Chapter Text
It isn’t how Mickey pictured spending his birthday. Not that he ever expected much. He never expected anything, really. Never has.
But he certainly didn’t expect to be here, staring out the window as warm sheets of rain pour down in the middle of summer, the sound of the water pelting against the roof almost loud enough to drown out the tinny sounds of the ancient TV playing an I Love Lucy marathon on a seemingly endless loop.
He didn’t expect to be in a cabin out in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere. Well, just outside of Blackwater Ridge, northern Maine, to be exact. Population maybe eight hundred if you count the seasonal drunks and whatever moose happens to wander through at any given moment.
Mickey’s never minded being alone. He’s always preferred it, in fact. So it’s fine. It’s just not how he pictured spending his birthday. His real birthday. Not the new one he’s been given, along with his new identity.
He’s been here for about three months. It was where Witness Protection decided to stick him, most likely because here, nobody looks twice at a quiet guy renting a run-down hunting cabin in the middle of nowhere. Even if there was someone around to give him a second glance, they wouldn’t spare him one.
And it suits him fine. Mostly.
Right now, though, he wouldn’t mind being able to pick up the phone and talk to someone. Someone from back home, maybe his sister.
After all, Mandy’s the only one who knows that he’s okay. She doesn’t know where he is, but she knows he’s alive. She’s not supposed to know, Mickey wasn’t supposed to tell her, but when had he ever been known to follow the rules? Not following the rules is what got him into this situation in the first place, so why start now?
But he can’t call her. It’s too dangerous. His burner phone is only for emergencies, and he doesn’t think calling his sister on his birthday, simply because he’s being a complete pussy and wants to hear a familiar voice, qualifies as an emergency. Even burner phones aren’t completely untraceable, and just one call could put him, and more importantly, her, at risk. And he can’t chance it. He didn’t get thrown onto a bus with nothing but a couple of bags, a new identity, and a “good luck” only to fuck it all up.
So he resigns himself to the fact that he’ll end up spending tonight just like he does every other night after coming home from working at the grain processing plant and cooking himself up something subpar for dinner—curled up on the threadbare couch watching television until his eyelids start to droop and then eventually dragging himself to bed. Not the most exciting life, but it sure could be a hell of a lot worse.
The thing that really gets to him, what he's had to adjust to the most—and that’s saying a hell of a lot, considering all the shit he’s had to get used to—is the quiet. He could almost bear the loneliness—he could even embrace it—if it wasn’t always so damn quiet.
He’d take the sounds of home—of traffic, of people shouting outside the window, of sirens, of distant gunshots—over the deafening silence punctuated by the sounds of nature any day. Because when it’s too quiet, he’s able to think too much. And he doesn’t want to think or feel. Doesn’t want to think about everything he left behind. Even though it wasn’t much. Hardly anything at all, in fact. But it was his.
Being out in the middle of nowhere certainly has its perks. At night, he can see every single star in the sky, which is pretty fucking cool. And he supposes it's kind of peaceful. But it’s the quiet that gets to him. Even the sound of the steady rain outside, now turning into nothing but distant white noise, is too quiet.
Tonight though, just as he’s lying on the couch after having flipped through the very limited number of channels on the TV before ultimately landing on a Golden Girls rerun—it’s a good show, fuck off—and starting to feel the gentle tugs of impending sleep, the quiet is broken.
It starts out as light scratching against the door, the sound breaking through that of the rain and the faint, canned laughter coming from the TV. Then the scratching becomes louder, more persistent.
Mickey thinks it must be a coyote. Either that or a raccoon. Those fuckers are always coming around searching for scraps and trying to sneak in through any open window they can find. Even so, he can never be too careful. Maybe it’s not a wild animal at all. Maybe it's something—someone—a hell of a lot worse. Though the decidedly non-human sounds of something clawing at the door would indicate otherwise.
But he sits up on the couch, rubs his eyes, and grabs the handgun from the drawer beneath the coffee table anyway, before standing up and crossing quietly to the window.
It’s so dark outside that he can barely make out anything through the solid, silver blanket of rain pouring down, but the dim, orange glow of the porch light ends up providing just enough illumination for him to see the source of the scratching.
A dog. Not a coyote. Some kind of mutt, medium-sized, though it’s hard to tell in the darkness, his light fur soaked through and plastered tight against visible ribs. One of its back legs is barely touching the ground, and Mickey can see mud up its sides and something darker near its shoulder that might be blood.
He watches as the dog raises its paw once again in a last-ditch effort to scratch at the door before seemingly giving up and sagging tiredly against the porch railing.
Mickey lets out a heavy exhale, something in his chest tightening painfully. “Fuck,” he mutters, walking over to the front door and turning the knob.
As soon as the door opens, rain explodes into the cabin, cold wind whipping papers off the kitchen counter. The dog flinches so hard Mickey thinks it might bolt, but it doesn’t seem to have enough energy left for that. Instead, it takes a hesitant step inside, Mickey closing the door behind it as soon as it’s cleared the entrance.
Up close, the dog looks even worse. Mickey crouches down in front of it and looks it over to see that it’s a male. He’s way too thin, almost frail, with older scars visible through his wet fur and a fresh cut along his ribs.
“Hey, buddy. The hell happened to you, huh?” Mickey tuts, slowly raising a hand and bringing it to gently touch the top of the dog’s head. As soon as he makes contact with the wet, matted fur, the dog crouches down and looks up at Mickey with wide, dark eyes, blinking slowly.
Something ugly twists in Mickey’s chest at the sight of it, something familiar he spent most of his life trying to stomp flat.
He knows that look. The waiting-for-somebody-to-hit-you-first look.
“Shit,” Mickey whispers, continuing to gently stroke the dog’s head. “You’re alright. Ain’t gonna hurt you.”
The dog seems to somehow understand Mickey’s words as he slowly lets himself relax, his body going limp against the cabin’s wood floor.
Once the dog’s breathing evens out and Mickey can see that the fear is slowly seeping out of his body, he walks to the bathroom to retrieve two towels, one which he gently runs over the dog’s wet fur, and the other that he drapes over the dog’s body like a blanket. He then walks to the kitchen to grab a bowl and fills it with water before placing it directly in front of the dog.
The dog lifts his head and starts to cautiously lap up the water, and as he does so, Mickey crouches down once again in an attempt to get a closer look at his injuries.
“Good boy,” Mickey mutters as he gently brushes the dog’s fur aside and studies the injury along his ribs. “Easy. You’re okay,” he cajoles when the dog instinctively starts to draw back. Right away, Mickey can see that the wound is infected. One of his hind legs looks swollen, too.
Fuck.
Mickey’s seen a shit ton of injuries in his day, and he knows enough to recognize when something needs immediate medical attention. People, animals, same difference.
And that means town. Which means people.
Goddamnit.
Mickey only ventures into town when he absolutely has to. The factory in which he works is on the outskirts, and that’s usually the closest he gets.
But sometimes he needs necessities. He needs toilet paper, toothpaste, food—‘cause it’s not like he’s gonna go hunting and gathering for sustenance, hell fucking no—basic shit. So he has to head to the local general store, right in the middle of town.
And it’s fine. No one ever bothers him. Here, everyone minds their business as long as you mind yours. Mickey prefers it that way.
But he remembers, on more than one of those occasions, seeing a sign for a 24-hour animal clinic nestled between a hardware store and a thrift shop. Looks like that’s where he’s heading.
With a sigh, he grabs his jacket before retrieving another dry towel, wrapping it around the dog’s body, and gently lifting the animal until he’s basically cradled in Mickey’s arms. Mickey has to swallow down the bile rising in his throat when he feels just how light the animal is. So much lighter than a dog his size should be.
Just then, the dog nuzzles his face against Mickey’s chest, like he’s an overgrown cat. Mickey chuckles softly to himself. “Tough guy, aren’t ya?” The dog’s eyes fall closed. “Yeah, alright. Let’s go, Bruiser.”
He has no idea where the name comes from, but it slips from his mouth with zero forethought whatsoever. It just seems to fit.
The next thing he knows, he’s out the door and bolting towards his beater of a pickup truck, getting absolutely drenched in the process but making sure to keep Bruiser close so he stays as dry as possible.
And fifteen long minutes later, Mickey’s pulling his truck up to the old building that houses the animal clinic and parking on the side of the dirt road—now more of a mud pit than a road. He looks up at the faintly lit and flickering sign above the door, which reads, “Ridgewater Animal Care,” and just underneath it, the words “Open 24 hours.” If the signage is any indication, it looks like the place is barely hanging on. Not so different from most of the places around here. He absently wonders how much business the place actually gets.
But he doesn’t have time to think on it. Because he can hear Bruiser’s breathing quickening next to him, and he can see the animal’s body starting to shake. Mickey promptly exits the car and steps out into the rain, which is no longer pouring but still soaking the shit out of him, before opening the passenger side door and scooping Bruiser into his arms.
When he makes it to the door, shoving it open with his foot and tracking mud and water inside as he passes through the entrance, he looks around to see a few empty chairs, a small coffee table with magazines that look like they’re at least twenty years old, and a reception desk with no one behind it. The place smells like coffee and disinfectant.
Water steadily drips from Mickey’s body and forms a puddle on the floor, and he cautiously takes a few steps closer to the desk, trying his best to avoid slipping and falling onto the slick linoleum. Meanwhile, Bruiser whimpers in his arms.
“It’s okay. I got you,” he whispers to the dog before calling out, “Hello? Anyone here?”
When no one answers, and there’s still no sign of anyone else inside of the damn place, he slams his hand down against the bell sitting on top of the desk, five times in quick succession, and once again shouts, “Hello?!”
At that, he hears the sound of feet shuffling and a loud thud coming from behind the closed door directly to the right of the reception desk, followed by said door slowly opening.
And what Mickey sees stepping through that open door is the last thing he expected. A guy—tall, with flaming red hair and freckles for days, wearing a plaid flannel with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He’s handsome—gorgeous, really—in a rugged, annoyingly wholesome way that immediately puts Mickey in an even worse mood. It’s the last thing he needs right now.
The redhead runs a hand through his slightly rumpled copper hair to smooth it down and hurriedly mutters, “Sorry, I was in the middle of charting—” when his eyes properly land on Mickey and he stops in his tracks. “Oh.”
Mickey’s sure he must be quite a sight. Dripping wet, soaked hair plastered to his face, shoes covered in mud, a towel-covered dog in his arms. But he’s got a bit of an urgent situation at hand, and he doesn’t have time to spend wondering about the reason for this guy’s appraising stare. He raises his eyebrows and snaps, “Got a bit of a situation here, there a vet around?”
The redhead seems to rouse himself from whatever weird state he momentarily drifted into and answers, “Yes, that would be me. Dr. Gallagher.” This is the doctor. Wonderful. Then the doctor’s gaze falls to the dog in Mickey’s arms, and concern spreads across his face. He steps closer to get a better look, his brow furrowed as he pulls the towel slightly away from the dog and takes in his current state.
“Oh, buddy,” the doctor whispers soothingly before looking back up at Mickey. “Let’s get you guys into a room. And I’ll grab you a towel and a blanket. You’re soaked to the bone. Come with me, Mr. …” he trails off, waiting for Mickey to supply him with a name.
And Mickey almost says it. Almost says, “Milkovich.” Not only because it’s what feels natural, obviously, but because for whatever reason, he doesn’t want to give this guy a fake name. But he doesn’t have a choice. “Miller,” he says. “Michael Miller. And this is Bruiser. I found him like this.”
The doctor’s eyes soften and he nods. “Let’s take a look at him and see what’s going on.” The redhead tilts his head in the direction of the open door off to the side and starts to walk towards it, with Mickey following close behind.
And Mickey wonders, for maybe the millionth time within the last few months, how the hell this is his fucking life.