[Mickey is a different person when he sleeps these days. Awake, he's a tightly-wound coil on the verge of springing; when Mira caught him sleeping back in Amsterdam, he was no more nor less than your average sprawling, snoring teenage boy. It's probably not a surprise that at Ian's he's softer, sweeter, happier. If she's ever come here before she knows that this is the way he sleeps every night: shirtless, his arms wrapped around a pillow and his back pressed against Ian, comforted by the warmth of his skin and the safety of this particular routine.
He's not sure why he wakes up at all, except that some sixth or eighth or tenth sense twigs him to another presence in the room. He stirs silently, starts to open his eyes slowly, and then opens them suddenly wide when he realizes they're not alone. He goes rigid.]
What the--
[Mira, he realizes, which offsets the panic but not the tension. All at once he's a live wire again. He disentangles himself from Ian hastily and crosses the tiny room to her, whispering.]
no subject
He's not sure why he wakes up at all, except that some sixth or eighth or tenth sense twigs him to another presence in the room. He stirs silently, starts to open his eyes slowly, and then opens them suddenly wide when he realizes they're not alone. He goes rigid.]
What the--
[Mira, he realizes, which offsets the panic but not the tension. All at once he's a live wire again. He disentangles himself from Ian hastily and crosses the tiny room to her, whispering.]
What the fuck are you doing here?