward his shoes. Silence settles over the two for several moments, save for a few random sighs on Mickey's part. It's not comfortable, and Lip still fears that Mickey's about to fall apart beside him, but... It lasts.
That's more than he can say for a lot of other things.