Chapter Text
Mickey stares at himself in the mirror, long and hard. He takes in the sallow, ashen pallor of his skin, the dark circles under his eyes that seem to get more pronounced every single day.
He managed to get a few hours of sleep last night, but before that, it had been days since he’d slept. Sleep is a luxury at this point; no longer a necessity.
It’s no wonder is it? If he isn’t out hunting and exorcising demons, he’s haunted by visions, premonitions, signals that etch themselves into his brain and allow him to track their locations with varying degrees of accuracy.
And if it isn’t that keeping him up at night, it’s the shortness of breath, the hacking cough, the metallic taste in his mouth, the burning in his chest. It’s all still there, even despite the deal he made.
On top of it all, there’s the occasional middle-of-the-night calls to help dumbasses who’ve managed to lock themselves out of their homes. Professional lock-picker, locksmith, whatever you want to call it. It’s what mostly pays the bills. Fuck knows he had enough practice doing that shit as a teenager. And it comes in handy when he needs to get into places that are usually “off-limits.” Places like the morgue.
It’s late afternoon, and Mickey’s only just managed to drag himself into the bathroom for a shower. He’s pretty much nocturnal at this point, at least for all intents and purposes. Sleep during the day—if at all—and work at night.
Standing on the cracked, yellowed tile of his bathroom floor, he strips off his tank top and sweatpants before stepping under the shower’s weak, lukewarm trickle. Under the spray of the water, the sigils, or spirit signatures—one on either side of his upper chest—burn almost as much as his lungs do when he takes a drag off a cigarette. Both reminders of the deals he’s made. Brands marking him, sealing his fate.
Once he’s managed to wash himself, he turns off the shower and dries off, wrapping the towel around his waist before heading to his measly, sorry excuse for a closet and pulling out another pair of grey sweatpants and a white tank top. He doesn’t have any appointments today, so he figures he can keep it casual and comfortable until it’s time for hunting at night and he needs to armor up.
Trudging past the shelves full of relics, tools, and weapons, he makes his way across the tiny apartment towards the kitchenette, where he turns on his ancient coffee maker and starts to brew a pot. A singular beam of light shines through the thin sliver of window that isn’t covered by old newspapers. His place sits above a shithole convenience store on the South Side. Unassuming, closed off to the outside world, but completely open to spirits, especially dark ones. And always open to the people who know about him, the ones who need his help.
As he sips on his freshly poured mug of coffee, his mind briefly drifts to last night—the morgue. He should’ve been prepared for it. Morgues are just the types of places where the line between our world and theirs is most blurred, where life and death mingle and souls struggle to hang on, desperate to cling to anything that tethers them to this world.
What he hadn’t bargained for was the doctor, with his red hair and his freckles and his glasses. With his green eyes that saw things, ears that seemingly heard things. Things no one should be able to hear.
Mickey thinks, at least he’s pretty sure, that the redheaded doctor sees and hears the spirits of the dead. Unlike him, the doctor probably isn’t cursed with the ability to see demons from hell and the havoc they wreak as they try to claim lost souls. Not the way Mickey does.
He wonders if the redhead made a deal or two, like Mickey did. If the doctor has what feels like a homing device in his brain the way Mickey does, a deal to prolong his life in exchange for his services allowing him to zero in on his targets, on demons who try to claim souls the way his own soul has already been claimed. Probably not, he thinks. It’s probably just him.
He shakes thoughts of the doctor from his mind, the demanding “meow” that he hears from below managing to bring him back to the present.
“‘Ey, Mort. You hungry?” He sets his mug onto the counter and bends down to pet the black cat, who immediately hisses when he catches the scent from Mickey’s hand.
“The fuck? I showered. You can still smell it on me, huh?”
Morty slinks away and walks over to his food bowl, waiting patiently for Mickey to fill it up.
Morty had found Mickey, more so than the other way around. He’d shown up at Mickey’s apartment one night, scratching lightly on his door, until Mickey had given in and set down a can of tuna in front of him. Not surprisingly, the cat kept coming back. And he eventually became Mickey’s.
It wasn’t until Mickey came home one night from a demon slaying to be greeted by Morty hissing violently, back arched and hair standing straight up, that he realized the cat could sense it. He could feel exactly what Mickey felt, could feel the demons’ presence even after they were gone.
So Morty became not only his pet, but a partner in crime of sorts, sometimes sensing the presence of dark spirits that Mickey has yet to see himself.
After he feeds an aloof Morty, Mickey grabs his pack of cigarettes off of the kitchen counter, places one between his lips, and lights up. When the flame catches, he inhales deeply, feeling the painful burn in his lungs along with the calm that simultaneously washes over him. A double-edged sword. He violently coughs out a puff of smoke before taking another drag. He knows he should quit. He should’ve quit a long fucking time ago. But he’s already fucked, on borrowed time, so he figures, screw it. He’s not going to give up one of the few things in life that makes him feel settled.
Once he’s finished his cigarette, he sits down at the desk he’s set up near the apartment’s front door, a flimsy accordion room divider propped up behind it to separate it from the rest of the apartment and shield his personal space from the curious eyes of potential clients. Truthfully, not many people come by to meet with him in person. It’s typically a frantic phone call with a desperate plea for help. Nevertheless, he has his space prepared just in case the need for an in-person appointment ever arises.
He begins polishing his weapons one by one, starting with his gun. It’s a modified .38 revolver, the chambers loaded with a mix of cartridges used for different purposes—the salt round, silver bullet, iron core, ash round, and blood round—one chamber remaining empty due to superstition and nothing more.
He moves on to polishing his iron blade, and as he starts to work on his gold knuckles, he suddenly hears a soft, tentative knock at the door.
No one’s called to schedule a consultation appointment, and the knock doesn’t sound nearly desperate enough for it to be an exorcism or demon hunting emergency—nor does it sound firm enough to be the cops—so he knows it’s either an annoying ass solicitor or someone who’s shown up without an appointment. Sighing, he heaves himself out of his chair and opens the door.
And he should’ve expected it. He just gave the guy his card yesterday. But for some reason, he’s still caught completely off-guard when he sees the redheaded doctor from the morgue standing on the other side of the door.
The man looks different than he did last night. Understandable, considering he’s not at work. But it takes Mickey’s brain a few good seconds to catch up with the proceedings as he stares, probably for way too long, at this guy in his jeans and snug t-shirt, the glasses absent from his face, hands in his pockets as if he’s nervous.
Suddenly, Mickey feels self-conscious, and it’s the strangest thing. He wishes he was dressed in something other than a tank top and sweats, wonders if his hair looks presentable—unlikely, considering he’d barely run a comb through it after his shower—and is very much aware of the fact that his socks have holes in them.
Mickey’s never given a shit about any of that until now. What the fuck?
But he manages to square his shoulders and throw on his confident, no-fucks-given persona as he eyes the redhead up and down. “Dr. Ghost-Whisperer. You need somethin’? You didn’t call for an appointment.”
The doctor chuckles awkwardly as he shoves his hands further into his pockets. “Yeah. I, uh… sorry about that. And it’s Dr. Gallagher. Ian Gallagher.”
“Ian Gallagher,” Mickey repeats as if testing the name out on his tongue.
“Yeah,” the redhead replies, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, clearly waiting for an invitation.
“Come in,” Mickey finally says, putting the poor guy out of his misery.
Ian’s not exactly sure what he was expecting. After all, it’s not every day that he visits the office of a guy who does, according to his business card, “Exorcisms, Cleansings, Demon hunting & ass-kicking.” Whatever the hell any of that even means.
But whatever he was expecting, he’s pretty sure, as he looks around the tiny space he’s just entered, that it wasn’t this.
The windows are covered with old newspapers, and there’s a small desk right by the front door with an accordion divider right behind it to section it off from the rest of the space, which, judging by the man’s attire and the brief glimpse of the kitchenette off to the side, must also be this guy’s apartment.
The man, Mickey, takes a seat at the desk, and Ian sits in the plastic folding chair on the other side of it. The desk is piled high with any number of random weapons, from a gun to a knife to what look to be brass knuckles—only they’re gold. He also notices a couple of other random knick-knacks—he’s sure that’s not the right word and he’d get his ass kicked for using it—on top of the desk. A ziploc baggie filled with what looks to be dirt and ash, some sort of coin, and a coffee can with a label affixed to it reading, “Holy water—not for human consumption.”
Ian lets his eyes drift over the man’s body, trying not to be obvious about it. He notices the chain around his neck, whatever’s on the end of it tucked into his shirt. The outline of it underneath his tank top looks like a bullet or something of a similar shape. His eyes also catch on a ring with what looks to be a glass signet filled with salt on one of the man’s fingers.
And Ian allows his eyes to wander some more. Because last night, Mickey’s body had been covered up with his leather jacket, his bag, his holster. But now, Ian can see toned, tattooed arms on full display.
On Mickey’s left forearm, a fanged serpent coils up from his wrist to his elbow against a backdrop of rising smoke. On his right bicep is a skull with a crossed revolver and knife just below it.
But the things that catch Ian’s eye the most, that make his heart practically stop beating in his chest, are the two markings on either side of his upper chest, just peeking out from the straps of his tank top. Circles with swirling symbols inside, deep black as if scorched, not dissimilar to the one that had marked the body at the morgue last night.
Mickey must catch him staring, because he grabs the zip-up hoodie that was draped across the back of his chair and quickly pulls it on.
“So what can I do for you, Doc?” Mickey finally says, pushing aside the pile of stuff on his desk and leaning forward on his elbows.
Ian’s not quite sure how to answer that. What is it that he wants, exactly? Answers, maybe?
Ultimately, he decides to just be upfront. “I’m not really sure. I just… what the fuck was that? Last night?”
A small smile curls Mickey’s lips as he leans back in his chair. “You spend your days, or maybe just your nights, with dead people, and you really don’t know?”
“No, that’s why I’m here. To find out,” Ian huffs indignantly.
“You mind if I smoke?” Mickey asks, already placing a cigarette between his lips, the question clearly a rhetorical one as he doesn’t actually wait for an answer before he lights up.
“Uh, no,” Ian responds, bewildered, as the man in front of him takes a deep inhale and blows a plume of smoke towards the ceiling.
“How’d the guy die? The one whose body you were cuttin’ open last night?” Mickey asks casually as he ashes his cigarette into the coffee can which apparently contains “holy water.”
Ian shifts in his seat uncomfortably. “Uh, it was… inconclusive. Some sort of tissue damage that I couldn’t figure out.”
“Ain’t just tissue damage,” Mickey states. “You hear ‘em, right? The dead people?”
Ian hesitates before nodding almost imperceptibly.
“They ever tell you what happened to ‘em? How they died?”
“Sometimes.”
“How ‘bout the guy last night? What’d you hear?”
“All I heard was ‘help me.’”
Something flashes across Mickey’s eyes before they start to glaze over as he takes another puff of his cigarette. This time, when he releases the smoke from his lungs, he breaks into a violent coughing fit.
“You okay?” Ian asks.
“‘M fine,” Mickey spits dismissively once the coughing has died down and he’s managed to catch his breath.
“I’m a doctor, and that certainly didn’t sound fine. You should probably get that checked out. And maybe cut down on the smoking.”
Mickey laughs bitterly. “Alright, Doc. You think this is somethin’ new? I already know my lungs are fucked, failing, whatever you wanna call it. I’m on borrowed time, known that for a long time. You wanna talk about my health or the shit you saw last night?”
Ian has questions. So many of them. But he remains silent, knowing Mickey isn’t looking for an actual answer—and most definitely doesn’t want more questions—and waits for the other man to continue.
“Look, morgues—they’re thin spaces. Places where it’s easiest for them to break through ‘cause the barrier between our world and theirs is real fuckin’ blurry. Same with hospitals and hospices, anywhere the lines between life and death are the shakiest.”
“Them?”
“Yeah. Them. Demons. Tryna claim whoever they can, collectin’ souls like souvenirs.” Mickey taps his cigarette against the lip of the coffee can again.
“Why now? Why haven’t I seen this before?”
“The fuckers are gettin’ more bold. Especially one, Kael, who’s tryna open up a rift to let hell bleed into Earth.”
Ian knows his mouth is gaping, and his eyes are wide. He’s sure he looks like a complete idiot. But this, all of this stuff that Mickey’s saying… it can’t be real. The problem is, there’s really no other explanation for what he witnessed last night.
“Close your mouth, Gallagher. You look like you're ready to catch flies with that thing,” Mickey snarks as he stubs his cigarette out onto the desktop and tosses the butt into a wastebasket on the floor.
Ian closes his mouth with an audible click of his teeth before venturing to speak again. “But I thought… didn’t you kill it last night? The… demon? With the…”
“Salt round,” Mickey interrupts. “That was just a low level asshole workin’ for him. And he’s not the only one. You know they’re everywhere, right?” He opens a desk drawer and pulls out a worn, leather-bound notebook.
Ian stares as Mickey opens the book to a page onto which a symbol is etched. The same exact one Ian had seen burned onto, and into, the body last night.
“This look familiar?” Mickey says, pointing to the symbol on the page.
Ian nods.
“You see any more bodies come through with this on them, you call me. Don’t cut. Call me.”
“But it’s my job to perform autopsies. How the hell am I supposed to believe anything you’re saying?”
Mickey shrugs his shoulders. “How am I supposed to believe that you can hear dead people? Do most people believe you when you tell ‘em that?”
Ian shakes his head. “I… I don’t tell people.”
“Yeah? And why’s that?”
“They… wouldn’t believe me.”
Mickey leans back in his chair, arms folded across his chest and wearing a smirk.
Ian rolls his eyes. “Fine, point taken.” A hint of a smile plays at his lips, and he wonders what the hell it is about this man that makes him somehow feel like he can trust him. But for some strange reason, he does.
“I think we’re gonna make a good team, Doc,” Mickey says, holding out his hand.
Ian takes Mickey’s outstretched hand and shakes it, and as he feels an odd and enticing sense of warmth spread throughout his body, he wonders just what the hell he’s gotten himself into.