Chapter Text
September 23,
Wednesday.
Fall has come to Chicago, Mickey can feel it as he’s stepping out of his apartment building. There’s the bite to his fingers as he’s lighting up the first cigarette of the day and there, his still warm breath coming out of his mouth like a puff of smoke before he’s even had a chance to poison his lungs.
”Fan-fucking-tastic,” he mutters under his breath at nothing in particular, hunching his shoulders against the morning chill as he rounds a corner. At least he doesn’t have a long way to go, he can get to work in just over one cigarette’s worth of brisk walking.
It’s promising to be another slow morning. He opens up the diner and moves around in the small space, clearing the tables and setting down all the chairs, loads the coffee maker and listens to it stutter to life as he starts prepping the meager sandwich selection he serves in the early morning before Etch comes in to staff the kitchen.
The bell dings and the door opens to his first customer of the day while Mickey is still preoccupied with slapping cheese on buns. Remaining focused on his work, he barely acknowledges the quiet figure shuffling inside, only peripherally aware of the guy moving through the room and gingerly taking a seat in one of the booths.
The diner is a pretty unassuming place that generally doesn't get a whole lot of irregulars at this time of the day. It’s on a corner with big windows opening up two of the walls to a stunning view of one of South Side's finest intersections. There are four small booths along the windows, seats only just wide enough to fit two, but more comfortably one. The counter is close by the door, and behind it a cramped kitchen leading out to a dimly lit back alley. That and five small tables with rickety chairs taking up most of the floor space, is it. The decor is unintentional and mostly made up of yellowed wood with the odd break of a framed picture or two; all invariably chipped and misted over with layers of grease and dust. It’s not a charming place, but a place for people who want no surprises with their food. Workers looking to get a cup of ordinary no-frills coffee for under a buck in the morning, and something greasy from a short and never-changing menu for lunch or dinner.
”Want anything?” Mickey asks, glancing across the room as he cleans off his work surface. The guy has chosen the best seat in the house as far as Mickey is concerned, hidden away in the corner behind the sun-faded plastic fern and with a prime view of the fairly busy street outside. No way Mickey’s going all the way over there to take the guy’s order though, not when the place is otherwise empty. If he wants anything, he can speak up.
But the guy doesn't react and then continues to say nothing for the next ten minutes, so Mickey leaves him to it and takes his own sweet time wrapping up the sandwiches, stacking them on a tray before maneuvering the whole thing into the chilled display next to the register. When he’s done, he sticks his pad and pen in his apron pocket and slowly makes his way over to the corner booth.
The door dings again, but he doesn’t have to look to know who it is this time.
”Morning Edna,” he says and smiles to himself when the old lady mutters something in reply behind him.
Turning all his attention back to his customer, Mickey has made his way close enough to properly take in the state of him. The guy's wearing a stained and frayed sweater, hood covering his head and casting most of his face in shadow as he’s staring out the window. His pale wrists seem a bit too skinny, sleeves stopping short by a couple of inches, and his hands are trembling slightly – his long, thin fingers fidgeting absently.
”Hey man,” Mickey says and probably sounds more annoyed than he means to, going by how the guy flinches and keeps his eyes down when he turns away from the window.
He doesn’t seem to have anything to say for himself, so odds are he’s just a junkie looking to get out of the cold for a minute. Mickey isn’t going to kick him to the curb or narc on him or anything, but he can't really let him stay either.
”If you got money I can get you something to eat, but this ain’t a shelter and you can’t stick around all day on a cup of coffee, alright?” Mickey says, scowling at the slight pang of guilt he feels when the guy sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “There’s a place down the street that opens at eight, if you got nowhere else to go you can stay here for the next hour but then I’m gonna need you to take a hike.”
These things can sometimes turn ugly, real quick, and as a frontline worker at a South Side dive Mickey is always prepared for the worst. A subconscious tension in his shoulders carefully unfurling when the guy huffs and looks up with a slight smile, slanted with self-deprecation.
”That bad, huh?” he says, and it’s not really a question. His eyes are clear – a bit wet and red-rimmed, sure – but clear and steady as they focus on Mickey. So probably not a junkie, but clearly strung out on something, all skittish and pale-faced.
Good-faced, too, despite the sickly pallor and significant under-eye baggage, but that’s besides the fucking point.
”Pretty fucking terrible, man,” Mickey doubles down, crossing his arms and demonstratively sniffing the air just to be an asshole about it. ”Kinda stink, too.”
The guy’s smile widens just a fraction – and it’s practically a rambunctious belly laugh compared to the rest of him – and scratching under his hood he pulls out a strand of no doubt unwashed, ginger hair, frowning as he runs his fingers through it. Mickey is abruptly made aware he’s staring when Edna harrumphs pointedly behind him.
Red seems to have forgotten his presence, his distant attention once again turned halfway out the window, so Mickey decides to leave him to it, for now, and get back to doing his job.
Returning behind the counter, he plates up one of the sandwiches and grabs the fresh pot of coffee before making his way over to Edna. She doesn’t look up from her newspaper, she never does, when he places the plate down and flips one of the cups to fill it up. He’s not really thinking about it when he moves over to the corner booth and does the same there. Red doesn’t flinch at his approach this time, but he also doesn’t look away from the window as Mickey pours him a cup and walks away.
It must be at least ten minutes later when Mickey throws a quick glance in Red’s direction as he’s counting out the change for a bleary-eyed construction worker’s BLT and coffee to go. He forgets himself for a second, looking at Red nursing his coffee. He doesn’t seem to be drinking any of it, just holding it in a gentle two-handed grip close to his face, elbows on the table, eyes shut.
Refocusing, Mickey quickly counts the change one more time before handing it over and turning his attention to the next customer in line.
Etch shows up just before eight, turning on the grill and filling the diner with the mixed smell of eggs, bacon, and pancakes. They get pretty busy for a while with the breakfast rush, only momentarily easing up again right before lunch. Around eleven, Mickey does a refill round and when he gets to Red he doesn’t really think about it, just pours him a fresh cup and takes the old with him to empty it out in the sink. It’s a waste of perfectly good coffee, but he finds that it doesn't annoy him half as much as it probably should.
And he should by all rights have ejected the guy hours ago, but instead he does the same refill procedure after lunch, this time placing a small plate with three sad-looking cookies on it next to the new cup of coffee. The next time he walks by, Red is gone, and all that's left of him is another cold cup of coffee, two and a half cookies, and ten bucks tucked underneath the plate.
Mickey shrugs to himself, pockets the money, clears the table, and eats one of the cookies as he gets back to work.