Chapter Text
Mickeys pressed into a too tight suit, and his neck is killing him, skin itchy.
The place they'd bring him to was big, massive, with the sort of air that came from under the desk pay and deals that people didn't want the public knowing about. All these men that he passed smelled of tabbocoo, or of too much cologne, as if they tried scrubbing the scent off of them before coming. Marshall led him through the crowd with a firm hand on his back, never letting him leave his grip for even a moment.
Whenever someone tried to talk to him, Marshall would bring his hand up to his collar, making his status known as something less, as something unable to have a conersation. A couple glanced their way and continued, as if unaware -- but nobody really was, not at this sort of place -- yet after a dozen more of those, and people seemed to get the memo.
They were led down onto a back table outlooking the whole venue -- even the windows, which spanned floor to ceiling high -- which, on mickesy part, thought that was a bit cruel. He was seated down next to one of the more covered seats, marshall sliding in after him, clearly making a statement that if he tried to run, there'd be dire costs for it.
They ordered drinks. Marshall, a cocktail , and Mickey, a wine. Mickey didn't drink. He never drunk, really, but Marshall didn't seem to care, pressing a glass of it into his hands anyway.
"Drink it," he smiled, all polite with no real teeth. "Its quite an artifact, really. You'll need it for later."
The tone of his -- that smile -- it made something deep and hot and awful crawl into mickeys gut. He obliged, because what else was he supposed to do, take a swig of the liquid as if his false hope of it being good enough to order brung any sembalance of peace.
.. nope. It stunk of chemical, and tasted of acid, the rotten flavour stinging in his mouth as he forced it down.. He looked over to Marshall, who laughed.
"Bitter, ay?" He chuckled, already reaching for the bottle. "Don't worry. You'll get used to the taste eventually. "
He didn't, actually.
Before he knew it, he was stumbling into a stall, half-assed, throwing up into the toilet bowl as his throat worked against him. The lights above him bellowed out money, the sourness of it all so thick he felt like he couldn't breathe. Didn't help that the sting of this bastard thing was worse then anything else he'd tasted in his life, nor the fact that his stomach seemed to be actively trying to tear itself out of his body.
After a couple dozen coughs or so, Mickey -- through his haze, through this manta of get out get out get out -- felt something press down onto him from behind. Not like anything crude, but something more then that -- something that stared until you gave it what it wanted.
He glanced risky behind him, and Kenneth Marshalls boots stared back.
"Well," he said, his hands coming around to yank him to his feet. Mickey was dizzy with the chance, and Marshall smiled, patted him on the back. "You'll get used to it. Now come on. Can't have you ruining tonight already, can we?"
The look in his eyes was beyond anything he'd ever seen before. His throat was still sore, and his stomach still rolled, yet he allowed himself to sink into Marshalls hand -- to only think of him, and of nothing else. Not his time here, not his friends, not the eyes and mouths geared his way.
Just him.
Just him.