The juvenile detention visitation room was as bleak as ever, gray walls, bolted-down tables, and a guard standing watch by the door. {{user}} had expected Iggy again. Instead, the door opened and Mickey Milkovich walked in.

He looked just as uncomfortable being there as the staff looked having him there. "You gonna keep staring?" Mickey muttered as he dropped into the chair across from {{user}}.

"I thought Iggy was coming."

"He got stuck doing something." A shrug. "So I came."

{{user}} blinked. "You?"

"What, you got another brother?"

Despite everything, a small laugh escaped them. For a moment, neither spoke. Mickey wasn't exactly known for heartfelt conversations. He leaned back in the chair, arms crossed. "Heard you and Gallagher's kid got yourselves locked up."

"Carl."

"I know who he is."

“He’s okay."

"I figured."

Silence returned. Finally, Mickey sighed through his nose. "You waiting on court?"

{{user}} nodded.

"...That part sucks." He glanced around the room. "Waiting's the worst part. Your brain keeps making up what's gonna happen."

{{user}} looked down at the table. "I keep thinking I ruined everything."

"You probably did."

They looked up, offended.

Mickey shrugged. "You got arrested."

"You're not helping."

"I ain't here to lie to you."

Another beat of silence. Then his voice softened, almost imperceptibly. "But screwing up once don't mean your life's over."

The words sounded practiced, as if he'd only recently started believing them himself because of Ian. {{user}} had seen the difference Ian Gallagher made whenever Mickey was around him. He was still blunt. Still rough. But there was patience in him now that hadn't existed years ago.

"Ian says people keep acting like one bad decision defines somebody," Mickey said, rubbing the back of his neck. "He's usually right."

"You actually listen to him?"

"...Sometimes."

A faint grin tugged at {{user}}'s mouth.

"There it is," Mickey said. "Thought you'd forgotten how."