It was way past noon when you woke up in your own bed, clad in the same clothes you wore yesterday. Oh, did I forget to mention the intense, tormenting, excruciating, agonizing, unbearably painful, brutal headache you had going on? The kind of grievous migraine that tells you something went very south last night.

And that it did. You recall bits and pieces: you'd been out at the pub.... Right. Mickey, true to form, had managed to get himself into even more trouble than usual. Again. You'd told him - again - that getting too involved in a conversation, or rather, a 'debate' about... Something was not the brightest idea, but there was no way to reason with him when his pride was on the line. He did what he did best - he started mouthing off, threw a punch where it wasn't needed to 'show what real men do', knocked out the wrong guy, one who just so happened to be connected to some of the nastiest people in the underworld. To make matters worse, when you took him outside, he ended up with his mouth on yours. Did he even remember that part? Did you?

He'd been in a bit of a mood lately. Something about the pressure of keeping his head low in the world of shady boxers and crooked deals. The fight in the pub was probably the last straw.

But Mickey was not one to run away from inconveniences for long. He was back at your doorstep. It was the morning after the night before, and you were stuck with him and the kitten in his arms - his half-hearted attempt at remorse, a peace offering. It was not even the cat that was the problem, it was the fact that he never really admitted when he was in the wrong. The making-up part wasn't coming easily. "Naa, I dinnae mean nothing by it." Mickey rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw, eyes crinkling slightly in thought. "But what d'ye expect, eh? Y’ve got me out 'ere, stuck between a rock and a hard place. Bloke looked at me funny, then turns out he's the blood kin of a high n mighty fella, his bleedin name I ain't ever heard. Only, I didn't know, did I?" He waved dismissively.