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"Easy! We can swap!"
"Err, I'm not quite sure about that, Mickey love," Pauline politely refused. She already had his nits, Christ knows what else she might contract by taking up his offer of borrowing some of his clothes for Barbara's party, and Christ knows what else her clothes might contract if she passed them over to him.
Mickey slurped at his bottle of orange juice through a chewed straw. "Why not?"
"Well, I, um," Pauline stalled, scrabbling together an excuse on the spot. "All I've really got is this outfit, and I don't think it'd fit you, would it? And I don't think your clothes would fit me either."
"Oh. Okay," Mickey beamed, "Good point." Phew. No fleshing out of the excuse needed. "What should we wear, then? We haven't got long to choose, we've only got... uh..."
He cranked his wrist towards Pauline for her to read his watch. She hopped back just in time to avoid a splattering of juice on her feet.
"Careful," Pauline huffed, righting Mickey's arm to halt the sticky waterfall. "You're right, not long at all, we've only got an hour 'til it starts. Hmm..."
She scanned Mickey's bedroom for ideas. Crumbs, crayons, citrus-y stains, colouring pages... ah, there, out on the radiator in the hallway. Some crumpled paperwork.
Cogs began to turn. She'd seen Mickey's brother drop it there on Tuesday to dry, after picking up their mother's benefits in the rain...
"We could borrow your mam's clothes, for you at least? Like your Craig does, when he signs on for her." And she might as well take the opportunity to pry, scoop up a few extra details for Ross: "Since when has he been doing that, by the way? How much do you think he's- agh!"
Tacky, sugary, dripping fingers were looping with hers before she knew it as Mickey rushed to set down his bottle, more juice sloshing over the rim. "You're a genius!"
He galloped out of the room with all the grace of a three-legged foal, dragging her clumsily behind him. He didn't seem to have processed her Craig questions - she didn't think he had the brains to have purposely ignored them, he always answered everything to the best of his dwindled ability - but oh well. Ross had given her until the end of the week, which hopefully included up to Sunday, so she still had a bit of a window to gather her facts. They'd be spending the entire evening together at the party for starters.
"Mickey," Pauline breached, when entering the comparatively spotless bedroom for the very first time, the only one she'd been yet to set foot in. No mouldy food, no stains, no 'works of art' lining the walls. "Are you sure we're allowed in here? Don't you want to wash your hands first?"
"Nah, it's fine. My brothers won't mind," Mickey countered, already elbow deep in the wardrobe, "Dad hasn't been home since I was three, and Mam's dead, so, neither of them'll mind either. Noone's gonna tell us off."
So their father had done a runner when Mickey was young, then? No parents left whatsoever? Or perhaps he'd passed too, and him vanishing was the family's way of breaking the news to a mentally challenged toddler.
Pauline'd report it all back to Ross in due time, but still, she couldn't help the guilt that was gradually building. Mickey'd been so innocently hospitable, completely unaware of her treachery, and the more she found out about him, the more they seemed to have in common; her parents were no longer with her either, God rest their souls.
Spiking through her thoughts, Mickey choked out a hyperactive crash of syllables, then bolted past her, arms laden with mostly white, but neon pink peeking out at the side, and a pair of mint heels balanced on top.
"Back in a minute," he called, flying down the stairs, "Got a plan!"
Pauline shook her head fondly, then grimaced as she approached the ajar wardrobe for herself, catching sight of glistening juicy fingerprints on the outer wood panelling. Carefully, she swished through her options.
Almost all of it was women's wear, to her dismay. But on the left she found herself a singular masculine outfit. A formal suit, perfectly laid out for her. A pristine white shirt that Mickey'd clearly never got his grubby mitts on, accompanied by black trousers, a black jacket, and a black bowtie. Even a black cane and black shoes to match, and a set of suspenders to hold up the trousers' waistband.
The outfit was her safest bet at not contracting scabies that day, so despite the lingering shame at nicking a possibly dead man's clothes - she'd be horrifically offended if anyone was to ever steal her parents' clothes, but Mickey and his brothers were all good-natured, she suspected the father would've been the same, he wouldn't mind - she hurried to dress herself before Mickey reappeared, folding her own clothes into a stack on the bed.
"Is that Dad's wedding suit?"
She flinched at the sudden appearance of Mickey's voice behind her, then flinched again as his words sunk in. "Oh my God, that's awful, I'm so sorry. I'll get it off right awa-"
"Nah, don't, it's a good thing! I'm in Mam's wedding dress, we match!"
She turned around, refastening her bowtie from where she'd started to loosen it, and found that Mickey looked...
Surprisingly lovely. But unsurprisingly, he was still very identifiably Mickey. Cystic acne, wonky teeth, unwashed socks, oily mullet, vaguely offputting smell, the whole lot.
He tottered in his staggering heels - how he hadn't tripped when coming back up the stairs in them, Pauline had no idea - giving a few little twirls. "I feel pretty. Do I look it?"
"Definitely," Pauline said, the last syllable dying in her throat as Mickey's back was bared to her in all its zitted, hairy glory. In spite of the harrowing view, she stopped him in place by the shoulders, and zipped up the rear panel to the top, where he must've been unable to reach himself... ugh, the top of the zip only just passed the hot pink bra clasp, so the minefield of whiteheads was left exposed after all.
She span him around again to spare herself the nausea, and with how close they were stood, "Christ Almighty!" - she proceeded to nearly smack her chin with Mickey's garishly protruding chest, sending him reeling into a fit of cackles.
"They're potatoes! 'S what I went downstairs for," he proudly declared, cupping them with his hands, thankfully leaving no residual orange behind, the juice having finally dried up; the dregs had likely smeared onto his jumper when he'd stripped out of it.
"They certainly do the job," Pauline remarked, brows raised. "Very convincing. Now, what else do we need..."
Mickey's face scrunched as he pondered, and a few seconds later, his eyes lit up, in the same manner they did whenever he rambled about becoming a fireman. Just as she was about to argue that no, they couldn't drive to Barbara's in a fire engine:
"Could you put some makeup on me, please?"
"I don't really know if we've got time for... oh, sod it, why not," she said, and Mickey shrieked in glee, scuffing over to a cabinet in the corner, opening the top drawer, scooping out a random selection of tubes and trays, then plopping them and his lanky self down on the plush bed.
Pauline joined him, planting one knee on the mattress for balance and surveying the collection. "Right, here we go. Eyes closed please, Mickey love." She freed the mechanism of a shimmery, rectangular eyeshadow palette, from the same brand she used herself actually, so perfectly within her comfort zone, and opted for the palest shade of blue, both to contrast her own fuschia choice that day, and to complement the bright flower brooch that sat at the front of Mickey's dress.
She patted it on and around his obediently shut lids with the default sponge dabber. "Tickles," he giggled, and she tapped his arm lightly to get him to stop squirming, then applied a dash of mascara, and a smear of dark pencil liner around each lashline, before allowing him to reopen his eyes.
He handed her a circular plastic rouge container next from the random heap, and in lieu of a brush, she bravely used the pad of her pointer finger to pad it onto his cheeks. His skin wasn't quite as grimy to the touch as she'd feared, but even after a hefty coating of red his spots were still glaring, so in a stroke of genius, she armed herself with the blunt eyeliner again and covered each of the spots in turn, gradually painting Mickey's cheekbones and chin in a cluster of freckles.
"Which of these lipsticks would go best with your blusher, d'you reckon? This one, or-"
Instead of picking one of the two options Pauline was presenting him with, Mickey lunged backwards, grappling for the contents of Pauline's jacket pocket, dismantling her precisely balanced pile. "This one?"
Her lipstick. Her favourite bubblegum pink. Aside from her pens, her most prized possession. She'd had one by her side throughout her entire adulthood, ready to be applied during any and every occasion and life event. She'd just managed to buy a new one before being sent to prison, and smuggled it in - none of anybody's business how she smuggled it in, thank you very much - and out with her again, and now it was almost worn down to the base, just a few precious uses left in it.
Puppy dog eyes pouted up at her. "Please?"
"Alright. But you owe me a new one," Pauline bargained, because even if she might be able to squeeze a couple more coats out of it afterwards, she didn't want to risk the contagion of his cold sores.
After an eager squawk of gratitude, Mickey puffed his mouth into a fish-lipped kissy pucker, which wasn't overly helpful, but Pauline patiently got it done, and she had to admit, it did look rather nice on him. He looked rather nice as a whole, the 'surprisingly lovely' effect working its magic again.
He bounced up and scampered to the cabinet again, fishing out a handheld mirror to admire himself. He seemed over the moon, but when he span back around, the waxy texture of the lipstick had captured the ends of an awful lot of stray hairs, leaving his lower face whiskered like a cat's.
Pauline sighed, and followed him to where he stood, peeking into the top drawer in search of a hairbrush. The contents looked as if they'd been very neatly organised before Mickey'd started to rummage, still in vague piles despite his ferocity, so she quickly found a suitable brush, and with arms stretched high, she yanked it through his tangles, shushing him through every little yelp until the knots melted away.
He'd mess it up again in minutes, no doubt. A series of hair ties were nestled in with some other accessories, clips and the like, so taking two loose bobbles, she divided his mullet into two bunches to keep it under control, then covered the bobbles with pastel yellow ribbons, fastening them into feminine bows to blend it into the outfit. As he leaned down to faff in the cupboard again, Pauline very clearly saw that his scalp still proved an issue though, with dandruff that only multiplied, and yuck, those blasted nits -
"Did your mam have a... a hat, or something lying around, that we could borrow?"
Mickey's head reared, hands coming down from where they'd been at his ears, revealing gaudily red - presumably not real ruby, likely costume jewellery - earrings. Since when had he had his ears pierced? Maybe they were clip-ons.
"She should've done," he said, trotting back to the wardrobe, but pausing. "Hang on, you've not got yours on yet!"
"Mine? My what?"
Mickey yanked out a plastic bowler hat, tossing it at her like a Frisbee, followed by a black curly wig. Her glasses thankfully protected her eyes from being taken out by the former - how his aim was so good, she had no idea; maybe she could get him set up as a professional Frisbee thrower, if those existed - the rim bouncing off of a lens and careening back in Mickey's direction.
She managed to catch the wig though, and ultimately decided to put it on, as the closest thing to shampoo their household owned was dish soap, so her hair had definitely seen better days in terms of grease. She'd have to invest in some proper hygiene when Mickey's next dole payment rolled in, for everyone's sake.
"Dad was bald, y'see," Mickey explained, and Pauline exhaled in relief. At least that ruled out the possibility of her picking up any extra lice from his headwear. "Only found out when he went, 'cause he left the wig behind... ah, here's one!"
As he snatched a decadently brimmed hat down from the upper shelf, a trailing silk scarf tumbled out in its wake. With a little 'hm' of contemplation, he bent down to pick the scarf up, slinging it crookedly around his neck, then bent down to pick up the bowler hat too, walking over and propping it delicately upon Pauline's head.
"I bet I look like Charlie friggin' Chaplin without a moustache," she laughed, adjusting Mickey's hat; he'd slammed his own on much more carelessly than he had hers, bless him.
"Well I dunno who that Charlie is, but she must look pretty, 'cause you do. Even if she has got a moustache."
Pauline's pulse had only had one or two beats to speed up at the implication that she was pretty before Mickey went and ruined it - "The suit fits you nice. Makes sense. Dad was fat like you, so-"
"Mickey! That's no way to talk to a lady!"
"You're a man right now though, aren't you? Not a lady," Mickey snickered, before taking on a more thoughtful tone. "And I weren't saying it as a bad thing anyway," he shrugged, "Just obs-... obversing." Observing. "You can be pretty and fat at the same time."
"...Thank you? I think," Pauline replied, struggling to decipher his intent, before realising that there probably wasn't any hidden meaning. He was too simple and sweet to ever mean much beneath the surface. "Right. Are we ready to go? Babs can't drive us, she'll be busy setting things up, and it's a bit of a walk, so we really should be on our way..."
Mickey was off like a shot, giggles and clunking heels echoing down the stairs. Pauline rolled her eyes, and got to enacting the routine she'd developed as of late - leaving everything as tidy as it'd been when she came in, to combat the destruction Mickey caused wherever he went.
She refolded her clothes, closed the cabinet's top drawer, closed the wardrobe, and closed the bedroom door. Regretfully, there was no time for cleaning Mickey's carpet of the orange juice splatters, but she'd be sure to give it a good bash with the dish soap when they got home that night.
She marched down the stairs and was drawn to the kitchen, the cupboard under the sink having been left wide open... ah, the source of Mickey's potatoes.
Mickey was shouting through the window, jumping and waving on the pavement as he begged for her to hurry up, hollering that he wanted to get partying.
"Just a sec, Mickey love! Won't be long," she called, crouching down to make sure he hadn't burst a pipe in his hectic search earlier, or made too disastrous of a mess. All clear on that front, thank goodness, but two items caught her eye:
The first; black electrical tape. Hell, why not go full Charlie Chaplin with her costume? She was already ninety percent of the way there. She tore off an almost square rectangle with her teeth and stuck it to her upper lip blindly, praying it'd hold fast for the evening.
The second; a singular carrot. With the inspiration of Mickey's potatoes, she couldn't help the idea that sprung to mind...
...She might as well, mightn't she?
Shoving it into the front of her trousers as a makeshift you-know-what, she rose to her feet, shutting the cupboard and making her way outside.
Mickey couldn't be trusted with keys, lest he try to eat them. Apparently, once, just once as a child, he'd had a novelty key-shaped bar of chocolate, and from that day onwards insisted on giving every key he came across a taste test, even if he'd seen the keys before and knew they were metal, even if they were his own bloody house keys.
So like with the spots of cleaning she did, it was Pauline's obligation to lock the door, before letting Mickey giddily take her by the arm and start running, nearly twisting her ankle with force. Finally, they were off.