#snatch 2000

You know something’s up the second he stops pacing.

Mickey’s never still unless he’s asleep or bleeding, and right now he’s standing in the doorway of the caravan with his hands hooked in his pockets, rocking on his heels like he’s thinking far too hard about something.

That alone sets your nerves off.

“What?” you ask, not looking up from where you’re tying your boots.

He doesn’t answer straight away. Just watches you, that stupid soft look he gets sometimes, like he’s trying to memorise you before the world interferes.

“There’s a fight,” he says eventually.

Of course there is, there's always a fight.

You pause, fingers tightening on the laces. “Okay.”

“Big one.”

You exhale through your nose. That's fair enough; the small ones never make him act like this.

He scratches at the back of his neck, glances away. “Was thinkin’… maybe you'd wanna come.”

Your head snaps up. “Mickey.”

“I know,” he says quickly, hands coming up like he’s already bracing for impact. “I know you don’t like 'em. Just- hear me out, will ya?”

You stand, slow. Careful. You’ve had this conversation in pieces before, skirting around the edges of it like it might bite.

“I don’t like watching you get hit,” you say. Plain. Honest. “You know that.”

He nods. “I do. I do know.”

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that stretches.

“It’s important,” he adds, quieter. “Lot of eyes on this one.”

You study him; the cut on his jaw, the way his energy’s coiled tight like a spring. You can tell he’s already halfway there, mentally at least, like he's already hearing the crowd, already tasting the blood.

“You’re asking me,” you say. Not accusing, but clarifying, for your own sake.

“Yeah.” He looks back at you then. Properly. “I’m askin’.”

That’s what does it, more than anything else. Not the fight or the money. The fact that he asked instead of deciding for you.

You swallow. “If I go,” you say slowly, “you don’t get to disappear on me.”

He frowns. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean you don’t get to go all… feral and forget I’m there."

His mouth twitches. “If you're yellin’ my name, I’ll hear tha'.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t jokin’.”

Another beat. Longer this time.

“Okay,” you say.

His face lights up like you’ve just handed him something precious. He steps forward, hands warm on your waist, forehead dropping to yours.

“Promise I’ll be good,” he murmurs.

You snort. “That’s a lie.”

He grins and kisses you anyway, quick, messy, all teeth and warmth. The kind that steals your breath and leaves you dizzy even after all this time.

The place is already packed and loud when you get there.

Not the polished kind of loud, this is raw, echoing, many voices bouncing off concrete and metal. The air smells like sweat and cigarettes, you feel it in your chest before you even see the ring.

Mickey’s hand finds yours automatically, fingers lacing tight like he’s grounding himself as much as you.

“Y'alright?” he asks, leaning close so you can hear him.

“I will be,” you say. “You?”

He grins. “Always.”

People start noticing you almost immediately.

It’s subtle at first, a couple double takes, lingering looks. You catch snippets of murmured questions, eyes flicking between you and Mickey like you’re an unexpected accessory.

“That his bird?” “Didn’t know he had one.” “Bloody hell.”

Mickey clocks it too. You can feel it in the way his grip tightens, thumb brushing over your knuckles like a quiet claim.

“Oi,” someone calls out, stepping into your path. Big bloke, broken nose, curious eyes. “Didn’t think you were the domestic type, mate.”

Mickey shrugs. “Surprise.”

The man laughs, then looks at you. “You brave, yeah?”

You meet his gaze. “Something like that.”

Mickey beams like you’ve just knocked someone out yourself.

He introduces you to a few people, their names tumble out of his mouth half-mumbled but somewhat affectionate. You shake hands, smile when appropriate, and feel very aware of the way Mickey keeps you tucked just slightly in front of him.

At one point someone slaps him on the shoulder too hard and Mickey barely reacts, but you feel the flinch anyway.

“You good?” you murmur.

He leans down, presses a kiss just under your ear. “Better now.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are warm.

You find a quieter corner near the back. Not silent, but muted. Mickey paces, bouncing on the balls of his feet, shaking out his hands.

You step in front of him, stopping him short.

“Hey.”

He looks down at you, eyes bright, buzzing.

You grab his collar and pull him in. The kiss is slower this time, deep, lingering, his hands sliding up your back like he’s memorising the shape of you. The noise fades, even if just for a second.

When you pull back, you rest your forehead against his.

“Come back to me,” you say softly.

He swallows. Nods. “Always do.”

Someone calls his name.

Mickey gives you one last grin, wild and boyish, then squeezes your hand before letting go.

He takes a few steps, then stops. Turns back, looking for you.

You lift your chin. Hold his gaze. Anchor him.

Only then does he turn away.

They guide you to the front without asking.

Like it’s assumed. Like there’s a system to this that you’ve just stepped into without meaning to.

“Up here,” someone says, hand light at your elbow.

You blink. “Oh- I’m fine where I am-”

“That’s where the girls stand,” he adds, already turning away.

Girls. Plural. Like this is a thing.

You let yourself be moved closer, heart thudding harder with every step. The noise sharpens the nearer you get, shouts bleeding into each other, the ring just feet away now, harsh lights buzzing overhead.

You’re painfully aware of yourself all of a sudden.

Your coat. Your hair. The way you’ve done yourself up without thinking, elegant in a way that feels almost absurd here. You stick out like a clean knife in a drawer of rusted ones.

You feel eyes on you. Curious and appraising.

Someone leans to their mate and mutters something you don’t catch. Another woman looks you up and down, eyebrow lifting, not hostile, just surprised.

You swallow and keep your chin up.

Then Mickey steps into the ring.

Everything else disappears.

He looks… alive. More than usual. Loose and lethal, shoulders rolling, jaw set in that familiar way that makes your stomach flip. Blood is already drying at the corner of his mouth from something earlier; warming up, maybe.

He bounces once. Twice.

Then, like he promised, he looks for you.

You’re right there. Front and center. Exactly where you said you’d be.

Your heart stutters when his gaze locks on yours. Something in him steadies. You see it happen in real time, like a switch flipping.

The bell rings.

The first few seconds are almost boring.

Mickey’s dancing around the other guy like he’s bored already, hands loose, movements careless in that infuriating way that always makes him look like he’s not even trying. The crowd roars approval.

You almost relax.

Almost.

The other man lunges. Mickey ducks easily, grinning, landing a clean hit to the ribs that makes the man grunt. “Jesus,” someone breathes near you.

You don’t take your eyes off him.

Mickey’s winning. He always is, so that’s never been the problem. The problem is that he doesn’t stop.

The next punch lands harder. You see his head snap back just slightly, enough that your stomach tightens. He shakes it off immediately, laughing, blood splattering the canvas.

You flinch anyway.

“Oi!” someone shouts. “Hit him back!”

Mickey does. Of course he does. It's a brutal hook that sends the other guy stumbling.

But then he takes another hit. And another.

You see it before anyone else, the way he lets them land. The way he leans into the damage like it’s some kind of fuel.

“Mickey,” you whisper, uselessly.

He’s smiling, he’s always smiling when it hurts. Your hands curl into fists at your sides. You’re not afraid he’ll lose, not for a second, but you’re afraid he won’t stop until his body makes him.

A punch lands clean against his cheekbone and something in you snaps sharp and hot. Your breath catches, you’re shouting his name now, loud, desperate, ripping it from your chest.

He doesn’t hear you.

Or maybe he does, and just chooses not to.

He wipes blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes bright, unfocused. The crowd is losing their minds. They love this.

They love how much he bleeds.

You hate them for it.

The other man swings again, wild and angry, and Mickey lets it connect—really connect—head jerking to the side hard enough that you take a step forward without realising it.

“No,” you say, barely audible. “No, no-”

Suddenly, Mickey stills.

Just for half a second, the world seems to hold its breath with him. He plants his feet and throws one punch.

It’s brutal. Clean.

Final.

The other man drops like a puppet with its strings cut and the sound the crowd makes is deafening.

Your heart is in your throat.

Mickey doesn’t cheer. Doesn’t raise his hands. He just stands there, chest heaving, blinking like he’s waking up somewhere unfamiliar.

Blood drips from his nose. From his knuckles.

Then he sways.

Not much, just enough that the referee’s hand shoots out, steadying him by the arm. The crowd doesn’t notice. They’re too busy losing their minds.

“Mickey O’Neil!” someone bellows, voice cracking through the speakers. “Winner!”

They haul his arm up anyway, even though he barely reacts. His head tips back with a crooked grin, blood streaked across his mouth like war paint. He squints against the lights, blinks once, as if he’s surprised they’re still on.

You don’t move.

You’ve learned better than that.

He lets his arm drop the second they release him and staggers toward the edge of the ring instead, climbing down with less grace than he went in with.

He sits hard on the edge, boots thudding against the concrete, elbows braced on his knees.

That’s when you go to him.

You push past someone without apologising and crouch in front of him, heels planted, eyes immediately scanning; his pupils, the split lip, the swelling already blooming under his eye.

“Mickey,” you say, firm. Not loud. “Look at me.”

He does, slow and lazy, like he’s wading through syrup.

“There she is,” he says, grin widening. “Knew you’d like the view.”

You don’t smile.

“You dizzy?”

He shrugs. “Bit.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He huffs a laugh and wipes his nose with the back of his hand, smearing more blood across his face. “World’s doin’ that spinny thing. Nothin’ new.”

You catch his wrist mid-movement and hold it there.

“Cmon Mickey, be serious,” you say, low and sharp. “Don’t drift.”

“Oof,” he mutters. “Bossy when I win. That’s new.”

You shoot him a look that could cut glass. “I’m so serious right now.”

He sobers, just a notch. Enough that his eyes focus properly.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know. I’m ‘ere.”

Someone comes up behind him, says something about checking him over. Mickey jerks his chin away and waves them off without even looking.

“Nah,” he says. “I’m good.”

The guy hesitates. “You took a few clean hits, mate-”

Mickey tilts his head toward you. “She’s got it.” Your jaw tightens, but you don’t argue. You just nod once, decisive, and the guy backs off.

You lean in closer, voice dropping so only he can hear you. “You didn’t need to take half of those.”

He smirks, breath hot with copper and adrenaline. “Course I did. Gets ‘em confident.”

“Gets you concussed.”

“Still pretty though, yeah?”

You press your fingers into his knee, hard. “Not funny.”

He laughs anyway, a rough, buzzing sound. “C’mon. You should see the other bloke.”

“I did,” you say flatly. “Briefly. Before he hit the floor.”

That earns you a proud little hum. “Knew you were watchin’.”

You pause. “I came, of course I was.”

Something shifts in his expression, it's not soft or sentimental, but then again, maybe it is.

He leans forward, elbows on his thighs, face closer now. Too close. You can feel the heat rolling off him.

“You shout my name,” he says. “Thought I was imaginin’ it.”

“You didn't”

“Good.” He grins. “Sounded nice.”

You shake your head and reach into your pocket for the cloth you brought. You dab carefully at the blood on his lip.

He hisses. “Oi- gentle.”

“You should’ve blocked.”

“You should kiss it better.”

You freeze.

He’s smiling, lazy and unrepentant, eyes flicking to your mouth like he’s daring you.

“This is not the time,” you say.

“Accordin' t'you it never is.”

You hesitate, just long enough for him to know that he’s won something, then you lean in and press a quick, sharp kiss to the corner of his mouth. Controlled. Over before it can turn into anything else.

“There,” you say immediately, pulling back. “Don’t get used to it.”

He exhales, pleased. “Worth it.”

You keep cleaning him up, hands steady even though your chest still feels too tight. He watches you do it like it’s the most interesting thing in the room.

“You scared?” he asks, suddenly quieter.

You don’t answer right away. Just glance up at him, eyes clear.

“I wasn’t worried you’d lose,” you say. “I was worried you wouldn’t stop.”

His grin falters.

“Didn’t wanna look weak,” he mutters.

You scoff softly. “You knocked a man out with one punch.”

“Still.”

You finish wiping the blood from his face and pull your hand back. He reaches out automatically, catches your wrist.

“Hey,” he says. “I’m good. Promise.”

You look at his split knuckles. His swelling eye. The way he’s still vibrating with leftover violence.

“Yeah,” you say. “You won.”

He squeezes your wrist once before letting go. “And you stayed.”

You straighten, rising back onto your heels.

“Yeah,” you echo. “I did.”

People start thinning out fast.

The noise doesn’t vanish all at once, it frays. Voices peel away in clusters, boots scuffing toward exits, laughter and shouting dragged farther and farther from the ring until what’s left feels almost hollow.

A few stragglers still wander past, clapping Mickey on the shoulder as they go.

“Good scrap.” “Mad bastard.” “Hell of a punch.”

Mickey grins at all of them, sloppy and pleased, nodding like he’s being praised for a neat trick. One guy squeezes past and Mickey lifts his chin, squints after him.

“Did y’see that one fall?” he slurs. “Swear ‘e went down like a sack o’-”

“Mickey,” you cut in.

He looks back at you, blinking slow. “Yeah, yeah. Bossy again.”

You ignore him and tug gently at his wrist, guiding him a few steps away from the edge where things are quieter, emptier. He lets you, feet dragging, weight heavy in that loose, boneless way that makes your stomach twist.

You crouch again, setting your bag down properly this time. When you pull out clean cloth, antiseptic, tape, his eyebrows lift.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters. “You plannin’ to rebuild me or just admire the damage?”

“Sit still.”

He does. Mostly.

You start with his hands.

They’re a mess, knuckles split, skin raw and red, blood caked into the creases of his fingers. You soak the cloth and press it to his skin, firmer than before.

He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Christ- take me to dinner first.”

You don’t look up. “You’re still bleeding.”

“Yeah, well. Was punchin’ someone.”

“Y’got real gentle hands,” he says, words running together. “Shame you only use ‘em when I’m fallin’ apart.”

“That’s because you’re impossible,” you say, but your voice is softer than you mean it to be.

He hums, pleased. “Still like it when you touch me.”

You wrap his knuckles, fingers steady, checking each one like you’re counting him back into himself.

“Is your head better, or are you still busy?” you ask.

“Dizzy when I look at you,” he says promptly.

You sigh. “Be serious.”

“I am serious. Very serious man.”

You glance up at him then, unimpressed. He’s smiling, but it wobbles at the edges, eyes glassy, unfocused.

You move to his face next.

There’s more blood than you first thought; much has come back since you cleaned him up by the ring. It's drying along his jaw, smeared across his cheek.

You clean him slower this time, methodically, thumb brushing too close to his mouth.

He goes still.

“Oi,” he murmurs. “Careful. I might get ideas.”

You snort despite yourself. “You can barely string a sentence together.”

“Doesn’t stop me,” he says, leaning in just a fraction. “Never has.”

You pause, cloth hovering. You hadn’t noticed how close he was until now.

You finish cleaning the cut on his lip, then pull back to assess. Your chest loosens when you don’t see anything worse.

You check him anyway, hands light on his shoulders, his ribs, his sides. He watches you with lazy amusement.

“You plannin’ to check everywhere?” he asks. “’Cause I’ve got places you missed.”

“Mickey.”

“What? Doctor-patient confidentiality an' all that.”

You jab his side experimentally and he yelps, laughing. “Oi- alright, alright.”

Your hands linger anyway, just long enough for relief to really hit you. He’s battered, yeah, but he’s upright and breathing.

Your throat tightens before you can stop it.

“Hey,” he says, quieter now, head tipping slightly as he studies you. “Y'alright?”

You swallow. Nod once. Then you lean in and kiss him.

There’s blood and heat and relief all tangled together, his mouth warm and tasting like copper and sweat. He makes a surprised noise into it, then melts into you, one hand coming up to your waist like muscle memory.

When you pull back, his grin is softer. Still crooked and definitely still stupid.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. “Should get punched more often.”

“Don’t you dare.”

He chuckles, slurring again as the adrenaline finally drains. “You kiss like that every time, I’ll consider it.”

You press your forehead briefly to his shoulder, then straighten and start packing your things.

“We’re not done,” you say. “You’re getting properly looked at. No arguing.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, dragging the words. “Only you, though.”