Fandom(s): Doctor Who
Characters: Mickey Smith
Genre: Character sketch
Word Count: 606
Summary: It's been eight months since he saw her last. A lot of things have changed, but not everything.
Author's Note: This was the first attempt at writing something for the current who_contest prompt. It wasn't the last. But that's the point of the contest, right? To actually sit down and write something. So I call it a success.
Contains references to RTD's novelisation Rose
The moment the estate office door slammed behind him, Mickey strode off toward the stairs, the flapping papers clutched in his hand punctuating his angry stomps. He took the steps two at a time, flying past a woman who cowered away from him against the railing. He didn’t spare her a glance; he didn’t need to see the accusation in her eyes.
He burst into his flat and kicked the door closed behind him, the trembling wall echoing from the force. He flung the papers onto the kitchen table and they fluttered to floor as he flopped onto the sofa.
Not the worst news he’d ever heard, but one thing on top of another… He snatched the telly’s remote and flung it across the room, knocking a birthday card from two years past off the bookshelf. Then, with an agonised groan, he collapsed back and gazed at the photo next to the remote, of a girl with flyaway blonde hair hanging onto him, grinning fit to split her face.
“That’s how it is, babe,” he murmured. “They want me out, but they can’t evict me without grounds. So they upped the rent. They figure a hundred quid a month more’ll force me out.”
Mickey stared up at the ceiling. “Thass how it is. No one’ll even look at me anymore. The band kicked me out. Patrice and Mook hooked up, and they got another bassist, Mook’s mate Taj, but you don’t know that. You was already gone.” He shrugged and kicked at a lump under the carpet. “I saw your mum yesterday, out by the car park, and she crossed the road to go around. I have to get groceries up on Campden coz they’ll stare me down at the shop just here. ‘N there’s this plodder, out by the butcher’s, stops me twice a week, like he thinks I’ll just confess maybe.” He shrugged. “The blokes at the garage, they’re okay at least. I still got that.”
He jumped up and slouched into the kitchen for a beer. “Coz they said you ‘n me had a fight at pizza, busted the place up. I wasn’t even there!” he stormed as he popped the cap. “You don’t know what it’s like, payin’ up to fix a pub for a brawl when you was held underground by a vat of snarlin’ gunge.” Mickey snapped the cap between thumb and forefinger. It pinged on the window, clattering into the sink.
“Then you disappeared, ‘n I’m left tellin’ ‘em I don’t know where you went. They don’t believe me. Funny that.”
Taking a long drink, he stalked back to the bookshelf. “Thass what it’s like back here at home. Eight months now, you left me. You even know?”
He shook his head, then shot a stern scowl at the picture. “Oi! Not your fault. Never. I saw what he did. He’s all shinin’ teeth and leather jacket, and I heard him, he said time machine. I bet he’s got all the girls lined up just waitin’ to get in there.”
He swallowed another gulp then scrubbed at his lips with the back of his hand. “But you know, when he’s done with you, when he’s off saving the next bird from a plastic bog monster...” He tapped the picture with the tip of the bottle. “Ol’ Mickey’ll be right here. Always.
“Me, I don’t go runnin’ off. When Jimmy left you on the kerb, who came and got you? Thass right.” Mickey raised a toast to the beaming girl. “Eight months, it’s been. Could be eight years and I’ll still be here. You can count on me.”