Shamelessly for Shameless.

A blog dedicated to my Shameless fanfiction. NSFW for some of it :) Thanks for reading.

[shamelessly4shameless-blog]

Choose Your Own Colours.

I’m not sure where this story came from, or what it’s purpose is but it was floating around my head a little bit this evening so I decided to write it out on the way back from class. Thanks for reading guys. xx

“Hold still…”

“Quit fuckin’ poking at it!”

“I need to see if it’s fuckin’ broken!”

“Oh you got a medical degree now, huh? Jesus Christ! Get off!”

“Fine, asshole! End up with a fuckin’ wonky-ass snout. See if I give a shit!”

Mandy released her brother’s chin and stepped back, shaking her head.

“You want me to wash your shirt?”

Mickey smeared his forearm across his upper lip, grimacing at the sight of thick, sticky blood as he pulled it away.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

He tugged the splattered tee over his head and handed it over almost shyly. Their fingers touched briefly and Mickey sighed through his mouth, ignoring the clogged up feeling of his nose as he eyed his sister.

“You okay?”

Mandy folded the shirt over her arm, smoothing the creases out of the grubby fabric before answering.

“Yeah. You didn’t have to … you know.”

Mickey shrugged one pale skinny shoulder and sniffed experimentally, wincing as pain spread across his face from the bruised cartilage of his nose.

“I had to tell him I lost the cash at some point.”

Mandy smiled and tucked a long strand of dyed hair behind her ear.

“Picked a fuckin’ weird time. He was pissed at me not you.”

“Won’t make that mistake again then, will I?”

“Just admit you did a nice thing, dickwad.”

“Fuck off.”

Mickey frowned and pulled a packet of smokes out of his jeans pocket. His fingers were shaking a little but not that badly now. He heard the soft whoosh of a lighter and bobbed his head gratefully as Mandy leant over to light it for him.

“Hey, you got anything to do right now?”

“Dad wants me to shake down a couple assholes to make that money back.”

Mickey doesn’t say that it can wait but he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry either so Mandy decides to try a little olive branch and see what happens. They are always at their closest after a disaster and Mandy wants to offer her brother something to show her gratitude.

“I could do your hair?”

Mickey runs a hand over the short dirty blonde lengths and scowls

“There’s nothin’ fuckin’ wrong with my hair.”

Mandy shrugs and nods to the ‘Out For Justice’ poster on Mickey’s bedroom door.

“Might suit you darker.”

She wanders through to the kitchen with his bloodied shirt whilst Mickey finishes his cigarette and cleans up his face with a mostly-clean sock he has plucked off a radiator.

“You think it would look okay?”

Mickey asks self-consciously when she comes back in and Mandy smiles encouragingly, holding out a length of her own her.

“Like this or …”

She gestures to her fringe which is streaked with red

“Red maybe? I can mix a couple of colours to get a really dark red?”

Mickey shakes his head quickly

“Nah, I don’t like redheads.”

“Okay, so black?”

Mickey licks his lip and glances back to Steven Segal, staring down at him like a fuckin’ badass.

“Sure. But don’t fuck it up, okay?”

Mandy rolls her eyes and points toward the bathroom.

She works quickly, knowing that Mickey’s patience is always limited and they barely say a word to each other as she coats the short, fair lengths with dye.

“Stuff smells like shit.”

“Gotta leave it for twenty minutes.”

Mickey pulls a face but doesn’t protest.

“Okay, face me and do not fuckin’ move…”

Mandy orders and fights a smile at the almost comical freeze of her brother’s body. Mickey doesn’t give a shit about much but he is a weirdly precious about his hair and although he is shit at styling it and ends up clumping it in weird spikes, he always tries.

Mandy dabs a tiny amount of dye on a comb and with the concentration of a surgeon, sweeps it lightly along Mickey’s right eyebrow.

“What the fuck?”

Mickey grits but maintains his statuesque freeze.

“You want to have pale eyebrows and black hair? No? Then hold still.”

Mandy grunts, applying the same careful stroke to his left. She is not normally up close and personal with her brother, and certainly not this close to his eyes. Their mom’s eyes. Mandy swallows and pushes the memories away with a defiant huff.

“Okay I’ll get you a beer. Sit still, DO NOT touch your hair or face!”

Mickey pulls a face at her retreating back but folds his arms across his chest obediently anyway. Beneath the scowl he is excited. Changing  his hair colour isn’t going to change all the other shitty things in his life but it is something new and right now, Mickey desperately wants to feel renewed.

*

The first time Mickey told Ian that story, he was drunk. They were slouched in a booth in a club in Boy’s Town and Ian had been lazily fingering the lengths of Mickey’s hair when violet coloured lights hit them both, sending silver fragments of colour across Mickey’s pale roots.

He’d asked when Mickey first dyed his hair and not really expected much more than the usual shrug and single word answer that accompanied most direct questions about Mickey’s past. However, the whisky had been flowing freely all evening and Ian had sat rapt as Mickey leant a little bit closer to him and told him about it, almost yelling to be heard over the din of the music.

“So yeah, that was it, man. It was the first time I ever felt like … like I made a proper fuckin’ choice about what I looked like. Clothes were always from Iggy, soap was whatever shit Mandy stole, couldn’t grow a fuckin’ beard back then… but this,”

Mickey ruffled his hair affectionately

“This I chose. It was … choosing my own colours, ya know?”

Mickey hiccupped and grinned at Ian, running his hand across the golden stubble on Ian’s jaw, completely oblivious to the intense effect his words had on his boyfriend.

“Mmm. I really do like this though. Maybe I should grow a beard now or something? I’m a fuckin’ bald eagle except for my pubes, man. No fuckin’ chest hair, no proper hair on my legs … shit is freaky.”

“No way! You’re perfect, Mick.”

Ian shouted back over the bass, Mickey’s grin widened and he slapped Ian’s cheek lightly with a small laugh.

“Nah, you’re fuckin’ perfect. Big ol’ freckly alien mother fucker. Mine, you know? My fuckin’ space man.”

Ian watched Mickey’s hand trail up his thigh, inviting and demanding in equal measure and the way when he looked back at him, his pupils were blown and Ian could swear that his boyfriend’s scent had spiked too, taking on a heady aroma of sex and raw masculinity that Mickey didn’t seem to even notice. Ian swallowed dryly and ran his hands through as much of Mickey’s hair as he could, touching every liberated strand with all the love in his heart.

They hadn’t made it out of the club. They barely made it to a locked bathroom stall that Mickey kicked his way into, terrifying the two boys already in there.

“Times up, assholes!”

“You can’t do that!”

One of them had protested as Mickey shouldered his way in, dragging Ian by the wrist, crushing the four of them in together.

“Well it looks like I fuckin’ am. If you’re still here when I get my dick out, I’m gonna put your fuckin’ eyes out with it.”

Mickey snapped, his attention solely with Ian as he began to unbuckle his belt and fumble with the button of his jeans.

“Is he serious?”

The other kid had asked Ian whose air of passive amusement flicked like a switch as the guy shot Mickey a filthy look of distain.

“Yeah, he’s fuckin’ serious, you little twink bitch. Get the fuck out!”

“Jesus! You two are fucking crazy!”

Ian leant in close to the second boy and bared his teeth in a fairly passable resemblance of a deranged smile, his eyes dark.

“You have no fucking idea.”

The boys exited swiftly, already forgotten as the door banged shut behind them. The music from the club was distorted but clear and Ian swayed with the base, his arms linking around Mickey’s neck, drawing him in close. The kisses were hard and wet, a clash of tongues and teeth, slipping to biting kisses along jaws and throats. Ian turned Mickey around and slammed him into the wall of the stall, covering his body with his own and nosing through his hair to find the natural colour beneath, recounting Mickey’s story in his head.

“You made a fuckin’ good choice, Mick. Blonde is sweet and all but black … mmmmm.”

Ian bit Mickey’s neck sharply causing his boyfriend to hiss a breath through his teeth.

“And hairless ain’t freaky, it feels amazing in all the right places.”

Ian thrust his hands down the back of Mickey’s pants, grabbing his ass hard and shoving his jeans down roughly.

“And any fucker who lays a finger on you is gonna have me to deal with, I will fuckin’ destroy them.”

Mickey grunted, pushing back against Ian and reaching back to grip a fistful of Ian’s shirt

“You gonna protect me, huh? Treat me right?”

Mickey’s tone was teasing but he clenched around Ian tightly making his boyfriend gasp and squeeze his eyes shut.

“Always.”

Ian growled, and kissed the tattooed digits clinging to him. He built up a rhythm which Mickey matched, gradually increasing their speed until the stall was rattling alarmingly and they were both sweating and swearing freely, completely lost in each other and not giving a single fuck about the rest of the world.

Mickey came with his forehead pressed to the graffitied wall, the bulk of Ian’s weight leaning into him, Mickey’s sturdy legs supporting them both despite the tangled denim pooled around his knees.

As they left the bathroom stall, several pairs of eyes followed them to the sinks and Ian settled a protective hand on the small of Mickey’s back, daring anyone to say a damn thing. Mickey washed his hands nonchalantly and splashed water over his face, tipping his head back to push wet fingers through his hair.

A couple of men smiled appreciatively but looked away as Ian rolled his neck and made eye contact that could not be confused for anything other than naked aggression.

“Your boy does have nice hair. You weren’t lying.”

One of them ventured with a giggle, watching Mickey neaten himself up in the mirror. Ian smirked, eyes narrowing to slits and took a step forward.

“I missed that, buddy. What the fuck did you say?”

“He called me your ‘boy’,”

Mickey answered casually, turning from the mirror and stepping up beside Ian, who snapped his fingers and cocked his head to the side looking at the men like they were his next meal.

“Shit. That’s what I thought he fucking said.”

Both Southsiders kept their faces straight until the bathroom door closed behind their former audience and then fell about laughing.

Mickey pulled Ian in for another kiss and gently butted his forehead against Ian’s own.

“You’re hot when you’re intimidating assholes for me.”

“Learned from the best.”

Ian murmured fondly then on impulse he neatened Mickey’s shirt, smoothing his hands across broad, capable shoulders.

“You chose the perfect colours, Mick. You know that, right?”

Mickey ducked his head, a shy touch of pink on his cheekbones adding to his spectrum of colours.

Looking around them, both men suddenly realised they had managed to empty the bathroom. Mickey quirked an eyebrow and gave Ian that particular grin that assured Ian things could only possibly go one way. Ian nodded and they tumbled back into the battered cubicle.

[shamelessly4shameless-blog]

Choose Your Own Colours.

I’m not sure where this story came from, or what it’s purpose is but it was floating around my head a little bit this evening so I decided to write it out on the way back from class. Thanks for reading guys. xx

“Hold still…”

“Quit fuckin’ poking at it!”

“I need to see if it’s fuckin’ broken!”

“Oh you got a medical degree now, huh? Jesus Christ! Get off!”

“Fine, asshole! End up with a fuckin’ wonky-ass snout. See if I give a shit!”

Mandy released her brother’s chin and stepped back, shaking her head.

“You want me to wash your shirt?”

Mickey smeared his forearm across his upper lip, grimacing at the sight of thick, sticky blood as he pulled it away.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

He tugged the splattered tee over his head and handed it over almost shyly. Their fingers touched briefly and Mickey sighed through his mouth, ignoring the clogged up feeling of his nose as he eyed his sister.

“You okay?”

Mandy folded the shirt over her arm, smoothing the creases out of the grubby fabric before answering.

“Yeah. You didn’t have to … you know.”

Mickey shrugged one pale skinny shoulder and sniffed experimentally, wincing as pain spread across his face from the bruised cartilage of his nose.

“I had to tell him I lost the cash at some point.”

Mandy smiled and tucked a long strand of dyed hair behind her ear.

“Picked a fuckin’ weird time. He was pissed at me not you.”

“Won’t make that mistake again then, will I?”

“Just admit you did a nice thing, dickwad.”

“Fuck off.”

Mickey frowned and pulled a packet of smokes out of his jeans pocket. His fingers were shaking a little but not that badly now. He heard the soft whoosh of a lighter and bobbed his head gratefully as Mandy leant over to light it for him.

“Hey, you got anything to do right now?”

“Dad wants me to shake down a couple assholes to make that money back.”

Mickey doesn’t say that it can wait but he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry either so Mandy decides to try a little olive branch and see what happens. They are always at their closest after a disaster and Mandy wants to offer her brother something to show her gratitude.

“I could do your hair?”

Mickey runs a hand over the short dirty blonde lengths and scowls

“There’s nothin’ fuckin’ wrong with my hair.”

Mandy shrugs and nods to the ‘Out For Justice’ poster on Mickey’s bedroom door.

“Might suit you darker.”

She wanders through to the kitchen with his bloodied shirt whilst Mickey finishes his cigarette and cleans up his face with a mostly-clean sock he has plucked off a radiator.

“You think it would look okay?”

Mickey asks self-consciously when she comes back in and Mandy smiles encouragingly, holding out a length of her own her.

“Like this or …”

She gestures to her fringe which is streaked with red

“Red maybe? I can mix a couple of colours to get a really dark red?”

Mickey shakes his head quickly

“Nah, I don’t like redheads.”

“Okay, so black?”

Mickey licks his lip and glances back to Steven Segal, staring down at him like a fuckin’ badass.

“Sure. But don’t fuck it up, okay?”

Mandy rolls her eyes and points toward the bathroom.

She works quickly, knowing that Mickey’s patience is always limited and they barely say a word to each other as she coats the short, fair lengths with dye.

“Stuff smells like shit.”

“Gotta leave it for twenty minutes.”

Mickey pulls a face but doesn’t protest.

“Okay, face me and do not fuckin’ move…”

Mandy orders and fights a smile at the almost comical freeze of her brother’s body. Mickey doesn’t give a shit about much but he is a weirdly precious about his hair and although he is shit at styling it and ends up clumping it in weird spikes, he always tries.

Mandy dabs a tiny amount of dye on a comb and with the concentration of a surgeon, sweeps it lightly along Mickey’s right eyebrow.

“What the fuck?”

Mickey grits but maintains his statuesque freeze.

“You want to have pale eyebrows and black hair? No? Then hold still.”

Mandy grunts, applying the same careful stroke to his left. She is not normally up close and personal with her brother, and certainly not this close to his eyes. Their mom’s eyes. Mandy swallows and pushes the memories away with a defiant huff.

“Okay I’ll get you a beer. Sit still, DO NOT touch your hair or face!”

Mickey pulls a face at her retreating back but folds his arms across his chest obediently anyway. Beneath the scowl he is excited. Changing  his hair colour isn’t going to change all the other shitty things in his life but it is something new and right now, Mickey desperately wants to feel renewed.

*

The first time Mickey told Ian that story, he was drunk. They were slouched in a booth in a club in Boy’s Town and Ian had been lazily fingering the lengths of Mickey’s hair when violet coloured lights hit them both, sending silver fragments of colour across Mickey’s pale roots.

He’d asked when Mickey first dyed his hair and not really expected much more than the usual shrug and single word answer that accompanied most direct questions about Mickey’s past. However, the whisky had been flowing freely all evening and Ian had sat rapt as Mickey leant a little bit closer to him and told him about it, almost yelling to be heard over the din of the music.

“So yeah, that was it, man. It was the first time I ever felt like … like I made a proper fuckin’ choice about what I looked like. Clothes were always from Iggy, soap was whatever shit Mandy stole, couldn’t grow a fuckin’ beard back then… but this,”

Mickey ruffled his hair affectionately

“This I chose. It was … choosing my own colours, ya know?”

Mickey hiccupped and grinned at Ian, running his hand across the golden stubble on Ian’s jaw, completely oblivious to the intense effect his words had on his boyfriend.

“Mmm. I really do like this though. Maybe I should grow a beard now or something? I’m a fuckin’ bald eagle except for my pubes, man. No fuckin’ chest hair, no proper hair on my legs … shit is freaky.”

“No way! You’re perfect, Mick.”

Ian shouted back over the bass, Mickey’s grin widened and he slapped Ian’s cheek lightly with a small laugh.

“Nah, you’re fuckin’ perfect. Big ol’ freckly alien mother fucker. Mine, you know? My fuckin’ space man.”

Ian watched Mickey’s hand trail up his thigh, inviting and demanding in equal measure and the way when he looked back at him, his pupils were blown and Ian could swear that his boyfriend’s scent had spiked too, taking on a heady aroma of sex and raw masculinity that Mickey didn’t seem to even notice. Ian swallowed dryly and ran his hands through as much of Mickey’s hair as he could, touching every liberated strand with all the love in his heart.

They hadn’t made it out of the club. They barely made it to a locked bathroom stall that Mickey kicked his way into, terrifying the two boys already in there.

“Times up, assholes!”

“You can’t do that!”

One of them had protested as Mickey shouldered his way in, dragging Ian by the wrist, crushing the four of them in together.

“Well it looks like I fuckin’ am. If you’re still here when I get my dick out, I’m gonna put your fuckin’ eyes out with it.”

Mickey snapped, his attention solely with Ian as he began to unbuckle his belt and fumble with the button of his jeans.

“Is he serious?”

The other kid had asked Ian whose air of passive amusement flicked like a switch as the guy shot Mickey a filthy look of distain.

“Yeah, he’s fuckin’ serious, you little twink bitch. Get the fuck out!”

“Jesus! You two are fucking crazy!”

Ian leant in close to the second boy and bared his teeth in a fairly passable resemblance of a deranged smile, his eyes dark.

“You have no fucking idea.”

The boys exited swiftly, already forgotten as the door banged shut behind them. The music from the club was distorted but clear and Ian swayed with the base, his arms linking around Mickey’s neck, drawing him in close. The kisses were hard and wet, a clash of tongues and teeth, slipping to biting kisses along jaws and throats. Ian turned Mickey around and slammed him into the wall of the stall, covering his body with his own and nosing through his hair to find the natural colour beneath, recounting Mickey’s story in his head.

“You made a fuckin’ good choice, Mick. Blonde is sweet and all but black … mmmmm.”

Ian bit Mickey’s neck sharply causing his boyfriend to hiss a breath through his teeth.

“And hairless ain’t freaky, it feels amazing in all the right places.”

Ian thrust his hands down the back of Mickey’s pants, grabbing his ass hard and shoving his jeans down roughly.

“And any fucker who lays a finger on you is gonna have me to deal with, I will fuckin’ destroy them.”

Mickey grunted, pushing back against Ian and reaching back to grip a fistful of Ian’s shirt

“You gonna protect me, huh? Treat me right?”

Mickey’s tone was teasing but he clenched around Ian tightly making his boyfriend gasp and squeeze his eyes shut.

“Always.”

Ian growled, and kissed the tattooed digits clinging to him. He built up a rhythm which Mickey matched, gradually increasing their speed until the stall was rattling alarmingly and they were both sweating and swearing freely, completely lost in each other and not giving a single fuck about the rest of the world.

Mickey came with his forehead pressed to the graffitied wall, the bulk of Ian’s weight leaning into him, Mickey’s sturdy legs supporting them both despite the tangled denim pooled around his knees.

As they left the bathroom stall, several pairs of eyes followed them to the sinks and Ian settled a protective hand on the small of Mickey’s back, daring anyone to say a damn thing. Mickey washed his hands nonchalantly and splashed water over his face, tipping his head back to push wet fingers through his hair.

A couple of men smiled appreciatively but looked away as Ian rolled his neck and made eye contact that could not be confused for anything other than naked aggression.

“Your boy does have nice hair. You weren’t lying.”

One of them ventured with a giggle, watching Mickey neaten himself up in the mirror. Ian smirked, eyes narrowing to slits and took a step forward.

“I missed that, buddy. What the fuck did you say?”

“He called me your ‘boy’,”

Mickey answered casually, turning from the mirror and stepping up beside Ian, who snapped his fingers and cocked his head to the side looking at the men like they were his next meal.

“Shit. That’s what I thought he fucking said.”

Both Southsiders kept their faces straight until the bathroom door closed behind their former audience and then fell about laughing.

Mickey pulled Ian in for another kiss and gently butted his forehead against Ian’s own.

“You’re hot when you’re intimidating assholes for me.”

“Learned from the best.”

Ian murmured fondly then on impulse he neatened Mickey’s shirt, smoothing his hands across broad, capable shoulders.

“You chose the perfect colours, Mick. You know that, right?”

Mickey ducked his head, a shy touch of pink on his cheekbones adding to his spectrum of colours.

Looking around them, both men suddenly realised they had managed to empty the bathroom. Mickey quirked an eyebrow and gave Ian that particular grin that assured Ian things could only possibly go one way. Ian nodded and they tumbled back into the battered cubicle.

[suitfer]

lip in season 4 is very important; i loved this scene uvu

[shamelessly4shameless-blog]

Champagne Supernova (nsfw)

Hi, Could you please write something kinky? Like Mickey confesses to wanting something out of the ordinary and Ian goes with it? Thanks xxxxxxxxx

“Ugh! Fuck!”

Mickey bit down hard, baring his front teeth in a grimace and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You’re not supposed to drink it like that.”

“Fucking … clearly!”

Mickey looked up at Ian accusingly through watering eyes and pushed his tongue in and out a few times as if testing whether or not it still worked.

“How did that shit get so famous? It sucks!”

“It doesn’t! You just sip it. Like this …”

“I know what ‘sipping’ is, asshole.”

Mickey scowled, setting the flimsy little glass Ian had given him on the table with a look of disdain.

“Here, have some more but this time don’t toss it back like cheap vodka.”

Ian, who had temporarily forgotten that he was not in fact born to caviar and silver spoons, gave Mickey a gently condescending smile and reached over to top up his flute but was waved away by his boyfriend, who had not given in to fantasies of living the life of Gatsby.

“Nah, it’s cool. I’ll stick with beer.”

“Fuck sake, Mick!”

Ian set his jaw firmly and thrust the magnum of Bollinger at Mickey like a weapon.

“Look at this!”

He tapped green bottle with his flute.

“It’s champagne, actual champagne, from France! You are not switching out for beer.”

“Yeah … except that I am though.”

Mickey snarked, giving Ian a sarcastic little smile and grabbing a bottle from the box at his feet

“Look at this …”

 Mickey tapped the brown bottle with his fingertip

“It’s beer, from fuck knows where, and I like it.”

Ian set the magnum down on the table with a thump and held his middle finger up to Mickey’s smug face. Mickey grinned around the foaming head of the beer bottle and returned the gesture, swirling his tongue around the rim and dipping it into the froth for good measure as he released a satisfied moan.

Ian could feel his lip beginning to quiver as a smile threatened to break through and he tried to scowl harder but it was no use. He could see from the impish gleam in Mickey’s eyes that he wasn’t buying into Ian’s huff at all.

Mickey drained the bottle and made an exaggerated noise of appreciation, smacking his lips together and setting the empty next to the magnum, patting it with a sort of stubborn pride.

“Just as good, man!”

Ian waggled his head a little bit and Mickey raised his eyebrows in expectation. One liners didn’t come naturally for Ian, you kinda had to give the guy a minute but actually watching them form was part of the fun for Mickey, so he tended to just wait them out and at the very least, they’d usually be so bad they were weirdly fucking hilarious.

“You know, seeing your bottle next to my bottle reminds me of something else.”

“Oh yeah?”

Mickey’s teeth set lightly in his bottom lip as his eyebrows inched higher, daring his boyfriend to go there.

“Yeah, like my huge, thick, full bottle of premium shit that people go nuts for versus …”

Despite the fact that he was pretty sure his boyfriend was about to insinuate he had a small dick, Mickey felt the clutch of his chest tighten with love for the guy and he waited patiently.

Ian was fizzing as much as his champagne with the glee of teasing Mickey. In the quick-fire draw of witty remarks, Ian did not normally win but he was pretty sure he was onto a good one here! His smile was so wide it actually made his cheeks ache and he was tripping over his words in his haste to get them out before Mickey could think of something better and beat him to it.

“… your easily swallowed, quickly emptied, kinda cute but tiny…”

Ian had begun backing away as he spoke, but at the word ‘tiny’ Mickey lunged forward, pretending to be shocked and outraged, and barrelled a laughing Ian backwards onto the sofa.

“Oh you’re real funny, huh? Proper comedian?”

He grunted, a fierce smile tempering his actions as he straddled Ian’s hips and pinned the hand not holding the flute to the back of the sofa.

“Yep!”

Ian grinned, cockily sipping his drink and eyeing Mickey over the rim. A lock of hair had fallen forward over Mickey’s forehead in the tussle and Ian gently untangled his hand from Mickey’s to push it back.

“Come here.”

He cupped the back of Mickey’s head and pulled him gently forward, taking a little more champagne into his mouth and holding it as the bubbles exploded on his tongue. When it had settled down, he kissed Mickey, letting the champagne flow between them, a tiny eruption of flavour and scent they had not shared before.

“Better?”

“Yeah.”

“More?”

“Mmhmm.”

Ian smiled and sipped his drink. When Mickey lost his speech in moments like this, it was usually because he was getting something that he desperately wanted but had not realised he wanted. It was a sign that he was processing some new and wonderful sensation and had no concentration left for something as mundane as speech. Some lovers considered screams to be the ultimate sign of their proficiency, for Ian, it was the beautiful sound of silence.

Mickey licked his lips as he pulled away from the second kiss, his pupils were blown with lust though Ian only caught a glimpse of them before they were obscured by the fabric of Mickey’s shirt as he began to undress, staggering backwards off Ian’s lap and kicking off his boots.

Ah. Not only silence but now frantic movements too! Ian smiled to himself and stood up.

He pulled his own shirt over his head and stood, placing his glass at his feet. He unbuckled his belt and let his jeans pool around his ankles, stepping gracefully out of them.

“You want me to leave these?”

Mickey twanged the elastic of his boxers with his thumb, looking up at Ian with rounded eyes.

“Yes. Thank you.”

Mickey’s breath hitched at the thanks and he shifted his weight from foot to foot waiting for Ian to tell him what to do and wishing he’d hurry up.

“I stole something else from work…”

Mickey frowned impatiently but Ian ignored him, this was part of the game. Ian had discovered that Mickey was a little bit like the little toy cars he and Lip had as kids. The springs in those things were temperamental and you had to wind them up just right. The trick was to get the spring good and taut and hold it there until you had the car positioned just right. If your fingers slipped even a fraction, the wheels would spin furiously, and the car would shoot off in the wrong direction and you’d have no control at all. However, Ian learned that if he kept a tight hold until the very last second, he could guarantee that his racer would win every time.  

Ian retrieved his bag and began fishing around, taking his time, aware of the increased fidgeting behind him. The cuffs Ian eventually pulled out of his back were ringed in black fur and as he dangled them from his forefinger, Mickey gave him a slightly confused look.

“C’mon, man. The fuck are we supposed to do with those?”

“Well they’re cuffs, I thought …”

Ian frowned as his finger slipped off the spring and Mickey’s wheels began to do their own thing

“Jesus Christ,”

Mickey muttered, shaking his head and crossing to his junk drawer impatiently, scolding Ian as he rummaged

“If you put me in those and do something I don’t like, I’m gonna break the fuckers and stop you.”

“Why would I do something you don’t …”

“But if you use these …”

Mickey ignored Ian’s interruption and tossed a pair of standard police issue cuffs to him.

“… I’m not goin’ anywhere. Beat me, tickle me, fuck my mouth til I choke on your pubes …”

“Til you …”

Ian felt his face flame as the toy car turned into a monster truck and roared towards him with a screech of rubber.

“… pour hot wax on my nipples and slap me around a bit or …”

Mickey scratched the back of his head and puffed out his cheeks as if pondering other items his grocery list. Ian couldn’t put into words how much he wanted to look at Mickey’s internet search history. He felt at once incredibly aroused and utterly furious at the thought of Mickey having all these hidden desires. That he should feel unable to tell Ian what he wanted … What sort of boyfriend was Ian if Mickey couldn’t talk to him about this stuff? Ian made a decision and grabbed the champagne in one hand and Mickey in the other and lumbered toward the bedroom determinedly.

Mickey stumbled slightly up the stairs as Ian took them three at a time, his longer legs making light work of the distance. Ian shoved Mickey into the bedroom and slammed the door with more force than he meant to.

“Sit.”

“Wh…”

“Fucking sit!”

Ian opened his eyes wide and pointed to the bed and although Mickey’s tongue flicked into the corner of his mouth and his shoulders swaggered a little, he complied without further comment.

“Do you need something from me you’re not getting?”

“Like an explanation for why you’re pissed at me? Yeah maybe.”

Mickey folded his arms and Ian felt suddenly like an overbearing father and the realisation made him flinch.

“I’m not pissed at you. I just want … I want to give you everything Mick. I want to give you everything you want.”

Mickey spread his hands out on his thighs, toying with a few of the hairs. Ian was edging him out of his comfort zone and not in a good way like the cuffs had suggested.

“You do.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“Jesus, Ian, man … C’mon! I’m a little drunk, you’re a little drunk, we’re both pretty much naked, can’t we just get on each other?”

Mickey looked up hopefully, tipping his head back dramatically when Ian shook his head in response.

“Fuuuuuuck. Ok. What do you want me to do?”

“Tell me what you like.”

Ian offered the cuffs, a small smile on his lips. He knew he’d gone about this wrong but it was too late to worry about that now. When Mickey didn’t taken them, he tossed them lightly onto the bed. He crouched in front of Mickey and slid his hands up his thighs, fingertips edging just beneath the fabric of his boxers.

Mickey eyed him warily and rubbed a hand absentmindedly through Ian’s hair.

“I like you bein’ a little rough?”

Ian nodded encouragingly and dug his fingers into Mickey’s leg, dragging them down, leaving stark lines on Mickey’s pale skin.

“What else?”

“I like … pain.”

“Like this?”

Ian slide his hand into Mickey’s hair and dragged his head back, baring his throat.

“Mmm … sharper. Like …”

Mickey slapped Ian across the face a loud, open palmed slap that echoed in the small room. For the space of two heartbeats neither of them reacted at all and then Ian uncoiled, pressing Mickey back into the mattress, covering the slight softness of his body with the lean hardness of Ian’s own. Knee to knee. Hip to hip. Cheek to cheek.

“You are fucking done!”

He whispered, kissing Mickey’s earlobe and then nipping it sharply between his teeth. The muffled grunt this promise was met with told Ian he was on the right track. He knelt up and looked down at his boyfriend, Mickey was lying prone beneath him, arms by his sides looking both excited and guilty.

“Did I hurt you?”

The concern in his voice was evident and Ian allowed himself to soften slightly, nodding once and lifting Mickey’s palm to place a gentle kiss in the centre before offering his own out for Mickey to do the same.

Softly bitten lips leave the faintest trace of saliva and Ian smiles at the sight of it. He can see the muscles in Mickey’s neck tensing, readying for the blow he is expecting and something shifts between them. Understanding clicks into place and Ian lets his breath out in a soft sigh. Of course Mickey couldn’t ask for what it is he wants from this, it goes against everything Mickey thinks about himself and Ian feels like a fool for not realising it immediately.

“When you’ve had enough, you call me Firecrotch. Okay?”

“What?”

Mickey cracks one eye open as Ian gently rolls him onto his front.

“Firecrotch. Remember it.”

“Not exactly a fuckin’ chal…”

Mickey’s sentence bites off as Ian’s palm snaps across the seat of his boxers with a sound like gunfire. A second slap follows the first and then another. Mickey tenses each time, his shoulder blades contracting and twitching. He twists his head to the side and tries to look up at Ian, who moves a little closer, letting Mickey have full view of him.

Ian moves his palm in small circles over Mickey’s behind. He’s surprised by how much he is enjoying himself but doesn’t question it. He raises his hand again, making sure Mickey has a clear line of sight and hesitates, giving him time to protest.

When no protest comes, Ian slams it down, harder than before. Hard enough to draw a soft hiss of breath from between Mickey’s clenched teeth and cause a shudder to ripple down his spine.

“When was the last time you got an ass whooping, Mickey?”

He asked softly, using the term he thinks Mickey will be most comfortable with in his current situation

“Never.”

The choked answer surprises Ian but he is careful not to let it show and focusses on building a decent rhythm with his hand. He had always assumed that Mickey would have grown up with frequent beatings but then again, to spank someone you had to actually spend a few minutes acknowledging their existence. When viewed that way, Ian could believe that Terry was not that sort of parent.

“But you’ve wanted it for a while?”

“Mmmm.”

Mickey nodded against the bedding, his entire body is convulsing lightly with each slap now and Ian decides to take things up a notch.

“Lift your hips for me, Mick.”

Mickey shakes his head and mumbles something that sounds like

“Fuck off.”

“Lift your fucking hips, asshole!”

Ian snaps and slowly, Mickey prises himself from the bed, grunting as Ian’s fingers lightly tug the fabric of his boxers down over his burning skin.

“Jesus!”

Ian’s cock throbs treacherously despite his shock at seeing the angry blush suffusing Mickey’s backside.

“Please …”

Ian’s attention snaps back into focus and he runs his hand over Mickey’s hair, wiping his thumb across one delicate cheekbone.

“You had enough?”

“No … please … I …”

At a loss for words Mickey bucks his hips. Ian nods and pats Mickey’s ass lightly a few times before resuming his punishing rhythm. Beads of sweat pop up along the soft curve of Mickey’s lower back and Ian pauses to lick them off.

“You are so beautiful, Mick. So beautiful.”

He murmurs and discreetly reaches for the lube. Mickey has taken the spanking in near silence but as Ian’s slick fingers begin to prep him, he pushes himself up-right with a startled gasp.

Ian begins to kiss from the nape of Mickey’s neck down to each scorching cheek. He wants to be gentle, wants to call him some little pet name like ‘Babe’ but it’s not what Mickey needs and so he bites the word back and gives him something that Ian instinctively knows will mean more to him.

“You have been really fucking good, Mickey. Really good.”

The answering shuddered exhalation of breath tells Ian he got it right.

“I’m gonna take care of you. I’ve got you, Mick.”

Ian forces as much certainty into his voice as he can and complements his words with steady hands on Mickey’s shoulders as he joins with him. The feel of Mickey’s ass, hot and swollen against Ian’s belly is nearly the undoing of both of them but they find a rhythm together.

“I love you.”

It’s guttural and harsh, and for a moment Ian thinks he may have misheard but the fierce kiss Mickey presses to their linked fingers in the second before climax tells him he did not. Ian doesn’t have the breath to say it back so he just squeezes Mickey’s fingers tightly in response and closes his eyes as the feeling overwhelms him and carries him away. As they lie tangle in each other, Ian hears a softly mumbled ‘Firecrotch’ from the mess of dark hair and heaving breath beneath him and grins to himself.

*

Ian passes the champagne bottle back to Mickey, who swigs from it nonchalantly and passes it back.

“Shit ain’t bad once it calms down a bit.”

“You mean once it goes flat?”

Ian sniffed at the bottle and shrugged, tipping it to his lips with relish. He had come back from the land of Gatsby and was once again content to be in Southside.

“It’s still bubbly just not fuckin’ volcanic.”

Mickey protested, taking it back and having another mouthful.

“Like my …”

Ian broke off as Mickey elbowed him playfully in the ribs. The jostling movement disturbed something tangled in the sheets and Ian hooked his big toe around it, lifting the metal up.

“We didn’t use your cuffs.”

“Next time.”

Mickey smiled and leant his head contentedly back against the headboard.

“Did you … uh … did you like it, Mick?”

Mickey gave Ian a side eye and then shrugged. It was a little late to act coy

“Yeah. You’re a brutal mother fucker when you want to be.”

The horrified look on Ian’s face makes him laugh and Mickey leans over to kiss his boyfriend happily.

They share the champagne back and forth, along with a couple of cigarettes. Mickey begins to doze off after a while and Ian slides him down the bed, tucking a blanket around them and curling himself against Mickey’s sturdy back.

“You’re full of surprises, you know?”

“Mmhmm. Ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

Mickey grins and Ian nips his neck affectionately, incredibly glad that he brought home a stolen bottle of champagne.

[stilestielinski]

[mrs-monaghansblog-deactivated20]

For a guy, he really does have nice legs

[mickeygifs]

[shamelessly4shameless-blog]

Kitty Cartoons.

Part of the ‘Here Kitty, Kitty’ challenge over on AO3 a Gallavich story involving a cat. Fun and fluffy and set in season 1. Thanks for reading :) xx

The street was fairly quiet. Summer had one of two effects on the residents of Chicago’s South Side, it either made them loud and raucous, like a mob on the verge of total mayhem with parties raging into the small hours and out the other side, undiminished in their ferocity. Or, on days like today, people were slow and quiet, subdued by the heat and the light which managed to creep and stray into every crevice.

Only the most diligent people would work today and Debbie Gallagher was nothing if not diligent. She had dragged her deck chair out to the front of the house, poured herself a pitcher of water and set up her rickety easel on the cracked paving slabs. She set out her example pieces and hung up her price list.

She did better trade when the adults of the neighbourhood had been drinking, they were more likely to egg each other on and commission several pieces at once. Still, she persisted and worked on her tan during the long wait between customers … well … not really worked on it, more like worked on trying not to burn too much. She applied sun-cream every hour and set her egg timer to make sure she didn’t forget. It was as she was reapplying cream to the back of her legs that a shadow fell over her and Debbie glanced up startled.

“What the fuck is this?”

Debbie blinked up at the trio of teenage boys and swallowed heavily. She hadn’t heard them coming but rumour was that when the Milkovich’s meant business, you never did. All three were wearing grubby shorts and tank tops, but the steel toes of their boots were just as formidable in the sun as in snow.

“This is my new professional venture, it operates on Friday, Saturday – that’s today…”

Debbie tried a smile but did not receive one in return. The shortest Milkovich drew heavily on the last dregs of a cigarette before flicking the butt over his shoulder in a shower of sparks. Debbie cleared her throat nervously and pressed on.

“…and, um, Wednesday.”

The two bigger boys looked bored of her already but the other one who had asked the question, whose name she thought might be Ricky or Mitch, or something like that, was looking at her with something close to amusement.

“Professional venture, huh? You sellin’ lemonade?”

“Not today. That is available Monday, Tuesday, and most Sundays.”

Debbie bit the inside of her cheeks as one of the older brother’s reached past her to pick up one of the samples.

“Um … if you are interested, my business is called ‘Kitty Cartoons’ I can draw anyone as a kitty… a cat.”

Debbie amended hastily as the boy holding the drawing frowned.

“Mickey, this is bullshit. It’s our turf. This fuckin’ kid is making it look like a playground.”

“It’s public property!”

Debbie shot back and then took a step backwards as the huge mountain of unwashed teen-boy lowered the picture and glared at her directly.

“So?”

“So I can trade here too.”

Mickey discretely placed himself between Joey and the little redhead. He had no problem with telling the Gallagher kid to fuck off, maybe even tipping the stand over if it seemed appropriate, but there was no need to scare her. Joey always went straight to physical intimidation; it was, in Mickey’s opinion, why he couldn’t get shit done properly. Smack heads, drunks, or women beaters – sure. You get up in those guys faces straight away and show ‘em who’s boss. But other people required more subtlety. Besides it wasn’t like they were actually going to rough up a kid, especially a girl.

“Ay! I ain’t decided if you can trade here or not, little orphan Annie.”

“Original.”

Debbie dead-panned and Mickey decided he liked at least two Gallagher’s. He smirked at her and glanced at the house, licking his lip absently

“Your brother’s home?”

“Yes. My Dad too …”

Mickey looked back down at Debbie and his smile took her by surprise

“Frank’s a useless shit, kid. Better off learning to use your own fists than ever relying on him.”

Debbie let out the breath she had been holding and squared her shoulders.

“I don’t need to! Your reputation would suffer if people knew you beat up a little girl in the street for selling cartoons. Hmm?”

Mickey’s smile, already prettier than Debbie had expected, blossomed into a beautiful grin and despite her heart pounding in her chest, she smiled back at him. It was impossible not to. Mickey was about to say something when the front door flew open and Lip and Ian burst onto the front porch. Lip was holding the bat at his shoulder and he took the steps in one jump, though when he spoke, his voice was cheerful enough

“Hey Mickey! Joey, Tony. How’s it going?”

“Pretty good. Too hot though.”

Lip nodded as if the small talk was all in neighbourly fun.

“Yeah, yeah. So what’s up?”

Mickey shrugged, his gaze flicking between Lip and Ian, lingering on Ian for just as long as he dared. He was shirtless and his hair was damp, like he’d just got out of the shower. Mickey took a deep breath and flexed his biceps a little, drawing himself up to his full height, so that he was just a smidge taller than Ian.

“Nothin’. Just explaining to … what’s your name?”

“Debbie.”

“Right, Debbie, that this is our turf. As a rule we don’t like other businesses on it.”

“It’s a cartoon stand run by a little kid, Mickey.”

Ian said, frowning as he stepped up beside Lip, though his hand came to rest on the bat, urging it down and well away from Mickey’s face.

“Yeah and I see that, but my Dad sent us over to have a look cause he heard it was somethin’ else.”

“It’s not.”

Ian retorted flatly and Mickey licked his lip again, squinting down the street as if looking for something on the horizon. He didn’t understand why, and maybe it was just because Gallagher made his balls fizz like a crazy fucked up cola can, but he didn’t like the thought of displeasing Ian. It was the only reason he had bothered to get out of bed and traipse the few blocks over to the Gallagher house with Tony and Joey. The whole thing really shouldn’t have been his problem but he didn’t want shit going down that didn’t have to because a fall out with the Gallagher clan would mean a fall out with Ian and Mickey liked what they had going on. Whatever the fuck it was.

“I could do you a free drawing?”

“What?”

Mickey had pretty much forgotten Debbie was there and he looked down now with a scowl.

“I have black and blue pencils so your hair and eyes will be fine and I could do your tattoos on the kitty’s paws so it’s more tailored to your unique style.”

Joey snorted and Tony made a noise that could have been a sign of amusement or a phlegmy throat but it was Ian who Mickey found himself looking at again. His eyes had taken on that particular shine they got when he was hoping things would play out a certain way… normally Mickey only saw that look when he stomped into the Kash’n’Grab and Ian looked up eagerly, like Mickey was actually important or some shit. It was like a blend of excitement and hope that Mickey was there for him, which he always fuckin’ was, and seeing that look was one of the best parts of Mickey’s day.

Despite the fact that he was on a job for his dad.

Despite the fact that his brother’s and that asshole, Lip were stood there.

Despite the fact that it was the middle of the day in the middle of the street, Mickey felt himself softening and suddenly the thought of a little girl drawing a kitty version of him as payment for setting up on Milkovich turf seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

“Fine. But it better look badass.”

Debbie grabbed her pad and colouring pencils and pointed to the deck chair.

“Sit, please.”

Mickey lowered himself down, tongue firmly set in his cheek and Debbie held up a pencil and squinted through one eye at him.

“What would you say a cat’s best qualities are?”

“What?”

Mickey’s brows knitted together and he spread his hands in an exasperated gesture

“I don’t know. They’re sneaky and shit. They can see in the dark, which is cool I guess.”

“Actually, that’s a myth, although their vision is ...”

Lip trailed off as blue eyes narrowed in his direction, then rolled lazily in the direction of the older Milkovich’s, who both moved ever so slightly closer. Lip shoved a smoke between his lips and stayed quiet about the attributes and capabilities of cats.

His point proven, Mickey turned his attention back to Debbie who was carefully sketching an outline

“How much do you sell these for?”

“A dollar.”

“How much you made so far?”

“Thirty three dollars.”

Mickey nodded and rubbed a finger down the bridge of his nose.

“Fine, that don’t seem to be much of a problem to me. You done?”

“I need to do the paws…”

“Well hurry it up, I got shit to do.”

“Hey!”

Ian cocked his head to the side and gave Mickey a sharp look which Mickey mostly ignored but when Debbie presented him with the drawing, he gave Ian a cursory side-eye after thanking her to be sure his appreciation had been sincere enough. A small smile and a nod confirmed that it had been.

The cartoon was actually pretty good. Cat-Mickey was lean, scrappy looking thing, scowling from large blue eyes, a cigarette poking out between neat little fangs and distinct lettering across its white paws.

Joey and Tony realised that whatever promise of a fight had hung in the air when the Gallagher boys came out had disappeared into the hazy heat of the day, along with any chance of trashing the kids stall. If Mickey was satisfied, and the chaos was cancelled, they were going home.

“We’re leaving.”

Joey grunted and Mickey waved him off without looking up.

“You good?”

Lip had been observing the play by play of events and whatever was going on between Ian and Mickey Milkovich was clearly nothing he wanted any part of. Weirdly his little brother seemed to be the one in control of the situation and although it was disappointing not to be able to crack Mickey with the bat; it was also probably for the best.

“Yeah, thanks. Debs, you want to take a break? I’ll call you if you get a customer.”

Ian ruffled his sister’s hair as she bounded past him, following Lip up the steps into their home.

“See ya, Mickey!”

Debbie called and disappeared inside, leaving Mickey and Ian on opposite sides of the thin mesh fence. Mickey turned the cartoon so Ian could see it and grinned at the redheads smiling reaction.

“You’d make a good cat.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’d pet you.”

“Fuck off.”

Mickey smeared away the goofy smile with the pad of his thumb and folded the picture, stuffing it in his shorts pocket.

“Am I seeing you later?”

He asked, hoping that there was no desperation in his voice.

“Sure. Three? Usual place?”

“Yep. See ya.”

Mickey turned on his heel and began to walk down the street when Ian called after him. Ordinarily he would have kept walking and let Gallagher wear his throat out yelling or come running if he had something to say. But Mickey was never too sure about what sort of stupid shit might come out of Gallagher’s mouth so he turned around and walked back.

“What?”

Ian knew better than to lay hands on Mickey, but he fixed him with a look that blew the older boys pupils wide in an expression that Ian knew all too well but disregarded for the moment.

“Mickey, you ever come after my little sister again, I’ll kick your ass.”

Whatever he had been expecting it wasn’t a threat and Mickey shifted his feet uneasily as his body stirred.

“Bitch, you wish!”

He managed once the blood began to flow back toward his brain, but it was a feeble quip and had no real heat to it. A drunk lady swayed around the corner, her arm around a friend who was equally intoxicated.

“See you at three, Mickey.”

Ian let the expression on his face soften and gave Mickey a lopsided grin, before turning and hurrying up the steps to get Debbie.

[shamelessly4shameless-blog]

We Got Time.

Happy Gift Exchange @godisthedice The prompt you sent was:   Sentinel AU - Sentinel!Ian and Guide!Mickey. Ian is a fragile Sentinel/prone to zoning out because of his bipolar. Any take on the AU you want other than that!  Now I have to confess I have never heard of Sentinel before so I have had to embellish a little but this is what I came up with and I hope you like it :-) 

Mickey has been going to Boys Town for a while. Four months to be exact. At first, he hung back and watched, glaring at anyone who approached him, no matter how hot they were or how drunk he was. After a couple of visits to the same place, a rough and ready bar called Pile Driver with none of the pretty, eclectic lighting and décor of the more popular places on the strip, Mickey decided to try his luck with a blonde, who looked like a redhead under the red bulbs lining the limited seating area.

The sex had been pretty good, not rough enough for Mickey’s liking and over too soon, but it had been a release of sorts and the guy had large hands and solid jaw and was tall as fuck. He had been nice enough and quiet enough that Mickey didn’t immediately get up and leave afterwards. They had a drink, chatted shit and then shook hands and disappeared into the night, going their separate ways without remorse. It had been easy and easy was exactly what Mickey wanted.

Being gay in Southside was not pleasant. Being gay in his father’s household was outright dangerous. It had taken Terry getting a six year stretch for some stupid shit that Mickey didn’t even know the details of, for him to consider seeking out what he wanted so badly.

After the first time Mickey found it easier and easier to get what he needed. He didn’t go off with someone every time he visited, he wasn’t fuckin’ desperate! But if he spotted someone who looked good and didn’t chat shit at him like he was some virginal twink in need of reassurance, then yeah, Mickey might go out back with them.

It’s kinda monotonous and maybe a little less than Mickey truly wants but it satisfies at least a part of whatever the fucked up thing it is inside him and so he keeps going back, wearing his few smart button downs in a random rotation in the hope that no one will notice he always wears the same things. He just about has money for beer, sure as shit doesn’t have money for clothes to impress fairies in dive bars.

On the night when everything changes and Mickey Milkovich’s world gets turned upside down, he is wearing his pale grey button down, the top few buttons undone allowing a glimpse of fitted black tank beneath. He’s wearing dark jeans as usual and steel toe-capped boots, old and frayed so that light sparks off the patches of exposed metal. It could be any of the countless nights he has been there.

He’s on his third beer, getting quietly buzzed and beginning to scan the crowd for potential when he feels it. A wave of confusion and fear, crashing over his mind and lapping at his temples incessantly. Mickey puts his beer down shakily and glances around the club. He can feel whoever it is growing weaker whilst their fear spikes, but he can’t see anyone who looks like they are in distress – every fucker in the club seems to be having a great fucking time so who the Hell ...

The bright white lights from the DJ booth rake up the dancefloor, briefly illuminating the club and Mickey sees them – two men huddled close together, one leading the other toward the exit with a firm hand around his waist. The leader is older, his clothes and manner suggest wealth and there is a wedding band on his finger that catches the light treacherously. The other is young, possibly even younger than Mickey. He’s tall and wearing a thin tank top without a jacket despite it being the middle of winter. His eyes, ringed in dramatic black liner are closed, his mouth slack. Mickey huffs an impatient breath and shakes his head. Another tweeker just got off duty at another club most likely. There have been a few of them lately and if Mickey didn’t value his anonymity here so much, he would definitely be bringing some product to shift to these assholes.

The waves of sudden intense feeling from a random person are nothing new to Mickey, he’s had them for years and normally can ignore them, push them aside and move on with his day without a second thought. This time though, trying to ignore it is like trying to ignore a sharp stone in his shoe. He twists and shifts uncomfortably and shrugs at the fabric of his shirt, suddenly too tight across his shoulders. Whatever is going on, it’s not his business and it’s not going to get him laid, so as far as Mickey is concerned, it is not his problem. The feeling eases up slightly when the young man is out of sight and Mickey takes a shaky sip of his beer, sloshing some of it down his sleeve in the process.

“Shit!”

He bunches the cotton over his hand and rubs the damp fabric against his jeans irritably. A brunette on the dancefloor catches his eye and winks. Mickey gives him a small smirk in return and is about to saunter over when another wave of fear strikes him, it is like a firework, sharp and illuminating the darkness but fading quickly, and Mickey grabs his coat from the barstool and starts running towards the light trail before he can think about it.

The cold air hits him as he bursts out of the club, it burns his chest and stings his eyes and he skids on a patch of ice, arms flailing to keep his balance. He looks around frantically, the guy he is following is pushing out all kinds of garbled anguish and horrible as it is to be feeling it all crowding around in his own head, Mickey takes heart at its presence because it means that the kid is still there. He hasn’t lost him. Mickey walks as quickly as he dares, boots crunching the thin ice underfoot, shattering the surface of frozen puddles. He rounds the corner of the building, heading in the direction of the unofficial taxi pick-up point and sees them up ahead.

The old guy is propping the barely conscious guy up, one hand down the kids pants and running the other over his chest as he kisses and licks his face under a street lamp. In the brighter light Mickey can see just how young the redhead is. He makes a disgusted noise at the back of his throat and stomps toward them.

“Why don’t you molest someone your own age, you jerk!”

Mickey grunts, grabbing the older man roughly and dragging him away, slamming one fist into his gut.

“Ow! Fuck!”

The man twists in Mickey’s grip but can’t break loose and glares at him accusingly

“You’re an animal”

“I’m not the one groping and licking on underage boys, am I?”

Mickey quips back at him, his tone more frustrated than truly angry now that the danger of losing them has passed.

“We’re just having some fun …”

“Shut the fuck up! Now give the kid some money before he calls the cops on you.”

There is a stammer of apologies and a flurry of bank notes and then Mickey tires of it all and shoves the old perv backwards, booting him in the ass for good measure as he scurries away.

“And learn how to run like a dude!”

Mickey yells after him, flexing his fists and stooping to pick up the fallen money. He glances up to make sure the asshole who has just completely derailed his night hasn’t wandered off too far. The boy is slumped on his side in a snow bank, pale lips turning blue with cold.

“Jesus Christ.”

Mickey shakes his head and stuffs the cash in his pockets, abandoning the last couple of notes in his concern. He crouches beside him, shaking his arm far more gently than he usually would in such a situation.

“Hey. Hey! Fuck.”

Mickey runs a hand over his face. There is no way the guy is getting up on his own. Mickey looks around as if hoping some magic wheelbarrow might appear and when it doesn’t, he begins to gather the lanky limbs up from the snow. He grunts with the effort of lifting the unconscious body over his shoulder, one arm wrapped securely around the back of his thighs. The kid might be a skinny little shit but he’s solid and the weight of him is both inconvenient and comforting. Mickey is dimly aware that the redhead might piss on him or vomit down his back but he doesn’t worry about it too much.

Southside is not an impossibly long walk away but it’s enough that Mickey grits his teeth and scowls at the thought of navigating the icy patches of sidewalk and hefting them both all the way back to his house but fuck it, he can’t exactly just drop him back down in the snow for some grey-pubed shithead to take advantage of.

“You call for a yoo-ber?”

Mickey glances up in surprise at the driver of the vehicle but after a moments hesitation, nods affirmatively

“Yeah I called for a yoo-ber.”

He echoes, not realising the drivers accent has thrown the word off. What the Hell does Mickey know about cabs? In his world if you need a goddamn ride, you hitch one or steal one – you don’t download a fuckin’ app and pay strangers for shit you can do yourself.

He bundles the redhead into the back seat and clambers in after him, giving the driver his address and shrugging out of his coat. This is definitely one of the nicer cars Mickey has ever ridden in and in other circumstances he’d slip his hand down the seats to check for lost cash, smokes or credit cards – rich people are almost always careless with their stuff – but today he is focussed on the boy whose eyelids are starting to flutter.

Mickey clumsily throws his jacket over the long pale body and sits back in his seat, thinking what his next move should be. The house should be empty but if it’s not he’s just going to have to make something up, maybe he can say that the guy owes him money and Mickey is going to torture it out of him when he wakes up? It’s flimsy but Mickey can’t seem to think properly. The clarity that had come when his fuckin’ damsel in distress passed out is now waning as he wakes, and Mickey’s head is once again crowded with too much emotional static.

He’s heard of this sort of thing. Every now and then a couple of assholes make the news with it – a Sentinel and a Guide find each other in the big wide world and live happily ever after or some stupid shit like that and everyone goes nuts for it. Mickey had anxiously wondered on occasion if he might be a bit like those freaks but he trained himself to ignore the emotions. One thing that growing up with Terry had taught him was how to push your feelings way, way down inside and never let them slip out into view. Mickey is damned expert at that and it’s served him well but something about the redhead beside him … Mickey couldn’t ignore him and he’s fairly certain it wasn’t just because he is hot. He hadn’t even got a good look at him til they were already outside and sure, the flaming hair and strong, pale limbs are nice, his ass is pretty great, and Mickey may have wanted to trail his fingertips over those high cheekbones but it had been more than that … more forceful than lust. The urge to protect and …. Mickey shuts the word ‘Guide’ down in his head before he can even fully think it. Fuck that. It’s all bullshit anyway … probably.

The cab pulls in outside the Milkovich house and the driver shakes his head in confusion when Mickey tries to shove some crumpled dollar bills at him.

“It is charged to your card, Mr Green.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah. Thanks.”

Mickey nods, as if this makes total sense to him and drags his semi-conscious companion out of the vehicle. Mickey chances setting him on his feet, and although he leans against Mickey’s shoulder heavily, the redhead manages to stand and the effort of doing so seems to wake him up a little.

“I’m Ian. We gonna have a good time?”

Mickey recognises the accent as Southside and smiles a little to himself without looking up at … Ian.

“Oh yeah, a real good time. Most likely listening to you puke up whatever cocktail of crappy knock off pills you ingested with that old creep at the club.”

“You’re pretty.”

Ian mumbles, trying to rest his cheek on Mickey’s head, causing the shorter man to jerk away and both of them to stumble, almost falling on the porch steps.

“Shut the fuck up, Firecrotch.”

Mickey’s tone is far softer than the words he speaks. He can feel exhaustion and uncertainty rolling off Ian in waves and the urge to smooth away his doubts is almost as strong as Mickey’s natural inclination to keep his distance.

“What’s your name?”

“Mickey.”

“Mickey.”

Ian repeats softly and something about the way Ian says his name makes Mickey smile despite himself.

Making it through the front door is one thing, but navigating the cluttered living room to try and get to Mickey’s bedroom is something else entirely. Mickey irritably kicks bags of stuff aside as he tries to steer Ian through but inches from the bedroom door, Ian snags his foot on something and sprawls across the floor. Mickey grabs for him but a blinding stab of pain overtakes his movements and he staggers back against the wall, the heel of his hand pressed to his forehead.

“Fuck!”

Mickey squeezes his eyes shut and tries to breathe through it, nostrils flaring. He has never really thought of himself as someone with a great deal of empathy. He tends to think of life as one big cluster fuck and if you fall down, you get fuckin’ trampled – end of story, bitch! But now something loosens within him and Mickey can feel the tight grip he keeps on himself slackening, letting empathy coil out from him and wrap gently around Ian, who is still on the floor, his fingers sticky with blood from a cut above his eyebrow.

“What are you …?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know just …”

Mickey keeps his eyes closed and reaches out with his mind. He has no idea what to do but something is telling him to take them both somewhere safe.

He pictures an empty building, beer cans line the ledges of broken windows, graffiti covers the walls, and it is cold as fuck. However it is also private and they can be alone here. Mickey knows this place well. He turns slightly and sees a large black box to his right, it looks heavy and when Mickey leans into it, the surface is almost uncomfortably hot. Mickey keeps his hands against it though and gradually begins to lean his weight into it, his nailbeds turning white with the force he is exerting. The box rasps against the chipped concrete floor and grudgingly begins to slide back.

In the living room, Ian is watching him with wide, disbelieving eyes as all his fear, even the muddled, muted fear that the drugs had created begins to disperse.

Ian knows what he is, he is a Sentinel and he has accepted that with a sort of reluctant pride. He’s never found cause to be ashamed, not about the shitty house he grew up in, not when he realised he was gay, not when he was diagnosed with bi-polar and not when he discovered his sentinel abilities. He is who he is and doesn’t need anyone to try and change him or save him.

Maybe that is why finding a Guide has been so hard. Many people have felt almost right but none of them have been the one. Even the ones who have accepted most of him, eventually Ian has always been able to feel them prodding tentatively at the edges of bipolar, trying to patch over it or wrap around it, refusing to accept that it is simply a part of who he is.

He feels Mickey approach that part of him, raw and confused and never fully at peace and tenses ready to do whatever it takes to stop it being interfered with, but Mickey simply observes it for a moment and then withdraws his attention.

Mickey pushes the box until something soft and pliant catches his eye. He steps around to look down at it and sees a substance like knotted cobwebs trailing after his progress. The individual strands are pale silver and shimmer in the weak light of the abandoned building. Mickey can tell they are fragile just from looking at them. Whatever the fuck they are, it ain’t his business. He’s here to move this weird box and although the stuff is snagged on it, he doesn’t think that he’s going to damage anything by carrying on. So that is what he does and little by little, the box edges toward one of the gaping holes where the windows used to be and finally, Mickey manages to tip it out, sending it tumbling into the nothingness below. Mickey steps back, panting, and takes a moment to catch his breath.

Ian’s mind clears and his breathing eases, completely in rhythm with Mickey’s own. He wishes Mickey would open his eyes, look at him properly but he takes the opportunity to look freely at his body, taking as much as he can in. Large feet in heavy boots and strong, stocky legs. His torso is broad and he’s clearly strong but maybe a little … soft? Ian wishes the light was better because he wants to see as much of his new friend as possible … maybe more than a friend should strictly want to see...Ian blinks and cocks his head to the side, squinting to read the words tattooed across Mickey’s fingers and he breaks into a wide smile when he finally pieces the letters together.

The shift in Ian’s mood breaks Mickey’s concentration and he opens his eyes, smiling softly in response to the ripple of happiness that has just washed over him. An electric blue gaze meets a gentle green one and it is almost too much.

Almost.

Love at first sight it a myth that Mickey Milkovich has long called bullshit on, but the swell of Ian’s emotion crashes over him like a summer storm, hot and fast, understanding and want crashing around him like thunder and the look in his eyes illuminating Mickey’s world like so many forks of lightening. He takes a shuddering breath and sees it mirrored on Ian’s lips. Mickey has no idea how he could stop it even if he wanted to and so he lets it flow over him and out of him, his cheeks growing hot with the unspoken admission.

Their breathing is completely in tandem, chests rising and falling in perfect rhythm. Mickey bites down on his lower lip until he tastes the metallic tang of blood. He can feel Ian, all of Ian. He can feel him as clearly as he can feel the throbbing of his bitten lip and he knows instinctively that Ian can feel him just as well. Hopes, fears, dreams. Their qualities and flaws all laid out in a dazzling array of complexities and acceptance blooms, clear and honest and vibrant in the small, cluttered room on a street in Chicago’s notorious South Side.

*

“We gotta put something on that cut.”

His voice is strained even to his own ears and Ian doesn’t reply, merely rubs the back of his hand across the wound, dashing away the drying blood, wiping it off on his jeans before holding out his hand to Mickey.

If what the papers and news reports say is true, they may not have had a choice in the unexpected bond that had formed between them but as Mickey bent to touch his fingers to Ian’s palm, he knew that it was a conscious choice and one that he would probably make every day for the rest of his life.

“Are you my Guide, Mickey?”

Ian asks, almost shyly, squeezing Mickey’s fingers tightly as the words echoing between their newly linked perceptions. The question startles Mickey out of his own thoughts and he clicks his tongue in annoyance.

“How the fuck should I know?”

Mickey scowls, aware that this is not how Guides are supposed to speak to their Sentinels. They’re meant to be all calm and zen and shit.  Ian doesn’t seem to mind though. Ian smiles again, a sweet, full-lipped smile that makes Mickey’s stomach flutter. If he was Ian’s Guide he should feel in complete control, he should be dominating the situation completely but that is not what is happening. Something is shifting between them, a swift change like sand dunes disturbed by a strong wind only to form a more beautiful pattern on the desert floor.

Ian pulls Mickey down to him and Mickey slides willingly onto the floor beside him, letting Ian’s large hands frame his face, cradling him and sending a constant stream of curious, hopeful contentment across the fragile air between them.

“Have you ever …?”

“No.”

Mickey shakes his head firmly and then hesitates, a slight frown creasing his brow.

“Wait, you talking about this gay shit or this weird new shit?”

Ian laughs and it is the best sound Mickey thinks he has ever heard. Not much can cajole Mickey out of a decent frown but that sound does.

“Weird new shit. You found me at Pile Driver so I figured … you know ...”

Ian rubs his thumb lightly over Mickey’s cheek, playfully tugging his earlobe. Mickey looks away and bites his answering grin back, sucking in his cheeks and making a bored motion with his tongue.

Ian leans forward and their lips touch ever so briefly. It is the first time Mickey has ever been kissed and he pushes out a sense of exhilaration so strong it makes Ian laugh that rich, wonderful laugh again as they pull apart.

The connection between the two boys has been thrumming along gently, like soft background music in a restaurant, but now Mickey begins to weaken it, pulling away a little, wanting his space back. He might have just fallen in love with someone and that is shit that needs individual processing, not a group activity.

“Don’t ...”

Ian’s brow creases and he grips the back of Mickey’s head tightly, fingers raking through the thick black hair.

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doin’, man. Wanna get out of your head before I fuck something up in there.”

“You won’t!”

Ian shakes his head and Mickey snorts, gently unfolding Ian’s fingers from his head and placing them away from him.

“You done this before?”

“No but ... I’ve heard about it and I know a bit.”

“But you can’t do what I just did?”

“No …”

“And you don’t know how that bit works?”

“Not really …”

“Right. So learn a unique skill or shut the fuck up.”

Mickey smiles gently and disentangles himself from Ian, standing and offering him a hand up.

Ian presses his lips together and gives Mickey an exasperated look climbing to his feet unaided.

“Fuck you! You’re my Guide and you’re supposed to help me do … whatever shit I need to do.”

“I just fuckin’ did!”

Mickey raises his eyebrows, almost daring Ian to contradict him.

“Well maybe I need more help!”

“Jesus. You always this needy?”

“No. I usually just get what I want.”

Ian smirks and Mickey returns it ruefully.

“Yeah I bet you do, Firecrotch.”

“Ian.”

“Whatever. Bathrooms through there. Go sort that cut out.”

*

While Ian goes to the bathroom to clean up, Mickey gets a couple of cans of beer from the fridge, considers it, and then pours two glasses of orange juice instead. He doesn’t know how he managed to push the effect of the drugs away, but he is fairly certain that just because he somehow did, Ian still shouldn’t be drinking.

Ian looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and flinches. He looks like shit. Dark circles under his eyes and pallid skin … fuck sake. He feels like he is at the tail end of a come down, it’s a soft landing thanks to Mickey, but his head still feels to heavy for his neck. Though perhaps it is just all that has happened. He had been about to go back to the apartment of some sleazy creep and get pawed over  on an expensive couch whilst snorting, smoking and popping as many drugs as he could to try and quiet the sensations in his mind. Then, out of nowhere a beautiful, tough stranger shows up, rescues him, heals him, Guides him and, unless Ian is very much mistaken, they have fallen in love too. What the actual fuck?

He pinches himself sharply wondering if he is about to wake up and hears Mickey’s voice call out from the kitchen

“You okay?”

The connection. Mickey must have let himself back in a little bit just in case. Ian smiles at the thought of someone actually caring enough about him to want to do such a thing.

“Yeah, fine.”

Ian splashes a little water on his face and notices an open letter at his feet. It looks like a bill and it looks like someone has wiped their ass with it. The name at the top of the letter is ‘Mr I. Milkovich.’ - not Mickey then but perhaps a brother? Or maybe his father? Mickey certainly looks young enough to live with his parents still. Perhaps it is just a roommate? It is absolutely fucking weird to know so much about a person and not actually be sure of their last name. Ian grins to himself and adds it to the list of weird shit that just seems to happen to him.

Realising he is taking too long, Ian gently pats his face dry with the hem of his shirt as there are no towels in sight and unlocks the door, heading out to the living room and then following the smell of tobacco smoke though to one of the bedrooms. He finds Mickey sprawled on a rumpled bed, sipping a glass of orange juice. When he sees Ian he gives him a cocky grin and, unless Ian has imagined it, spreads his legs a little wider.

“Take a seat.”

Ian does so, sitting a little awkwardly on the edge of the mattress. The distance between them seems too far, a wide yawning chasm that neither is sure how to brace. Mickey clears his throat, places a hand almost protectively over his crotch, seemingly embarrassed about his presumption, and hands Ian his juice.

“Figured beer would be the last thing you need.”

“Yeah, probably right.”

Ian’s leg begins shaking up and down and he worries at a hangnail on his thumb.

“I don’t know how that shit happened earlier but I think I’m in love with you and you’re really fucking hot.”

He blurts suddenly and Mickey chokes on his drink, sending bright droplets across the room and dribbling the remainder down his chin.

“Damn! You just wanted to put that out there, huh?”

“Sorry.”

Ian ducks his head abashed as Mickey wipes his face on his sleeve, grinning.

“Nah, it’s cool. You look pretty good yourself, Freckles.”

“Yeah?”

Ian glances up, giving Mickey a one-sided smile, creating a dimple in his cheek that Mickey feels an almost overwhelming urge to kiss. He can feel the bond between them flexing as Ian’s happiness peaks again, a warm nudge against Mickey’s mind.

“Yeah.”

Mickey sits forward and lets his hand trail the length of Ian’s thigh, paying close attention the rhythm of Ian’s breathing and stopping his exploration when he hears it hitch.

“You OK?”

“Yeah … yeah just … relaxing.”

“Sure. Well go ahead and relax, Firecrotch. I got you.”

Mickey’s confidence is growing and he can feel Ian’s emotions stabilising as he touches him. Mickey has been told many times that he is a damn good lay, but no one has ever actually relaxed just from his touch before. It is a novel change from using his hands to do violence or tear off clothes before frantic coupling and he takes his time with Ian, gentling him as he travels his body.

“Is your last name Milkovich?”

“Mmhhmm.”

Mickey hums response as he scoots closer to Ian, ducking his head to place a kiss against his collar bone.

“Mine is ‘Gallagher’.”

“Good to meet you, Gallagher.”

Mickey carefully unbuttons Ian’s jeans and shoves his hands inside, grasping the hot, hard length of him tightly and running his thumb over the slit.

“I can’t wait to have you inside me, gonna ride that dick so fuckin’ good.”

Mickey licks his lip impatiently when Ian doesn’t immediately respond. He’s never fucked on a bed before and never done it with a guy this hot. He feels a little overwhelmed and so reverts to the sort of thing he normally says to speed things along and get him what he needs. Ian bucks his hips desperately but then grunts and stills Mickey’s hand with one of his own.

“What is it? You don’t wanna fuck me or something?”

Mickey’s voice is slightly strangled and his fingers twitch in Ian’s grasp making the younger man smile.

“I haven’t … I don’t … Can I at least touch you first?”

The question makes Mickey’s cock twitch in anticipation and he nods curtly.

“Course you can touch me! Knock yourself out, man.”

Ian’s hand hovers uncertainly for a split second and then plunges into Mickey’s hair, carding through it to cup the back of his head as he comes up to straddle Mickey’s thighs. The kiss Ian places on Mickey’s lips is fierce, all clashing teeth and thrusting tongues and Mickey can’t help the desires that he projects across to Ian, the urge to be treated roughly, the ache of wanting something hard and fast and furious, the desperation to be understood. It is the opposite of what a Guide should encourage his Sentinel towards and Mickey feels a twinge of guilt. Ian feels it too and pulls back to look down at Mickey.

“Let me take care of you.”

“Ain’t I supposed to do that shit for you?”

“Who gives a shit what we’re supposed to do?”

Ian smiles, kissing Mickey again and deftly opening the buttons on his shirt fastening first his lips and then his teeth around one dark nipple, a soft moan escaping as he feels the tiny bud of flesh harden and the sharp hiss of Mickey’s breath as Ian releases him.

Ian begins undressing Mickey, swift practical motions that calm Mickey’s skittering nerves. Once Ian has him down to his boxers, he glances uncertainly toward the door. Ian follows his gaze and immediately stands, crosses the room and closes it, flipping the flimsy lock Mickey has attached to it into place. He understands, maybe not everything but enough to know that Mickey clearly values his privacy.

“Just you and me.”

He smirks, tugging his tank off, and turning in a slow circle, arms held slightly away from his body.

“This okay for you?”

Mickey nods, not trusting his voice. His eyes are wide and staring and he isn’t entirely sure that he is awake but if this is a dream, it is quickly becoming the best dream he has ever had and he is in no hurry for it to end.

“You a military man?”

Mickey nods to the tattoo on Ian’s side and Ian grins almost bashfully

“It’s a long story but kind of … yeah. Army.”

Ian cocks his head to the side, watching him keenly and Mickey feels a surge of confidence pulse out from the redhead into the room. He nods again and it is all the permission Ian needs.

He pulls Mickey to his feet, steadying him with firm hands on his shoulders and looks down at him intently

“You gonna kiss me or just fuckin’...”

Ian shuts him up with a kiss and they smile into each others mouths, hands trailing each others bodies. Ian moves ones hand and pinches Mickey’s nipple, softly and then harder, pulling the shorter man up onto his toes, a flush of pleasure creeping over his cheeks as Ian twists him lightly, just enough to see the pulse in Mickey’s neck jump. His other hand tightens on the firm shoulder in his grip, pressing his thumb hard into the collarbone, his fingers leaving bright white outlines on the already pale skin.

Mickey shivers, the room is cold and his skin is too sensitive, he shifts on the balls of his feet, not sue whether Ian means to let him rest back onto his heels or not.

“Get into bed.”

Mickey snorts, he barely knows Gallagher but the guy says it as if they’ve been sharing Mickey’s bed for years, as if he belongs there, as if he is as much a part of the room as the cracked ceiling and patchy carpet.

He has no idea how Ian manages to burn even in the cold of the room but as Mickey scooches over in the narrow bed and Ian folds around him, the heat from Ian’s body makes him curl involuntarily into him, pressing his forehead against the toned muscle of Ian’s chest.

He feels fingers trail down his back, the tips blunt and strong as they curl around Mickey’s ass, kneading one of his cheeks lightly, then squeezing more firmly.

“You have a really great ass.”

Mickey allows his own hand to travel down to grope the round swell of Ian’s behind and he grins.

“You too, Army.”

“You like nicknames, huh?”

Ian begins kissing down Mickey’s temple, his jaw, his neck. He shuffles down the bed, not worrying about the sudden chill as his legs left the shelter of the quilt.

“Got a problem with that?”

Mickey peers down the length of the bed, a tiny smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Would it matter if I did?”

“Not really.”

“Well then quit fucking staring at me and spread ‘em.”

Ian bites Mickey’s calf firmly and Mickey tips his head back, grinning up at the ceiling, his eyes closed. He didn’t think a bed could make much difference, and by anyones standards his bed is uncomfortable. He usually sleeps on top of the quilt, wrapped in a hoody or his coat rather than try and sleep with springs poking him in the back but even with his shitty mattress, being in bed with Ian is so fucking liberating he almost wants to laugh with the joy of it.

He thinks of his father, what Terry would say if he knew. It is a recurring thought that comes to Mickey at some point during every encounter he has ever had with another man. Usually Mickey grits his teeth, closes his eyes and, if things are far enough along, thrusts himself back until pain and pleasure finally mingle and he cums over his clenched fist, already tugging his pants up with his free hand.

However with Ian between his legs, kissing the inside of his thigh and gripping his hips tightly, Mickey can barely see Terry’’s face. It is blurred and faint, like he is viewing it through smeared glass and the shame he feels is muted too.

Ian’s tongue slips between his cheeks and Mickey wraps his hand in Ian’s hair with a sharp curse.

“Jesus, Gallagher!”

Mickey’s dick is so swollen he is worried he is about to cum all over himself but Ian seems to know his body as well as he knows everything else and he shimmies back up the bed, looking at Mickey as if he is the best thing he has ever seen.

“Got lube?”

Mickey nods and leans over the edge of the bed, rooting through the junk under his bed until he comes up with a small bottle, the label scratched off just in case.

“Here I … Ian?”

Ian’s face is stony, his eyes fixed on the wall somewhere over Mickey’s shoulder as he kneels rigidly on the bed.

“Ian?”

Mickey drops the lube on the mattress between them and gently grips the back of Ian’s head.

“Hey. Hey it’s okay. You’re okay.”

“Someone’s been stabbed.”

“It’s Southside, man. Of course someone’s been stabbed.”

“I don’t … I can’t see them...”

Mickey bites back a curse and looks around for his boxers which are no where to be seen. Mickey bites his lip, squares his shoulders and kneels up in front of Ian, shifting his grip in the red hair to a more certain one and locking eyes.

“You don’t have to worry about this right now. Let it go, man.”

Mickey can feel the instant Ian's sight starts to come back under his control.

"That’s it, you got it"

He coaxes, as Ian draws toward Mickey’s touch, the anxious fear within him easing as he melts forward, sinking his face to Mickey's shoulder and breathing in the scent of him.

“I got you.”

Mickey strokes Ian’s hair and kisses his temple as light tremors flash through the younger man’s body. There is a sudden rush of thinking awareness in the bond between them, Ian's emotions spike, twist, flutter and then … there is stillness.

“I’m sorry.”

Ian murmurs, swallowing heavily.

“Don’t worry about it, man.”

Mickey shrugs and continues smoothing Ian’s hair, his free hand tugging the quilt up around their shoulders, shrouding them from the outside world.

“You think I’m crazy? A Sentinel too fucked up to know where to look.”

“Nah. You’re … well you’re whatever the fuck you are, same as anyone else.”

“You are definitely my Guide.”

Ian smiles and nods to himself, the question is gone and certainty sits proudly in it’s place.

“You think?”

Mickey rubs a finger under his nose and Ian nods firmly

“Yeah. It’s … I can’t explain it but everything about you, even the way you smell… you’re the one.”

Ian closes his eyes so he doesn’t see the hope and the shock that flit across Mickey’s face.

“Lay down, Gallagher. You look beat.”

Ian frowns and cups a hand around Mickey’s balls

“But don’t you want …?”

Mickey kisses him by way of answer and then pulls back, gently patting Ian’s face and easing them both down onto the bed,

“You gonna run out on me in the morning?”

“No!”

“Then we got all the time in the world.”

Their limbs entwine and Ian speads the blanket over them, tucking it securely around Mickey’s broad back, another first for the brunette.

“I haven’t even said thank you. For rescuing me.”

Ian blinks bleerily and the flush of warmth that spreads through Mickey’s chest feels strange and a little uncomfortable but not unpleasant.

“Shut the fuck up, Gallagher.”

“You say that a lot.”

“You talk a lot.”

Mickey sees Ian’s eyes crinkle at the edges as his lips soften and curve into a small smile that is entirely fore Mickey.

“Better get used to it, Mick.”

As Mickey shuts off the lamp, there is not a word from either of their lips but they both drift into an easier sleep than either has had in a long time and it truly is the start of something beautiful.

[shamelessly4shameless-blog]

For life, yeah?

Gallavich Gift Exchange 2017 for @frank-iero-owns-my-ass! The prompt was:  Mickey coaxing Ian through a particularly depressive week, it’s lasted longer than usual and Ian won’t come around. Ian is secretly afraid Mickey will leave him if he keeps up his manic episodes, but he feels so helpless, as does Mickey in trying to help him. Mickey pov (general guidelines, feel free to change it, im so easy to please) So here is my interpretation and I really hope you like it :) Also a huge thank you to @gallavichthings for organising this whole thing. xx

Mickey hisses through his teeth as he runs his bloody knuckles under the stream of cold water.

“Mother fucker!”

He grits out through pursed lips and flexes his hand experimentally. It’s going to bruise like a bitch but he doesn’t think anything is broken. Thank fuck for that! Ian is going to be pissed enough without adding a hospital bill. He keeps his hand submerged for a couple more minutes and then carefully wraps it in a mostly clean towel and returns to the scene of the crime.

Yev turns away from the carnage as his Papa approaches and looks up at Mickey with large, sympathetic eyes, sucking in his lower lip.

“Ah shit.”

Mickey groans, surveying the damage for himself.

“Shit, Papa.”

Yev agrees sombrely. Mickey nods and mimics the little boy’s lip movement. Though now is not the moment for taking a photo, if anyone was there to do so, it would serve as an excellent paternity test if there was any doubt left as to who fathered Yevgeny. They are two frowning, blue-eyed peas in a South Side pod.

“Daddy is gonna be super mad.”

“Yeah.”

Mickey nods grimly already thinking about the sheer level of jutting chin he’s going to have to deal with for this one. He squats down beside his five year old and Yev wordlessly hands him the broken controller. Mickey runs his thumb over the cracked plastic and floppy toggle sticks. It wasn’t Ian’s remote thank God, but it’s still going to be an expense they could do without. The re-run of the K.O that caused the meltdown is still playing on the TV.

“Your hand okay?”

Yev asks, rocking up onto the balls of his feet to see the rather impressive swell of bloody knuckles his Papa is sporting.

“Hurts a bit.”

Mickey admits and glances up at the fist shaped hole in the wall. From this angle it looks even worse.

“Fuck.”

“Fuck.”

Yev agrees again and puts a comforting arm around his Papa’s shoulders. Mickey gives him a little lopsided smile and stands up, lifting Yevgeny with him and settling the boy on his hip. Yev raises his eyebrows at his Papa and flicks his gaze to the broken plasterwork.

“What are we gonna tell Daddy?”

“That I lost my shit and busted the wall I guess.”

Mickey shrugs.

“Are you gonna get a spanking?”

“Maybe, little man. Maybe.”

Mickey laughs despite himself and Yev bites his lip in consternation. He has never been spanked but has been threatened with it a couple of times and he understands the general principle of it well enough to know it is to be avoided at all costs. He looks back at the wall over Papa’s shoulder as Mickey carries him out of the room.

“We could fix it?”

“Yeah, I’m definitely gonna have to fix it. But, hey, listen, you get that what I just did was really bad, right? We ain’t supposed to throw toys.”

“Or stamp on them.”

“Right.”

“Or punch things.”

“No …”

Mickey grimaces as Yev continues to tick things off on his fingers

“Or say cuss words really loud.”

“Okay…”

“Or …”

“I think you got it, little man. Good job!”

Mickey kisses his son’s forehead and stands him down in the kitchen, handing the kid a chocolate chip cookie. Yev isn’t supposed to have sugary snacks before lunch but when Mickey acts out in front of him, which doesn’t happen as often as most would expect, but more often than he likes to admit, he always feels like he needs to spoil him a little to make up for it. It’s not great for a five year old to learn new and improved tantrum techniques from his father.

“Want a bite, Papa?”

“Nah, you enjoy it, man.”

Yev smiles happily and stuffs the rest of the sticky treat into his mouth, chewing with a noisy enthusiasm, broken toys and punched walls all but forgotten.

*

Mickey is just pondering how best to patch up the wall without Ian freaking out too much when the front door slams open and his boyfriend crashes in along with a flurry of snow and cold wind, face drawn and angry.

“Daddy!”

Yev cries excitedly, immediately abandoning Mickey in favour of charging toward Ian.

“Hi Yev.”

Ian picks his son up obligingly but Mickey’s ears instantly prick at the sound of Ian’s voice. It is flat, devoid of its usual flair and light.

“Hey, you’re home early.”

Mickey ventures cautiously as Ian walks over to him, his uniform is crumpled, messy, it looks like Ian has been hunched over rather than his normal straight-backed elegance.

“Not feeling good.”

Ian looks at Mickey, glances at the hole in the wall and closes his eyes, turning his face to bury his nose in Yev’s hair.

“What the fuck did you do?”

“I … ah …”

“Papa punched it.”

Yev offers. 

Keep reading

[shamelessly4shameless-blog]

For life, yeah?

Gallavich Gift Exchange 2017 for @frank-iero-owns-my-ass! The prompt was:  Mickey coaxing Ian through a particularly depressive week, it's lasted longer than usual and Ian won't come around. Ian is secretly afraid Mickey will leave him if he keeps up his manic episodes, but he feels so helpless, as does Mickey in trying to help him. Mickey pov (general guidelines, feel free to change it, im so easy to please) So here is my interpretation and I really hope you like it :) Also a huge thank you to @gallavichthings for organising this whole thing. xx

Mickey hisses through his teeth as he runs his bloody knuckles under the stream of cold water.

“Mother fucker!”

He grits out through pursed lips and flexes his hand experimentally. It’s going to bruise like a bitch but he doesn’t think anything is broken. Thank fuck for that! Ian is going to be pissed enough without adding a hospital bill. He keeps his hand submerged for a couple more minutes and then carefully wraps it in a mostly clean towel and returns to the scene of the crime.

Yev turns away from the carnage as his Papa approaches and looks up at Mickey with large, sympathetic eyes, sucking in his lower lip.

“Ah shit.”

Mickey groans, surveying the damage for himself.

“Shit, Papa.”

Yev agrees sombrely. Mickey nods and mimics the little boy’s lip movement. Though now is not the moment for taking a photo, if anyone was there to do so, it would serve as an excellent paternity test if there was any doubt left as to who fathered Yevgeny. They are two frowning, blue-eyed peas in a South Side pod.

“Daddy is gonna be super mad.”

“Yeah.”

Mickey nods grimly already thinking about the sheer level of jutting chin he’s going to have to deal with for this one. He squats down beside his five year old and Yev wordlessly hands him the broken controller. Mickey runs his thumb over the cracked plastic and floppy toggle sticks. It wasn’t Ian’s remote thank God, but it’s still going to be an expense they could do without. The re-run of the K.O that caused the meltdown is still playing on the TV.

“Your hand okay?”

Yev asks, rocking up onto the balls of his feet to see the rather impressive swell of bloody knuckles his Papa is sporting.

“Hurts a bit.”

Mickey admits and glances up at the fist shaped hole in the wall. From this angle it looks even worse.

“Fuck.”

“Fuck.”

Yev agrees again and puts a comforting arm around his Papa’s shoulders. Mickey gives him a little lopsided smile and stands up, lifting Yevgeny with him and settling the boy on his hip. Yev raises his eyebrows at his Papa and flicks his gaze to the broken plasterwork.

“What are we gonna tell Daddy?”

“That I lost my shit and busted the wall I guess.”

Mickey shrugs.

“Are you gonna get a spanking?”

“Maybe, little man. Maybe.”

Mickey laughs despite himself and Yev bites his lip in consternation. He has never been spanked but has been threatened with it a couple of times and he understands the general principle of it well enough to know it is to be avoided at all costs. He looks back at the wall over Papa’s shoulder as Mickey carries him out of the room.

“We could fix it?”

“Yeah, I’m definitely gonna have to fix it. But, hey, listen, you get that what I just did was really bad, right? We ain’t supposed to throw toys.”

“Or stamp on them.”

“Right.”

“Or punch things.”

“No …”

Mickey grimaces as Yev continues to tick things off on his fingers

“Or say cuss words really loud.”

“Okay...”

“Or …”

“I think you got it, little man. Good job!”

Mickey kisses his son’s forehead and stands him down in the kitchen, handing the kid a chocolate chip cookie. Yev isn’t supposed to have sugary snacks before lunch but when Mickey acts out in front of him, which doesn’t happen as often as most would expect, but more often than he likes to admit, he always feels like he needs to spoil him a little to make up for it. It’s not great for a five year old to learn new and improved tantrum techniques from his father.

“Want a bite, Papa?”

“Nah, you enjoy it, man.”

Yev smiles happily and stuffs the rest of the sticky treat into his mouth, chewing with a noisy enthusiasm, broken toys and punched walls all but forgotten.

*

Mickey is just pondering how best to patch up the wall without Ian freaking out too much when the front door slams open and his boyfriend crashes in along with a flurry of snow and cold wind, face drawn and angry.

“Daddy!”

Yev cries excitedly, immediately abandoning Mickey in favour of charging toward Ian.

“Hi Yev.”

Ian picks his son up obligingly but Mickey’s ears instantly prick at the sound of Ian’s voice. It is flat, devoid of its usual flair and light.

“Hey, you’re home early.”

Mickey ventures cautiously as Ian walks over to him, his uniform is crumpled, messy, it looks like Ian has been hunched over rather than his normal straight-backed elegance.

“Not feeling good.”

Ian looks at Mickey, glances at the hole in the wall and closes his eyes, turning his face to bury his nose in Yev’s hair.

“What the fuck did you do?”

“I … ah …”

“Papa punched it.”

Yev offers. 

Ian’s eyes instantly harden.

“Jesus Christ, Mickey. What the Hell is wrong with you?”

The frustrated disappointment in Ian’s weary voice renders Mickey immediately mute and he studies his bruised knuckles intently. Ian kisses Yev’s temple and hands him over to Mickey, actively trying to avoid touching him at all.

“I need to lie down. Just leave this shit alone until I get up. I don’t want your clumsy fuckin’ patch up disturbing me.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise at the harsh words and harsher tone but the bags under Ian’s eyes silence any retort he might try to make.

“And put the damn heating on. You spend enough on cigarettes; you can spend some money on keeping our kid warm.”

Ian gestures around the already warm house and glowers at Mickey who bites his tongue with an effort and nods.

“I’ll bring you in some lunch, okay?”

“Whatever.”

Ian stomps past and closes the bedroom door loudly behind him and Mickey lets out the breath he has been holding. Yev looks up at his father uncertainly

“Is Daddy okay?”

“Yeah, just tired and mad at me for the hole in the wall.”

Mickey smiles at Yev and then glances up at the closed door, a frown creasing his own brow. It has been nearly a year since Ian’s last depressive episode, and Mickey supposes it had to happen again at some point.

*

The next morning Mickey wakes up and rolls over to face the Ian shaped bundle of blankets that is beside him. He knows that Ian is awake from the pattern of his breathing and Mickey tentatively rests his hand on the outline of one strong arm.

“Good morning.”

No response.

“How you feelin’?”

Mickey inches the covers back slightly to try and get a look at his boyfriend but Ian shivers against Mickey’s palm as it is laid on his shoulder and pulls away silently.

Shit.

Mickey sits up and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, wiping away the grains of sleep gathered in the corners.

He rolls himself out of bed and grabs his dark blue dressing gown from the back of the door. The thick, coarse towelling is a reassuring glint of normality and makes him feel a little better as his bare feet adjust to the cold kitchen floor.

He flips open the pill dispenser lid and empties the four pills Ian takes every morning into his palm, poking at each of them in turn with his forefinger, scowling. He wishes he knew which one of the little round fuckers had flunked out on Ian this time. He’d crush it, toss it down the toilet then take a shit on the pieces.

However, Mickey doesn’t know and so he carries all four back to Ian with a glass of water and focusses his attention on the task at hand.

“Hey man. Time to take your pills.”

Ian’s voice is muffled but clear enough for Mickey to make out:

“Go away.”

“I will in a minute, I promise. Just take these and I can go.”

Mickey crouches besides him and gently tugs the covers back from Ian’s face. He should have had Yevgeny stay the night. Ian is in pretty bad shape but not so bad as Mickey had feared and he almost always takes the pills when Yev offers them to him. As long as Ian is not at the very bottom of the pit of despair, he is still a pushover for the kid.

“Please, Mick ...”

“C’mon. You know I gotta see you do it.”

Mickey’s thighs are beginning to cramp from the squat and he shifts awkwardly, trying to be patient. Ian eventually uncurls a hand and Mickey slips the pills into it and then holds the back of Ian’s head, helping him sip water to get them down.

“Alright. I’m gonna make you a sandwich and leave it on the side here. You can eat it if you want to.”

Mickey stands, pressing a kiss to Ian’s cheek before drawing the covers back over his shoulder. Ian tugs them the rest of the way over his head and Mickey nods to himself. Fine.

He goes into the bathroom and whilst he releases the torrent of his morning piss, half-heartedly aiming at a stain on the back of the bowl, he tries to stem the rising panic bubbling in his chest, reciting the familiar mantras to himself.

They’ve done this before.

One of the pills is out of whack and needs to be regulated.

Ian will spend a day or two like this and then he’ll manages to move, they’ll go to the clinic and sort it.

They’ll be okay.

Ian isn’t even as bad as he sometimes gets, he can still call Mickey ‘Mick’ and he took the pills without crying, lashing out or just refusing until Mickey had to force him.

It’s all okay.

It is all going to be okay.

He texts Fiona and receives a reply that she’ll be over soon. Gallagher’s love a fuckin’ drama, he thinks wryly and then chides himself for being an asshole. The last couple of years the Gallagher clan have been pretty good about accepting Mickey and Fiona is always ready to help out when Ian hits a rough patch.

Mickey makes Ian a baloney sandwich, leaves it on the side with a glass of water, and goes out for his morning smoke.

He stands on the porch in his robe, a battered pair of tartan slippers on his bare feet, faded blue shorts and a tank top, a cigarette dangling from his lower lip. A couple of kids ride by on bikes, leaving tracks in the fresh snow, and one of them flips Mickey off. He returns the gesture and they pedal away, shrieking with delighted laughter. They’ll probably tell their friends that they flipped off Mickey Milkovich and got away with it. Mickey doesn’t care. His is one of the few houses that has never had a juvenile break in, that tells him all he needs to know about his status in the community, thank you very fuckin’ much.

The sounds of South Side fill the morning air and Mickey inhales deeply, appreciating the familiarity of them. Sirens, screeching tires, the deep rumble of machinery in the distance.

He settles into the creaky old lounger that Ian dragged home from Christ knows where and tips his head back, drawing heavily on his smoke. The material is cold even through his dressing gown but he doesn’t mind that. It’s peaceful out here and if he freezes his balls off it doesn’t really matter. He won’t be using them for a little while anyway with Ian like this.

He feels like he has forgotten something but shrugs it off. Ian had his pills, he’s got food, he’s got water … Mickey snorts and shakes his head. Sometimes caring for Ian in these phases feels like having a sick old cat: Feed it, medicate it, clean up its … SHIT!

Mickey hastily stubs the cigarette out and hurries into the house. He shrugs out of his robe and pushes their bedroom door open gently.

“Ian, hey, we gotta ...”

Mickey trails off as his eyes light on the glass of water. No longer clear, it is now a dull yellow. Ian has pissed in the glass. It is full to the brim, Mickey’s gaze follows the splashes on the table, down the draw, and he knows, without looking there is going to be a big old wet patch on the floor. It’s not Ian’s fault. He knows it isn’t, but his eyebrows are still up to his hairline and his lips compress into a tight line.

Mickey rakes a hand over his face and waits in the doorway until he can be sure that his temper is under control.

“Okay. Fuck. Alright ...”

Mickey nods to himself and stalks into the bathroom grabbing a bucket, cloth and bottle of disinfectant all the while worrying at his lower lip with his teeth.

As he enters the bedroom, he composes his face to neutrality. Ian is looking out from the cocoon of his blanket with flat, red-rimmed eyes.

“It’s on the carpet.”

Ian whispers miserably. Mickey shrugs and glances down dismissively as if the carpet brought it on its fucking self by being in Ian’s way.

“It doesn’t matter. Carpets shit anyway.”

Mickey gingerly tips the glass into his bucket; not bothering to try to pick it up, it is too full. He drops the cloth to the carpet and stamps onto it a few times, spraying the bedside table with disinfectant at the same time.

“I’m sorry.”

Ian shakes his head hopelessly and Mickey gives him a lopsided little smile

“Meh. We’ve all been there. I once pissed in Mandy’s cereal bowl ‘cause I didn’t wanna pause a video game. Don’t worry about it.”

A tear slides down Ian’s nose but he manages to lift one trembling corner of his mouth at the anecdote as Mickey pats his cheek very softly, stroking the tip of Ian’s short sideburns with his finger. Mickey hates seeing him like this, somehow when Ian is in the grip of a deep depression it is easier, the rules and limitations become more defined. This is a weird middle ground, the pills are trying to work but they are just enough out of sync to keep Ian submerged below the waterline of his illness.

“Hey. You listening to me? It’s okay.”

“You must hate me.”

“Not in this life, Gallagher.”

The kiss Mickey places against Ian’s lips is a full stop rather than a question mark and Ian reaches up to trace the curve of Mickey’s cheekbone gratefully. There is a flash of utter clarity amongst the clouding of his vision and Ian sighs gently. He doesn’t have the energy to reassure Mickey that he is still there, he just has to trust that he already knows.

*

Fiona arrives just as Mickey is finishing the clean-up and wiping Ian’s hands with a couple of the little wipes they keep for Yev.

“Hey Sweetface.”

She murmurs and spends a few minutes speaking in a soft, sweet voice to Ian and catching him up on family gossip. He doesn’t show any signs of interest but he is acknowledging the information and that is something. Mickey loiters on the edge of the bed, his fingers lightly resting on Ian’s foot. He is glad that Fiona is telling him normal shit, sometimes she can get a bit maudlin and it puts him on edge, plus he doesn’t want her making Ian feel worse. Once he is content that Ian is in safe hands, Mickey excuses himself to make coffee and when Fiona comes out of the bedroom, they sit at the table to drink it.

“What can I do to help, Mickey?”

Mickey taps the rim of his mug and sighs

“Not a whole lot for this but I was wonderin’ if you could watch him for a few hours on Thursday? If he’s not feelin’ better, you know?”

Fiona nods and sips her drink, it’s stronger than she’s used to but looking at the lines beside Mickey’s eyes, he desperately needs it strong today.

“What time?”

“Late afternoon? I gotta job to do and it’s kinda time sensitive. I’d tell the guy I can’t do it but I took the cash up front so now it feels shitty to bail on him.”

“You got a job?”

Fiona looks so happy that Mickey feels almost sorry to burst her nosy bubble

“Ah … not like … uh … it’s just a beat down. Some guy is havin’ trouble gettin’ his daughter’s ex to fuck off and he asked me if I could help.”

Mickey can feel the blush that creeps into his cheeks and scowls defensively, although to be fair Fiona hasn’t actually said anything but it still feels a little awkward admitting how he pays the bills.

“We need the money.”

“Sure, of course.”

Fiona’s smile is a little more stretched but credit to her, she’s trying to look impartial and Mickey cocks his eyebrow at her, letting a small grin lift his own lips.

“It’s a full service in this house. I beat ‘em up and Ian gets the call to go fix ‘em up.”

Fiona gives a surprised snort and her smile relaxes into a much more genuine grin.

“Fuckin’ Milkovichs.”

“Fuckin’ Gallaghers.”

Mickey counters as they touch coffee cups lightly and Fiona hands Mickey a cigarette. It isn’t exactly a friendship, but it’s close. Fiona respects that Mickey stands by Ian during his periods of illness and Mickey respects that Fiona shows up when he asks her. He suspects that the old superiority complex is still there deep down, but she treats him evenly and the whole family is great with Yevgeny, so fuck it. Sometimes you gotta accept the wins where you find them.

“Are you guys gonna be OK?”

“We’ll be fine. Tomorrow or Thursday, he’ll pick up and we’ll get to the clinic. Just a balance issue with the meds.”

Mickey’s tone doesn’t leave room for any disagreement so Fiona just nods and glances around the sparsely decorated little house. She likes how easy it is to pick out who chose what. The bright coloured cereal bowls, army paraphernalia and colourful movie posters are Ian to the life, whilst the solid, dark wood coffee table and Jack Daniels posters are very obviously Mickey. She glances at the no-nonsense black cup in her hands: Mickey.

“What happened to the wall?”

Fiona frowns at the gaping hole in the wall beside the TV and Mickey shrugs

“Milkovich temper tantrum.”

He hedges and to his joint relief and horror, Fiona gives him a sympathetic look and sighs

“Yev did that? Jesus. Trust me, the tantrums they have at five are nothing compared to the meltdowns of a pissed off eight year old. Carl once cracked a car wind-shield.”

Mickey makes a non-committal noise and buries his nose in his mug.

*

The next few of days pass in a really fucking monotonous blur for Mickey. Ian is either asleep, crying or angry. It is a low dip but it’s not the sort where he can’t function at all.

He can still demand that Mickey go out and get him some coke to help his mood, then throw a plate of food across the room when he is refused.

He can still recognise that he’s being difficult and sob his guilt and remorse into Mickey’s chest before pushing him away again.

Mickey just replaces the thrown food, refuses to get anything stronger than a joint, and strokes him back to sleep when he cries. What else can he do?

It is part of the illness, part of his body and mind trying to readjust and find a way through. Mickey knows all this, Ian’s doctor has explained it and Mickey has seen it several times. It can be hurtful, sure, but Mickey has taken a lot worse from people he doesn’t like half as much as Ian, so he figures he can handle it when it occurs.

On the fourth morning, Mickey lays down beside Ian after giving him his pills and kisses from his elbow to shoulder, resting his chin on him after the final kiss.

“I love you.”

He murmurs, sweeping a length of slightly greasy hair back behind Ian’s ear. Mickey kisses the muscular shoulder again and feels his body begin to stir. He shifts his hips back, not wanting Ian to feel the bulge in his pants. It isn’t anything Mickey can control, being near Ian is enough to get him going, no matter the circumstances, but Ian doesn’t need that kind of attention right now.

They watch a couple of shows and Mickey reads while Ian sleeps. It isn’t difficult exactly but it is boring as Hell.

When Fiona comes to relieve him of Ian watch for a couple of hours, Mickey is actually a little excited to get out of the house and work out some of his tensions and frustrations on some little punk who needs to learn when to back off.

He drives over to his clients place and parks a block over in case it goes to shit and the cops show up. This part of town is worse even than where he and Ian grew up and a few suspicious looking dudes glance appraisingly in his direction before clearly thinking better of it and going back to whatever hole they crawled out of.

One guy follows Mickey a couple hundred yards and Mickey toys with the idea of using him for practice, it’s been a while since he had a proper fight but it all seems a bit too much like hard work and although he’s glad to be out, he is worrying about Ian and his head isn’t really in the game.

The guy begins to move in on Mickey and with an impatient grunt, Mickey pulls his butterfly knife out of his jacket pocket and begins to flick it to and fro, flashing the blade with a familiar deadly grace, the metal making little ‘snicking’ sounds as it flits between his fingers.

The guy disappears down a side street and Mickey knocks on his clients door without further incident.

“Oh shit! Mickey, hey!”

“Hey Joe. You ready?”

“Oh man, listen, Ariel got back with the little prick last week, I meant to call you ...”

Mickey raises his eyebrows in irritation

“I already spent that money, Joe.”

Joe, a retired boxer and occasional bouncer flinches back at the frustrated look on the younger man’s face. He hasn’t seen the youngest Milkovich boy for a while but he seems pretty fired up and Joe knows from experience that underestimating his temper is a fool’s errand, it’s why he hired him in the first place.

“Keep it, she’ll break up with him soon and I’ll call you. OK?”

Mickey is bitterly disappointed but nods curtly.

“Alright man. Take it easy.”

“You too, Mickey.”

Mickey pauses to light a cigarette on the doorstep and hears a bolt slid discreetly into place. That cheers him up a little, he likes it when big guys feel a bit uncertain of him and Joe is a really big guy. Mickey supposes its professional pride but it is nice to know that your work is so respected that people want to make sure you don’t turn it around on them.

He considers chasing down one of the smack-head assholes who wanted to go with him earlier but decides against it. It would be just his luck to get arrested and Fiona might be okay with Ian for a few hours but Mickey doesn’t trust her (or anyone else for that matter) to see Ian through the rest of this shitty thing if he ends up doing a couple weeks inside. He’s never been away from Ian before during a depressive episode and fuck knows what would happen if Mickey got sent down right when Ian needed him most. Nothing good, that is for sure. Mickey flares his nostrils, chucks the butt of his cigarette into the gutter and heads toward his home.

*

“How is he?”

He asks as soon as he gets in and Fiona grimaces

“Mean. You know how it can go. I tried to feed him but he wouldn’t eat. He’s watching YouTube videos in bed.”

Looking up at Mickey she does a double take and scowls

“Jesus. You look deranged. What happened?”

“Nothin’ job got cancelled.”

He answers tersely and then gestures to his bedroom.

“The videos are good, right? He’s engaging with the world around him and all that. It’s a good thing.”

Mickey repeats, frowning at Fiona.

“Yeah of course but, Mickey, he’s being kind of a prick and you look strung out … you want me to stick around?”

“Why? In case I flip out and beat the shit out of him?”

“Kinda, yeah.”

Fiona is just tall enough to tower over him slightly and unlike Joe, she has no fucking fear. Mickey pushes a hand through his hair and shrugs against the fabric of his shirt.

“I’m not gonna do that. Thanks for hanging out and all but I got it.”

He won’t outright tell Ian’s family to leave unless he has to but it’s a close call and Fiona seems to understand this as she begins to gather her coat and scarf without comment.

“How much longer can you do this, Mickey?”

“Long as it takes.”

“He might need ...”

“Whatever it is he needs, I can give him. This is his home.”

Fiona gives Mickey a sympathetic look and he shifts his eyes, not wanting to meet her concerned gaze. She’s never tried to force him to take Ian to hospital, but she has suggested it before and Mickey desperately hopes she’ll leave it alone now. He doesn’t have the patience today. Fiona clearly thinks this too as she shrugs and says

“If you need me, just call.”

“Yeah thanks.”

Mickey nods and waits with his arms folded whilst she says goodbye to Ian. He expects her to just leave but she pauses beside him and gives his cheek a tiny kiss too.

“See you Mickey.”

“Uh… yeah, you too.”

His words don’t make sense but then neither does the kiss so Mickey doesn’t worry about it too much.

 *

Time passes. Ian’s mood doesn’t improve and neither does Mickey’s. 

It has been eight days since Ian came home in a foul mood and went to bed.

Eight days and the hole is still in the wall, the controller hasn’t been replaced, the laundry isn’t piling up because neither of them are changing their damn clothes but the dishes are high in the sink and Mickey forgot to do Yev’s assignment with him so Svet has pitched a fit over text. Things are falling apart gradually and all Mickey wants is for Ian to eat something and have a wash.

He looks down at the cracked plate and the squashed and scattered sandwich remains on the carpet. Ian had asked for the sandwich. Mickey had made the sandwich. Ian had thrown the fucker into a wall.

“Guess you didn’t fancy it, huh?”

No response. Ian doesn’t even look up from his phone.

“You want me to make you another one?”

Nothing.

“How about some chips? Give the vacuum cleaner a bit of textural variety?”

Ian glances up from the video he is watching but doesn’t answer. Mickey’s patience slips

“... or maybe I could just shove the whole fuckin’ meal deal up your ass?”

“Fuck off.”

Ian glances up from his phone and glares at his boyfriend. Mickey tongues at his upper lip, clearly aggravated. The room stinks, Ian stinks. It is the cloying smell of an unwashed body and Mickey is sick of it.

“Fine. Don’t eat but you gotta wash.”

Mickey informs him, stripping down to his own boxers ready to get Ian to the shower, his legs will be wobbly after so long in bed.

“No.”

“Ian …”

“No.”

“It’ll just take a minute …”

“You fucking deaf? I SAID NO!”

Ian roars, sliding down the mattress, dragging the blanket back over his head. Mickey’s own temper flares as  he presses his lips together tightly, raises his eyebrows and yanks the blanket away again with a sharp tug.

“I’ve had enough of this shit! Get the fuck up! You are on your fuckin’ phone watchin’ videos. You ain’t so far gone you can’t get up.”

He half crawls onto the mattress, intending to haul Ian off bodily and put him in the fuckin’ shower, even if he has to hold the fucker under himself.

“Go away, Mickey!”

The back of Ian’s hand catches Mickey just under his eye and he jerks back, startled.

“Ow! Fuck, Ian!”

Ian curls inward, turning his face into the pillow.

Mickey gets off the bed and closes the door behind him as he leaves. He isn’t built for this shit. When Yev had tantrums as a toddler he pretty much either ignored them or handed the kid over to Ian to deal with.

Ian is the one who deals with peoples shit. He’s the one who smooths stuff over and stays calm. Mickey doesn’t.

He tugs on some sweat pants and a thick sweater of Ian’s still over the back of the couch.

His cheek is stinging and Mickey’s hands are trembling from the shock of the whole damn thing. He paces around the house uncertain of whether or not to go back in. He decides against it. 

He drinks a beer and smokes three cigarettes outside on the porch, slumped down in the lounger. He shouldn’t have yelled, shouldn’t have snatched Ian’s cover away, shouldn’t have tried to force him. So many things he shouldn’t fucking do and he does most of them anyway. 

His phone vibrates in his pants pocket and Mickey glances down at it expecting it to be Svetlana about the school project again.

Ian: I’m sorry. I love you. Please come back.

Mickey doesn’t want to go back into that room. He slips his phone back into his pocket and pretends he hasn’t seen the message. Just ten more minutes, that’s all he needs. Ten minutes to himself and then he’ll go and lie with Ian or anything else his boyfriend wants of him.

Five minutes pass and Mickey is just about to light his last smoke when the back door squeaks and Mickey looks round, one eyebrow arched in surprise. Ian is stood in boxers and vest, shivering in the cold, looking down at him in absolute misery.

“Fuck, man! Get inside!”

Mickey stumbles to his feet, smoke curling out of his nostrils as he clamps the cigarette between his lips and barrels Ian back into the house.

“I’m so sorry, Mickey.”

Ian is trembling from head to toe and Mickey grabs a blanket from the couch, throwing it around Ian’s shoulders like a cape, rubbing his arms brusquely.

“It’s okay.”

“Your eye’s all puffy … Jesus.”

Ian’s lip joins the rest of his body, quaking miserably and Mickey makes an impatient noise at the back of his throat.

“I’m fuckin’ tired, both my eyes are puffy.”

Ian shakes his head and shakes off Mickey’s hands, reaching out and pulling his boyfriend roughly into his chest, holding him close.

“I am so, so sorry.”

“It’s okay...”

“Stop saying that! I’m sick, I’m not a little kid. Stop telling me it’s okay!”

Ian orders, and he sounds so much like his usual-self Mickey doesn’t even want to argue back. He likes authoritative Ian, he likes it when Ian takes charge of situations so that Mickey doesn’t have to. One of the hardest parts about the depressive episodes for Mickey is the responsibility of it all. What Ian eats, drinks, when he takes his meds, it is all down to Mickey and he hates it. He wants Ian to be in charge of his own life.

“Fine. It’s not okay. You’re being really fuckin’ hard to handle and I sort of want to kick your ass.”

“I know.”

Ian nods his chin against the top of Mickey’s head.

“I’m glad you’re up.”

Mickey says quietly and Ian nods

“I thought you might have left me.”

“Not likely.”

Mickey smiles against Ian’s chest and then pulls back looking up at him.

“You and me are for life, Firecrotch. We’re family.”

Mickey gives Ian a serious look as he says this and the younger man nods.

“Okay.”

Ian’s eyelids start to droop again. The adrenaline that got him this far is wearing off and his legs are shaking alarmingly. Mickey takes some of his weight and begins to guide him toward the bedroom but hesitates.

“Bathroom first.”

“But ...”

“Two minutes.”

He says firmly. Ian’s eyes drift down to him and it is as though Ian sees, really sees, Mickey for the first time in days. The tiredness, the strain, the smell of them both. 

“Oh shit, Mick …”

“What? You think I look like shit? Man, I’m a fuckin’ runway model compared to you.”

Mickey smooths Ian’s greasy hair and kisses his hairy cheek. They’re both sporting the beginnings of beards and the soft rasp of stubble is so calming that Ian actually turns his cheek, pressing it closer to Mickey. The effort is exhausting but the smile it raises on his boyfriends face is worth it.

“You actually like this, huh?”

Mickey asks softly and Ian nods.

“Sexier on you now than when we were kids.”

“Alright. Well, we don’t have to shave mine but we gotta shave yours. Makes you look like a damn schnauzer. I’m gonna start the shower and we’ll get you cleaned up.”

Ian feels a tear slide over his nose, and Mickey’s breath hitches as he notices it, but when he speaks, his voice is firm.

“I need you to help me, Ian. I can’t carry you.”

The amount of weight Ian has lost in the last week, this is probably not true but it has the desired effect and Ian straightens his spine determinedly.

“OK.”

“Good.”

Ian hears the water running in the bathroom, he hears Mickey’s tuneless humming, and he hears his heart pounding in his temples and knows that it beats for the man who is so desperately trying to take care of him. Ian grits his teeth, closes his eyes, and with great effort, he tugs his shirt over his head and peels out of his boxers.

It is like moving through a swamp, like his limbs have turned into thick rubber noodles that refuse to cooperate with his minds commands but he takes the few steps he needs to reach the bathroom door and pushes it open.

Mickey is leaning over the bath, his sweater sleeves pushed up, testing the temperature of the water raining down. His ass is jutting out in a sweet, round bubble against the soft fabric of the sweats. Ian feels nothing at all and the realisation stops him cold.

Then Mickey turns and he is smiling that wide, generous smile that is only for Ian, all white teeth and creased eyes, his nose scrunching just the tiniest bit and Ian manages another step forward.

*

Two weeks later

*

Mickey wakes to the smell of coffee and waffles. He blinks, frowns, squints against the small stream of sunlight that has found a chink in the curtains and is falling stubbornly over Mickey’s face. It takes him a few seconds to process the smells in conjunction with a small, warm weight covering his back.

He half pushes himself upright but an impatient noise stills his movements as a little hand takes a fistful of his t-shirt.

‘Yev’ Mickey thinks with a small huff. He half remembers the kid coming in during the night and squeezing in between him and Ian. He considers it a bad habit and something of a liberty but Ian doesn’t seem to mind at all so Mickey tend to just stake his claim on as much mattress as possible and ignores it.

Now, Mickey rolls over slowly until the weight dislodges with another grunt and a tiny bump on Ian’s side of the bed.

“Yeah, that’s what you get.”

Mickey mumbles as he sits on the edge of the bed and fondly smooths the frantic sweep of Yevgeny’s hair down, tucking the blanket around his sturdy little shoulders.

“Good Papa.”

Yev murmurs up at him approvingly, already slipping back toward sleep. Mickey smiles to himself and yawns widely.

Padding out of the bedroom he makes his way downstairs rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Ian is moving slowly around the kitchen, he looks tired but content. Mickey’s eyes flick toward the pill box and he notices the lid is flipped up which means Ian has remembered to take them. He’s been doing really well since the meds changed but Mickey always checks.

“Good morning.”

“Oh! Oh shit! I wanted to surprise you!”

Ian pauses mid waffle flip, a tiny frown creasing his brow

“You did.”

Mickey assures him, scratching at his beard. It’s come in a lot fuller than the last time he tried to grow one at seventeen and it’s actually pretty impressive now. Ian has tried to convince him to go for the full ‘Hipster’ look but Mickey has to draw a line somewhere and apparently, it gets drawn at a top-knot.

“How you feeling?”

“Shitty but I made breakfast and don’t feel like I need to sleep again already so I’m doing great, right?”

Ian lets his expression soften into a self-effacing smile and pours Mickey a cup of coffee.

“Damn right, you are.”

Mickey sips his drink and snakes a hand around Ian’s waist, palming him lightly.

“Not while the waffles are cooking.”

Ian’s scolds but his smile broadens when Mickey clucks his tongue in faux impatience.

“Fine but they better be damn good waffles.”

“Oh you know it. Sit your ass down and I’ll bring you some over.”

“Make sure I get the biggest one. You always give it to Yev.”

“Are you pouting?”

Ian laughs as Mickey settles into his usual spot at the head of the table and lights a cigarette

“Not yet.”

Mickey says evenly, flashing Ian a smile around the smoke. Ian serves them up, making sure to give Mickey the largest one and putting Yev’s share in the oven to keep warm. They eat in an easy silence, Ian’s foot nudging gently against his boyfriends.

“Hey, listen, I gotta patch up that hole in the wall today and I know we’re gonna take Yev home, but once we’ve done that … you wanna head down to town hall?”

“What for?”

Ian looks up from his plate and gives Mickey a sweet, wonky smile. Mickey scratches the side of his nose a little embarrassed and shrugs

“I figure now you’re out of bed, we’ll get married.”

Ian chokes on his coffee and Mickey pounds his back with a little bit of unnecessary force

“Jesus. I didn’t realise the thought of marrying me would make you wanna kill yourself by fuckin’ beverage inhalation.”

“No it’s … well, fuck! I wasn’t expecting it that’s all.”

Ian truly wasn’t. If anything he was bracing himself for a talk about maybe not being quite right for each other or something. He knows it’s stupid, that Mickey loves him and is fiercely loyal but when Ian has come out the other side of an episode, manic or depressive, he always wonders at the back of his mind if this will be the one to finally push his boyfriend away.

“Look it’s not a roses and champagne proposal it’s just … Fiona is your next of kin and fuck knows who mine is. I wanna know that if something happens it’s you and me who make the big decisions.”

Ian’s smile wavers but holds

“Did she try and get me into hospital?”

“No, but I wanna know that no one can. I make that call for you. You make it for me. Seems right.”

Mickey shrugs and looks shiftily between his coffee cup and the bright green eyes of his partner.

“So? Will you?”

“Will I what?”

“Jesus Christ, Ian. Marry me! Will you marry me?”

Mickey’s eyebrows are half-way to irritated and Ian grins at him

“I just wanted to hear you say it.”

“Asshole.”

Mickey suppresses his own grin, nudging his tongue into the corner of his mouth impatiently when Ian continues to stare at him.

“Ian, I swear if you don’t give me a fuckin’ answer, like, now…”

“Yes, Mick. I’ll marry you.”

“Today?”

Mickey prompts, blue eyes shining with happiness that he cannot quantify and doesn’t try to.

“Yes, today.”

Ian laughs, nodding and then seems to think of something else and shakes his head a little.

“Are you sure though? You really want ...”

“I just asked you, didn’t I?”

Mickey says sternly but tempers his tone with a soft kiss on Ian’s cheek.

“Yeah but …”

“It’s you and me, Gallagher. For life.”

“I’m so fucking lucky to have you.”

Mickey flushes slightly at the unexpected praise and Ian grips the back of his head, drawing him close and kissing the tip of his nose, lips twitching with a hidden smile

“You hear me? I am lucky to have you. You are a kind, generous, good person Mickey.”

Ian holds Mickey’s gaze until he is sure the words have sunk in and then pulls him into a kiss, knowing Mickey is more comfortable with expressing himself physically than verbally and damn, does Mickey express himself well.

 Ian’s mouth is warm and welcoming and the sweet tang of syrup mingles with the taste of coffee and cigarettes. Mickey sighs into him as Ian drops his fingers questioningly into Mickey’s lap and finds the answer all too apparent.

The words “I love you” float up between them and it is not clear which voice speaks them, but it doesn’t matter. They are simply and irrevocably true.

[mickeysexual-deactivated2015031]

[shamelessly4shameless-blog]

Hi, thank you so much for the fic but unfortunately it wasn't the one I was looking for :( (even though it was very similar). However, I read it anyway and it was really good too ahah

Oh no! That is the only one I can think of where Ian actively thinks Mickey has died in Mexico. Do you remember anything else about the fic at all? I always want to help people find things but I’m not sure about this one.

[shamelessunited-blog]

Which Season Of Mickey Are You?

Quiz here: x

Reply with your results! 

[shamelessly4shameless-blog]

S4 <3

[shamelessly4shameless-blog]

What if ... Ian and Mickey had brought Mandy home?

“Listen to it!”

“I did! It’s …”

“He’s gonna fucking kill her, Mickey!”

“Look, I know you want …”

“What I want is to bring my friend - your sister - home!”

Ian pauses his pacing to glare at Mickey and point the cell phone at him like a weapon.

“How can you just ignore this?”

“Cause she didn’t mean to call you, Ian. She doesn’t want us fuckin’ nosing through her life.”

“I don’t give a fuck what she wants! If we don’t help her we’re no better than he is!”

Ian fumes as Mickey pushes a hand tersely through his hair and looks up at his boyfriend with large, uncertain eyes. He doesn’t disagree with what Ian is saying, but Mandy made her choice and in his family they don’t interfere with each other. They’re not like the Gallaghers, they don’t crowd each other. If Mandy wanted them involved she would fucking ask but Ian doesn’t seem to get that at all. Kenyatta took Mandy’s phone and the idiot managed to call Ian and leave a voicemail recording of their fight. Yeah it was grim, it made Mickey’s blood boil to think of that son of a bitch hurting Mandy but she made her choice! They all told her not to fuckin’ go and Mickey doesn’t know what more Ian wants from him.

“Just … calm down …”

“Don’t tell me to fucking calm down!”

Ian throws his cell phone onto the cluttered sofa, instantly losing it amongst Yevgeny’s baby clothes that are strewn across the worn cushions. Folding his arms and slamming his back against the wall, Ian shakes his head and closes his eyes, trying to get a grip on his temper and failing.

“That voicemail was fucking horrible Mickey! The names he called her? The things he said? And Mandy! Did you hear her crying? Did you?”

“Yeah. I heard.”

Mickey says softly, averting his gaze and pinching his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger, tugging it before twisting his hand and rubbing his index finger roughly along the edge of his mouth.

“So?”

Ian demands, pushing himself upright and towering over his boyfriend, deliberately close, forcing Mickey to look up more than usual. Predictably, Mickey cranes his neck rather than stepping back out of Ian’s way. He is getting better at being open with feelings and shit like that, but years of conditioning won’t let him back down from a confrontation, even with Ian, and his fists curl loosely at his sides mechanically.

“Are you gonna help me or not?”

Ian is close enough that Mickey can feel the heat pouring off of his body. In other circumstances Mickey would be rock hard and ready to go a few rounds in the bedroom with Ian all riled up like this. Maybe they’d slap each other around a little bit first, nothing too brutal but they would get a little sore, a little bruised and it would lead to some seriously amazing sex… but Mickey is pretty sure fucking isn’t on the cards right now so he pushes it from his mind and tries to focus on making Ian see reason.

“I don’t know where the fuck Mandy even is! She won’t talk to me, she won’t talk to you … She don’t want our help! What are you gonna do? Huh? Knock down every door in Indiana til you find her?”

“If I have to.”

“Okay well that’s just fuckin’ dumb so sit your ass down a minute and let’s get a plan together.”

Mickey wrenches a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of his jeans pocket, takes one and then flips the carton over to Ian. He inhales the thick smoke, grateful for the familiar buzz of nicotine and then exhales through his nostrils, watching Ian do the same.

Swears under his breath, Mickey licks his lip, considering his options. Short of tying Ian to the bed and refusing to let him leave, Mickey isn’t going to be able to stop him. He’s gone all jutting chin and lowered ginger eyebrows and whilst Fiona might say it’s the bipolar, Mickey is pretty sure it’s just Ian’s pig-headed nature.

“Ay, alright I’ll call her from a burner. She might pick up if it’s not you or me callin’. Okay?”

Ian nods at this but his shoulders round defensively and he stubs the half-finished cigarette out viciously in the dregs of his coffee.

“Why won’t she just talk to us?”

Mickey snorts in response, already turning to rifle through his ‘stuff’ draw to find a fresh burner.

“Cause she’s a bitch and she’s a Milkovich. We ain’t the chattiest people when it comes to our problems.”

Ian’s lip quirks upwards at that, his eyes lightening just a fraction now that Mickey is helping him.

“Yeah well I did notice something like that.”

“Observent fucker, huh?”

Mickey finds what he’s looking for and flips the plastic casing off, inserting the disposable sim into the back of the cheap cell.

“Right, what’s the number?”

Ian digs around in the mess of baby stuff before coming up with his phone and reading the digits out to Mickey who thumbs them in and then lifts the phone to his ear.

“Ringing …”

He says curtly, answering Ian’s impatient expression and holding up the last half-inch of his smoke in a stilling gesture.

“Mandy? It’s me. … your fuckin’ brother? … Mickey, bitch! … No … No … fuck you! … He’s fine … he’s fine too … Yeah…”

Ian is practically crawling out of his skin with exasperation as the phone call progresses and begins miming frantically for Mickey to both hurry up and to give him the phone, which earns him a middle finger salute as Mickey turns his back on him.

“Where are you? … cause I want to know … to send a fuckin’ care package, what does it matter? … Oh I’m the asshole? You don’t answer my calls for weeks and … how is this typical of me? … Oh well excuse me for giving a shit … yes I do! … yes I do or I wouldn’t fuckin’ call … don’t bring that up … it wasn’t your fuckin’ flick-knife it was Iggy’s and Dad said I could …”

Ian can’t take any more of the sibling bickering and lunges forward snatching the phone out of Mickey’s hand

“Mandy? It’s Ian. Where are you? … Because I’m worried Mands… I know you are but please tell me… okay … yeah … I won’t, I promise. I love you. Bye.”

Ian flips the burner closed and nods to Mickey curtly

“I got the address.”

“Why the fuck did she give it to you and not me?”

Mickey asks looking truly affronted, taking the burner from Ian and tossing it back in the drawer alongside a collection of communal weapons and small baggies of powders and pills that Svetlana doesn’t let him leave around the house any more.

“I promised I wouldn’t do anything stupid.”

Ian smirks at Mickey who tongues his cheek and raises his eyebrows in response

“So we ain’t goin?”

“Of course we are. The stupid thing was letting her go in the first place.”

Ian states firmly, breezing past Mickey and heading into the bedroom to change out of his tight jeans and into something he can actually move in. Mickey follows him, rolling his eyes.

“Okay tough guy, you got the address, now what? We just rock up to Indiana?”

Ian looks up from lacing his military boots and fixes Mickey with a look that he has seldom given his boyfriend before: contempt. Mickey flinches slightly and sniffs, folding his arms defensively under Ian’s furious stare

“What?”

“Stop acting like this is bullshit. Your baby sister is in an abusive mess of a relationship with a guy who beats on her whenever it suits him.”

“I didn’t make her fuckin’ go!”

Mickey snaps and Ian slaps his hand hard against the dresser in frustration, making the cheap wood groan and tip precariously onto its side before slamming back down.

“Congratulations, asshole! It’s not your fault! Good for you! Now man the fuck up, get your shit together, and help me bring her home.”

Mickey blinks, squares his shoulders aggressively and the potential for a proper fight hangs in the air between them. The silent tension fills the room, settling in the ceiling cracks and nestling in the folds of clothes left on the floor. Ian doesn’t move, barely even blinks, just waits Mickey out – he’s never been scared of his boyfriend’s temper and he isn’t scared now.

“She needs us, Mickey. We gotta help her.”

After what feels like an age, Mickey nods to himself and just like that, things are in motion.

*

Mickey shrugs out of his grey button down and tugs a passably clean tank over his head, grabbing his cut off jacket from the floor by Ian’s side of the bed where he dumped it last night. It’s been a while since he’s gone after someone like this but the prep is comfortingly familiar and Mickey finds himself warming to it with ease.

He runs his hand fondly over the assortment of weapons in the dresser drawer as Ian types the address Mandy gave him into Google maps on his phone and plots their route.

“Take whatever weapon you want, man.”

Mickey gestures to the drawer, selecting a couple of handguns for himself and pocketing a butterfly knife and brass knuckles.

“Fuck you, Milkovich. Think I wouldn’t bring my own?”

Ian snorts and drops to his knees beside the bed, reaching under and producing a steel baseball bat with a dramatic flourish and giving it a practice swing.

“You know, some guys just bring some clothes and a toothbrush when they move in.”

Mickey grins at him, approval evident in his tone. Ian cocks his head in acknowledgement and loops the bat around the back of his neck, resting his wrists nonchalantly over either end.

“I just packed my biggest, hardest things.”

He drawls, looking Mickey over with a deliberate slowness that has the brunette adjusting himself with zero discretion. A different kind of tension begins to creep between them but Mickey shakes his head.

“Later. You ready?”

Ian nods and shakes himself to get his head back in the game. He has been finding it increasingly difficult to stay focussed lately but this is important, Mandy is important, and with a grunt of effort, he pushes other thoughts aside.

*

In the living room, Iggy and Joey are ripping their first bong of the day but both look up with mild interest at Mickey’s bark of a greeting

“Yo! On a job. You in?”

“What is it?”

“We’re goin’ to get Mandy.”

Iggy frowns and scratches at a spot behind his ear

“Our Mandy?”

“Yeah numbnuts. She’s in trouble. Bringing her home.”

Mickey’s fingers are beating against his leg impatiently. The more often he says the words the more set they become and he wonders how the Hell it has taken him so long to do this. Any of them! Fucking Milkovichs letting their sister be fucked up by some dumb prick of a boyfriend? Shame curls in Mickey’s gut and his nostrils flare at the thought of it.

“You comin’ or what?”

His tone is harsher than he intended but it doesn’t matter because it snaps Iggy and Joey out of their contemplations and both stand up, Iggy heading into the closet.

“She with that Ken … whatever the fuck his name was?”

Joey asks, slipping a stained knuckle duster out of his jacket and slipping it on, large hands flexing.

“Yeah.”

Ian nods. Joey grunts and rolls his neck, grabbing the bong and his bag of pot off the table.

“Disrespectful mother-fucker gonna regret that then ain’t he.”

“You want him dead or just fucked up, bro?”

Iggy’s head pops out of the cluttered space and as both his older brother’s look to him for instruction, the last of the uncertainty leaves Mickey.

When he came out he thought this part of his life with his brother’s was over, family or not, he was gay and he figured that it changed things between them but here they are, waiting on his word like always. Confidence blooms in Mickey’s chest and he lifts his chin, glancing sideways at Ian before clearing his throat and taking the lead.

“Fucked up, but if the asshole dies I ain’t gonna cry about it.”

“Cool.”

Iggy nods and drops the small buzzsaw he had been holding, disappearing briefly and re-emerging with a short wooden club.

As Iggy and Joey amble out to the car, Ian beams at Mickey who gives him a reserved smile back. He doesn’t actually think Ian has ever seen him on this sort of job before and he doesn’t want it freaking him out.

“You sure you’re okay with this?”

He asks quietly, reaching up to smooth back a length of deep red hair from Ian’s brow.

“Fuck yes I am! I’ve been waiting a long time to get this prick. I want to do this.”

Ian’s smile twists into a grimace at the thought of Kenyatta and Mickey realises with a start that he has never seen Ian on this sort of job either. Iggy barrels back into the house and dives into the closet

“Best to be prepared.”

He shrugs, hefting the saw over his shoulder and lumbering out again. Mickey and Ian share one last look and then follow Iggy out. They’re ready.

*

Iggy drives, and he drives horribly. They break the speed limit and swerve in and out of traffic, following the little arrow on Ian’s phone screen, all of them cussing at the robotic voice when it kindly tells them they have missed a turn. The music in the car is blaring out, a mix tape of Slipknot and Korn that drowns out almost everything except the sat-nav app.

“Couldn’t they have got a better fuckin’ voice guy?”

Mickey glares over Joey’s shoulder at the screen, as Iggy slams the car into reverse, narrowly missing a cluster of trash cans and the group of teenagers pissing against them.

“Why the fuck are kids peeing in gangs nowadays?”

“Fuck knows. Animals got no respect.”

Joey grumbles, toking on a blunt before handing it back to Ian who takes it with grateful surprise. Whilst Iggy didn’t seem phased by Mickey coming out, Joey has given Ian more than a few unpleasant looks.

“What is it with you and respect at the moment? You keep banging on about it.”

“What do you mean? I’m always respectful.”

“Joe, you’re the least respectful asswipe I know.”

Mickey laughs, lifting his boot heels onto his seat as Joey swings a fist round trying to clip a knee or ankle.

“Fuck you! Name one time when …”

‘In 200 yards, turn right.’

“Fuck sake! Give me street names mother fucker!”

Iggy yells at the phone and Ian grins despite himself. He doesn’t think he has ever heard Iggy lose his shit before, it makes the family resemblance to Mickey much more obvious.

“You tell it, man.”

Mickey grins and Ian decides that he actually likes seeing Mickey around his brothers. He is gruffer, cruder and cockier but it suits him. They’re like a little wolf pack and Mickey is, by some weird cosmic irony, the Alpha.

Despite the high emotions and disastrous driving, they reach their destination in one piece and all four look with disdain at the run down house that their sister is supposedly living in. It looks eerily like the Milkovich house but with a mailbox and a full set of windows and that is a personal affront to each of Mandy’s brother’s for different reasons, souring the mood in the car instantly.

For Joey it feels like Kenyatta is trying to be better than them with his fancy windows and mail box.

For Iggy it is confusing to see a house so like his own in a different state and he hates it impulsively  

For Mickey it enrages him that this is the best Kenyatta could do for Mandy. Bastard couldn’t even give her a half-way decent house.

Ian just despises all of it. Every brick, window, and blade of grass.

The four men get out of the car and after surveying the street for a minute, Mickey leads them across the road and up the steps.

The front door barely withstands the first kick and gives in without protest after the second.

“KENYATTA!”

Mickey bellows, his brother’s fanning out around him. Ian keeps close to Mickey, guarding his back, his bat held high, ready. He can hear someone moving upstairs and apparently he isn’t the only one because all around him guns are being drawn and they are moving forward, Iggy and Joey take the stairs two at a time but Mickey pauses, Ruger in his right hand, his left pressed flat against Ian’s chest, keeping him back.

“Mick, what …?”

Mickey jerks his head irritably and Ian falls silent. There is a heartbeats space of silence and then all Hell breaks loose above them. They can hear Mandy screaming at Iggy, the crash of bodies hitting the floor, scrambling, cursing and then Kenyatta stumbles down the stairs, blood streaming from his nose, clutching his ribs. Mickey drops his gun and lunges upward as Kenyatta swings clumsily at Ian. They sprawl into the living room, crashing against a shitty recliner chair in a tangle of limbs. Ian throws himself into the fray and fists fly.

Every blow that Ian lands is a catharsis. At some point, he shoves Mickey bodily out of the way and straddles Kenyatta’s hips pinning him and raining punches with wild abandon and he doesn’t stop.

Not when his knuckles split.

Not when his own cheekbone is cut with a stray fist.

Not until Mandy reaches him.

“IAN? IAN STOP IT! FUCKING STOP!”

Mandy’s voice cuts through the haze of adrenaline and Ian blinks, smearing blood over his face as he mops at it with his sleeve. Kenyatta begins to sit up but freezes as metal touches his throat.

“Don’t fuckin’ move, asshole.”

Iggy warns, the tip of his saw pressing against flesh just enough to leave an indentation as Ian stands shakily.

Mandy shakes her head in disbelief and then slaps Ian’s face with the flat of her hand

“You promised me, Ian! You fucking promised!”

“Hey! Don’t hit him!”

Mickey snaps at his sister, yanking her away from Ian. Mandy turns her fury on him in an instant, pitching forward and bashing her fists against Mickey’s chest, glaring at him through bruised and bloodshot eyes.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Me? What the fuck is wrong with you? Look at the state of your face! You let this piece of shit hit you again?”

Mickey glares right back and kicks Kenyatta dismissively

“Stop it!”

Mandy yells, her hair is matted and she looks half-starved and it is that rather than her words that give Mickey pause. He takes in the state of her clothes and the haunted look in her eyes and shakes his head before kicking Kenyatta in the ribs, harder this time.

“Mickey! Don’t …”

“You’re fuckin’ defending him now? Jesus, Mandy! Come home.”

“Home? HOME? To that house? You call that a home?”

“It’s different now.”

Mandy closes her eyes with an almost hysterical laugh, pressing the heels of her hands painfully against them. Kenyatta makes a noise from the floor and all five Southsider’s look down at him with disgust, silencing him instantly.

“Nothing is ever different, Mickey.”

Mandy’s voice is flat and she shakes her head, wrapping her arms around her middle and stepping back from them all. Mickey glances at Ian and twitches his lip uncertainly, he’s done the part he is good at and now he is out of his depth.

“You okay to deal with this?”

Ian murmurs, gesturing to Kenyatta, his hand briefly caressing the swell of Mickey’s shoulder.

“Yeah, we got it. Go.”

Ian follows Mandy as she makes her way into the kitchen. He has done this sort of thing many times with her brother but though neither of them would admit it, Mickey is actually easier to deal with than Mandy.

“It was my idea Mandy. Not Mickey’s. I got a voicemail from your fight last night and I had to do something.”

“Crash into my home? Assault my boyfriend?”

Mandy sits down at the table and lights a cigarette with shaking hands, before offering Ian the packet.

“It’s not a home, Mandy. You’re not safe here.”

Ian doesn’t dare touch her, but he sits close and when she doesn’t move away, he lays his hand beside hers on the scarred table top.

“I was never safe there either, Ian. You know that.”

Ian nods and swallows heavily. He does know that, they all let Mandy down. Every single one of them.

“It is different now though. We’re there, me and Mickey, and Svetlana and Yev too. It’s a little fucked up but it works. It’s a safe place Mands. We could look after you.”

Dark eyes flash dangerously as Mandy glares up at her friend

“I don’t need you assholes to look after me.”

“Then let us be there while you get what you need to look after yourself.”

Ian counters and Mandy presses her swollen lips together, trembling slightly but not ready to back down.

“You can’t stay here. Not really. Not with him. He’ll kill you.”

Ian presses on despite the look on her face. Like her brother, she responds better to frankness, almost harshness in a way, a gentle approach means nothing to Mandy, she needs to cold steel of a bat to swing, not the soft comfort of a pillow to clutch. He can see that his words are sinking in and being accepted as slowly the fire in her eyes dims to a shimmer.

“What are you gonna do with him?”

“Whatever you want us to. Please Mandy. Please come home.”

Mandy nods, licks her lips, and gently places her hand over Ian’s long fingers. He picks up her hand and cradles it in his own.

*

Mandy doesn’t have much to pack and whist Ian gathers sparse possessions from the bathroom, Mickey helps her stuff her clothes into a couple of bin liners.

“This all of it?”

“Yeah.”

Mandy nods, clutching the larger of the two bags to her chest.

“Alright, give it here.”

Mickey reaches for it, gesturing impatiently

“You don’t have to…”

“Let me carry the damn bag for you for fucks sake.”

He snatches it roughly out of his sister’s hand, begins walking to the door and then stops, dropping both bags at his feet and whirling to face her, irritation and guilt warring for control of his features.

“You should have fucking called me, Mandy.”

She isn’t prepared for the hug but as her big brother’s arms fold around her, she feels her body begin to slacken in quiet relief.

“You’re here now, Mick.”

“Yeah well … just as well too! You’re skinny as fuck.”

Mickey breathes into her hair, his fingers cupping the back of her head as gently as if she were made of brittle glass.

“You’re getting fat.”

Mandy shoots back and then tightens her grip around his middle, her fingers gripping the back of his shirt for dear life.

“Douche.”

Mickey sniffs wetly and squeezes her gently

“It’s gonna be alright, you hear me? You’re gonna be okay. We got you.”

It is probably the most comforting thing any of her family have ever said to her and if Mandy Milkovich was a crier, she would have wept all the tears her body could shed. But Mandy does not cry. She pulls back, sniffs and kisses Mickey’s cheek.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“And get you some food!”

Mickey nods in agreement and grabs her bags, leading the way downstairs.

*

Kenyatta is propped up against the wall and watches Mandy leave with flat eyes, but she doesn’t look at him. Not once.

Mickey crouches in front of the huge man and slaps his cheek lightly, almost tenderly

“My brothers are gonna stay a while, have a chat, straighten some things out with you, man. You better hope that they are the last Milkovichs you ever fuckin’ see because if not, if you try and come near Mandy again, we’re gonna have to kill you. You know that, right?”

Kenyatta nods and Mickey gives him a bright smile, beautiful and menacing in equal measure.

“Good.”

With that, Mickey dusts off his hands on his thighs, stands and walks away. Ian knows he should follow. Their work here is done, but can barely drag his eyes from the man at Joey’s feet. He knows he’ll be punished for Mandy’s treatment at his hand, Joey is more than capable but a part of Ian wishes he was the one to do it, to wreak a little havoc on the man who catapulted Mandy’s so brutally.

“Ian? Let’s go.”

Mickey calls from the porch steps. Ian tears his eyes away from Mandy’s now-ex boyfriend and begins to leave, pausing to grab his bat. The steel is cool and welcome in his heated palm and he twirls it absentmindedly, looking around the room.

He wanders over to the windows and peers out from between the dirty curtains. How many times did Mandy do this? Peer out at the world, scared either of what was coming or scared of what was already waiting upstairs. On the porch, Mickey catches sight of Ian’s movements and walks across to stand in front of him on the other side.

“What the fuck are you doing? Let’s go.”

Ian nods but doesn’t move. His fingertips press against the smeared panes and he slowly traces Mandy’s name into the grime. On the other side, Mickey cups his hands against the glass and peers past Ian into the house making sure they haven’t forgotten anything of Mandy’s or anything that Mandy might just want, hers or not.

Ian makes a decision and his lip lifts upwards in a small smile

“Take your fuckin’ hands off the glass, Mick.”

“Huh?”

“Move!”

Ian hefts the bat and Mickey reads his intention, leaping back just in time as one after the other, Ian puts the windows out. He smashes the bat through each of them with a malicious relish that he hasn’t felt in years and beams at Mickey through the gaping holes.

“You done now, Al Capone?”

“Yep.”

Ian nods, answering the arched eyebrows and amused smirk on his boyfriends face with a happy smile.

*

They leave Iggy and Joey to their business, Mickey drives and Ian sits in the back with Mandy, not wanting to leave her alone. His fingers untangle some of the knots in the tips of her long hair and she lets him do it, relaxing into the touch little by little.

“How’s Yevgeny?”

“Fat.”

“Mickey!”

Ian chides, laughing despite himself. Mickey half turns to glance back at his sister and shrugs

“It’s true. Little bastard eats, shits, and sleeps as much as Iggy.”

“He looks just like Mickey though. His eyes have gone the exact shade of blue and he’s getting a proper smirk.”

Ian smiles proudly at this and Mandy allows a small smile to lighten her own face.

“Poor kid!”

“Fuck you!”

Mickey gives an exemplary smirk around the filter of his cigarette as he pulls into a McDonalds drive thru. He orders too much food and pays with a few crumpled bills, smiling politely when the cashiers gaze lingers on his bruised and bloody knuckles.

The only free space is a disabled bay, which Mickey parks in without a second thought, heedless of the signs, and hands the brown bags into the back seat. Mandy eats with as much enthusiasm as her brother and Ian can’t help but laugh at them both, though he covers it as choking on a fry. Once she has eaten her fill, Mandy wipes her hands and face on a napkin and slumps back against Ian’s shoulder, sighing in drowsy contentment. Her breathing grows heavy as they leave the parking lot and Ian wraps a protective arm around her shoulder, keeping her close as she sleeps.

“She okay?”

Ian looks up and meets Mickey’s worried eyes in the rearview mirror.

“She will be. You did good, Mickey.”

Mickey’s cheeks turn a dusky pink at the praise and he snorts, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

“Didn’t do bad yourself, Gallagher.”

“We make a good team.”

Ian smiles and Mickey grins at him happily, blue eyes holding green firmly.

“Yeah we do.”

*

Months later …

*

Ian is making his way back to the Gallagher house, his hand is throbbing beneath the hastily wrapped up bandages and he is grateful for this because it lets him know that he is still alive. He can barely see, barely hear, everything is white noise and great swathes of colourless normality stretching out into the infinity of his gaze.

“Ian?”

He turns slowly and sees Mandy walking towards him, head bowed against the cold evening breeze.

“You okay?”

“Yeah I gotta …”

He trails off, lifting his injured hand in illustration of the point he can’t quite seem to make.

“Shit! That needs changing.”

“I can do it. Or Fiona. I don’t care.”

Ian sighs tiredly and Mandy links her arm through his, making the decision for both of them.

“I’ll do it. Come on.”

Inside the Gallagher house, Ian sits down whilst Mandy finds the first aid kit. Sammi hovers around them until Mandy asks for a cup of coffee, giving the needy blonde a simple task to complete somewhere else.

“Kinda matches my left hand now, huh?”

Ian says quietly, the joke feeble as he shows Mandy the older scar

“Oh yeah? How did you do that one?”

Mandy replies, rolling the clean fabric over Ian’s blistered palm. Ian draws a shuddering breath and then sighs

“Military. I hot-wired a helicopter, other stupid shit too and burnt myself. Then I ran away, went AWOL …”

“Did Ian say something? Does he want a coffee too?”

Sammi’s head pokes around the kitchen door and Mandy throws a weary look over her shoulder at the older woman.

“No Sammi, thanks.”

“Okay but I like to be included in conversation in my own house you know!”

Sammi sing-songs as she retreats back into the kitchen, bitchy but blessedly oblivious. Mandy shakes her head and presses a finger gently to Ian’s lips when he draws a breath to continue his confession.

“Not now, okay? Gotta be careful who you tell about this stuff.”

Mandy tucks the end of the bandage in and covers Ian’s hand gently with both of her own, cradling it.

“Thanks.”

Ian says looking Mandy in the eye for the first time.

“You’re welcome.”

She kisses his head lightly and stands up

“Let’s get out of here. No offence but your sister is weird and Mickey will be home soon.” Ian smiles slightly and nods, leaving Sammi behind and following Mandy home.

[shamelessly4shameless-blog]

What if ... Ian and Mickey had brought Mandy home?

 “Listen to it!”

“I did! It’s …”

“He’s gonna fucking kill her, Mickey!”

“Look, I know you want …”

“What I want is to bring my friend - your sister - home!”

Ian pauses his pacing to glare at Mickey and point the cell phone at him like a weapon.

“How can you just ignore this?”

“Cause she didn’t mean to call you, Ian. She doesn’t want us fuckin’ nosing through her life.”

“I don’t give a fuck what she wants! If we don’t help her we’re no better than he is!”

Ian fumes as Mickey pushes a hand tersely through his hair and looks up at his boyfriend with large, uncertain eyes. He doesn’t disagree with what Ian is saying, but Mandy made her choice and in his family they don’t interfere with each other. They’re not like the Gallaghers, they don’t crowd each other. If Mandy wanted them involved she would fucking ask but Ian doesn’t seem to get that at all. Kenyatta took Mandy’s phone and the idiot managed to call Ian and leave a voicemail recording of their fight. Yeah it was grim, it made Mickey’s blood boil to think of that son of a bitch hurting Mandy but she made her choice! They all told her not to fuckin’ go and Mickey doesn’t know what more Ian wants from him.

“Just … calm down …”

“Don’t tell me to fucking calm down!”

Ian throws his cell phone onto the cluttered sofa, instantly losing it amongst Yevgeny’s baby clothes that are strewn across the worn cushions. Folding his arms and slamming his back against the wall, Ian shakes his head and closes his eyes, trying to get a grip on his temper and failing.

“That voicemail was fucking horrible Mickey! The names he called her? The things he said? And Mandy! Did you hear her crying? Did you?”

“Yeah. I heard.”

Mickey says softly, averting his gaze and pinching his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger, tugging it before twisting his hand and rubbing his index finger roughly along the edge of his mouth.

“So?”

Ian demands, pushing himself upright and towering over his boyfriend, deliberately close, forcing Mickey to look up more than usual. Predictably, Mickey cranes his neck rather than stepping back out of Ian’s way. He is getting better at being open with feelings and shit like that, but years of conditioning won’t let him back down from a confrontation, even with Ian, and his fists curl loosely at his sides mechanically.

“Are you gonna help me or not?”

Ian is close enough that Mickey can feel the heat pouring off of his body. In other circumstances Mickey would be rock hard and ready to go a few rounds in the bedroom with Ian all riled up like this. Maybe they’d slap each other around a little bit first, nothing too brutal but they would get a little sore, a little bruised and it would lead to some seriously amazing sex… but Mickey is pretty sure fucking isn’t on the cards right now so he pushes it from his mind and tries to focus on making Ian see reason.

“I don’t know where the fuck Mandy even is! She won’t talk to me, she won’t talk to you … She don’t want our help! What are you gonna do? Huh? Knock down every door in Indiana til you find her?”

“If I have to.”

“Okay well that’s just fuckin’ dumb so sit your ass down a minute and let’s get a plan together.”

Mickey wrenches a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of his jeans pocket, takes one and then flips the carton over to Ian. He inhales the thick smoke, grateful for the familiar buzz of nicotine and then exhales through his nostrils, watching Ian do the same.

Swears under his breath, Mickey licks his lip, considering his options. Short of tying Ian to the bed and refusing to let him leave, Mickey isn’t going to be able to stop him. He’s gone all jutting chin and lowered ginger eyebrows and whilst Fiona might say it’s the bipolar, Mickey is pretty sure it’s just Ian’s pig-headed nature.

“Ay, alright I’ll call her from a burner. She might pick up if it’s not you or me callin’. Okay?”

Ian nods at this but his shoulders round defensively and he stubs the half-finished cigarette out viciously in the dregs of his coffee.

“Why won’t she just talk to us?”

Mickey snorts in response, already turning to rifle through his ‘stuff’ draw to find a fresh burner.

“Cause she’s a bitch and she’s a Milkovich. We ain’t the chattiest people when it comes to our problems.”

Ian’s lip quirks upwards at that, his eyes lightening just a fraction now that Mickey is helping him.

“Yeah well I did notice something like that.”

“Observent fucker, huh?”

Mickey finds what he’s looking for and flips the plastic casing off, inserting the disposable sim into the back of the cheap cell.

“Right, what’s the number?”

Ian digs around in the mess of baby stuff before coming up with his phone and reading the digits out to Mickey who thumbs them in and then lifts the phone to his ear.

“Ringing …”

He says curtly, answering Ian’s impatient expression and holding up the last half-inch of his smoke in a stilling gesture.

“Mandy? It’s me. … your fuckin’ brother? … Mickey, bitch! … No … No … fuck you! … He’s fine … he’s fine too … Yeah…”

Ian is practically crawling out of his skin with exasperation as the phone call progresses and begins miming frantically for Mickey to both hurry up and to give him the phone, which earns him a middle finger salute as Mickey turns his back on him.

“Where are you? … cause I want to know … to send a fuckin’ care package, what does it matter? … Oh I’m the asshole? You don’t answer my calls for weeks and … how is this typical of me? … Oh well excuse me for giving a shit … yes I do! … yes I do or I wouldn’t fuckin’ call … don’t bring that up … it wasn’t your fuckin’ flick-knife it was Iggy’s and Dad said I could …”

Ian can’t take any more of the sibling bickering and lunges forward snatching the phone out of Mickey’s hand

“Mandy? It’s Ian. Where are you? … Because I’m worried Mands… I know you are but please tell me… okay … yeah … I won’t, I promise. I love you. Bye.”

Ian flips the burner closed and nods to Mickey curtly

“I got the address.”

“Why the fuck did she give it to you and not me?”

Mickey asks looking truly affronted, taking the burner from Ian and tossing it back in the drawer alongside a collection of communal weapons and small baggies of powders and pills that Svetlana doesn’t let him leave around the house any more.

“I promised I wouldn’t do anything stupid.”

Ian smirks at Mickey who tongues his cheek and raises his eyebrows in response

“So we ain’t goin?”

“Of course we are. The stupid thing was letting her go in the first place.”

Ian states firmly, breezing past Mickey and heading into the bedroom to change out of his tight jeans and into something he can actually move in. Mickey follows him, rolling his eyes.

“Okay tough guy, you got the address, now what? We just rock up to Indiana?”

Ian looks up from lacing his military boots and fixes Mickey with a look that he has seldom given his boyfriend before: contempt. Mickey flinches slightly and sniffs, folding his arms defensively under Ian’s furious stare

“What?”

“Stop acting like this is bullshit. Your baby sister is in an abusive mess of a relationship with a guy who beats on her whenever it suits him.”

“I didn’t make her fuckin’ go!”

Mickey snaps and Ian slaps his hand hard against the dresser in frustration, making the cheap wood groan and tip precariously onto its side before slamming back down.

“Congratulations, asshole! It’s not your fault! Good for you! Now man the fuck up, get your shit together, and help me bring her home.”

Mickey blinks, squares his shoulders aggressively and the potential for a proper fight hangs in the air between them. The silent tension fills the room, settling in the ceiling cracks and nestling in the folds of clothes left on the floor. Ian doesn’t move, barely even blinks, just waits Mickey out – he’s never been scared of his boyfriend’s temper and he isn’t scared now.

“She needs us, Mickey. We gotta help her.”

After what feels like an age, Mickey nods to himself and just like that, things are in motion.

*

Mickey shrugs out of his grey button down and tugs a passably clean tank over his head, grabbing his cut off jacket from the floor by Ian’s side of the bed where he dumped it last night. It’s been a while since he’s gone after someone like this but the prep is comfortingly familiar and Mickey finds himself warming to it with ease.

He runs his hand fondly over the assortment of weapons in the dresser drawer as Ian types the address Mandy gave him into Google maps on his phone and plots their route.

“Take whatever weapon you want, man.”

Mickey gestures to the drawer, selecting a couple of handguns for himself and pocketing a butterfly knife and brass knuckles.

“Fuck you, Milkovich. Think I wouldn’t bring my own?”

Ian snorts and drops to his knees beside the bed, reaching under and producing a steel baseball bat with a dramatic flourish and giving it a practice swing.

“You know, some guys just bring some clothes and a toothbrush when they move in.”

Mickey grins at him, approval evident in his tone. Ian cocks his head in acknowledgement and loops the bat around the back of his neck, resting his wrists nonchalantly over either end.

“I just packed my biggest, hardest things.”

He drawls, looking Mickey over with a deliberate slowness that has the brunette adjusting himself with zero discretion. A different kind of tension begins to creep between them but Mickey shakes his head.

“Later. You ready?”

Ian nods and shakes himself to get his head back in the game. He has been finding it increasingly difficult to stay focussed lately but this is important, Mandy is important, and with a grunt of effort, he pushes other thoughts aside.

*

In the living room, Iggy and Joey are ripping their first bong of the day but both look up with mild interest at Mickey’s bark of a greeting

“Yo! On a job. You in?”

“What is it?”

“We’re goin’ to get Mandy.”

Iggy frowns and scratches at a spot behind his ear

“Our Mandy?”

“Yeah numbnuts. She’s in trouble. Bringing her home.”

Mickey’s fingers are beating against his leg impatiently. The more often he says the words the more set they become and he wonders how the Hell it has taken him so long to do this. Any of them! Fucking Milkovichs letting their sister be fucked up by some dumb prick of a boyfriend? Shame curls in Mickey’s gut and his nostrils flare at the thought of it.

“You comin’ or what?”

His tone is harsher than he intended but it doesn’t matter because it snaps Iggy and Joey out of their contemplations and both stand up, Iggy heading into the closet.

“She with that Ken … whatever the fuck his name was?”

Joey asks, slipping a stained knuckle duster out of his jacket and slipping it on, large hands flexing.

“Yeah.”

Ian nods. Joey grunts and rolls his neck, grabbing the bong and his bag of pot off the table.

“Disrespectful mother-fucker gonna regret that then ain’t he.”

“You want him dead or just fucked up, bro?”

Iggy’s head pops out of the cluttered space and as both his older brother’s look to him for instruction, the last of the uncertainty leaves Mickey.

When he came out he thought this part of his life with his brother’s was over, family or not, he was gay and he figured that it changed things between them but here they are, waiting on his word like always. Confidence blooms in Mickey’s chest and he lifts his chin, glancing sideways at Ian before clearing his throat and taking the lead.

“Fucked up, but if the asshole dies I ain’t gonna cry about it.”

“Cool.”

Iggy nods and drops the small buzzsaw he had been holding, disappearing briefly and re-emerging with a short wooden club.

As Iggy and Joey amble out to the car, Ian beams at Mickey who gives him a reserved smile back. He doesn’t actually think Ian has ever seen him on this sort of job before and he doesn’t want it freaking him out.

“You sure you’re okay with this?”

He asks quietly, reaching up to smooth back a length of deep red hair from Ian’s brow.

“Fuck yes I am! I’ve been waiting a long time to get this prick. I want to do this.”

Ian’s smile twists into a grimace at the thought of Kenyatta and Mickey realises with a start that he has never seen Ian on this sort of job either. Iggy barrels back into the house and dives into the closet

“Best to be prepared.”

He shrugs, hefting the saw over his shoulder and lumbering out again. Mickey and Ian share one last look and then follow Iggy out. They’re ready.

*

Iggy drives, and he drives horribly. They break the speed limit and swerve in and out of traffic, following the little arrow on Ian’s phone screen, all of them cussing at the robotic voice when it kindly tells them they have missed a turn. The music in the car is blaring out, a mix tape of Slipknot and Korn that drowns out almost everything except the sat-nav app.

“Couldn’t they have got a better fuckin’ voice guy?”

Mickey glares over Joey’s shoulder at the screen, as Iggy slams the car into reverse, narrowly missing a cluster of trash cans and the group of teenagers pissing against them.

“Why the fuck are kids peeing in gangs nowadays?”

“Fuck knows. Animals got no respect.”

Joey grumbles, toking on a blunt before handing it back to Ian who takes it with grateful surprise. Whilst Iggy didn’t seem phased by Mickey coming out, Joey has given Ian more than a few unpleasant looks.

“What is it with you and respect at the moment? You keep banging on about it.”

“What do you mean? I’m always respectful.”

“Joe, you’re the least respectful asswipe I know.”

Mickey laughs, lifting his boot heels onto his seat as Joey swings a fist round trying to clip a knee or ankle.

“Fuck you! Name one time when …”

‘In 200 yards, turn right.’

“Fuck sake! Give me street names mother fucker!”

Iggy yells at the phone and Ian grins despite himself. He doesn’t think he has ever heard Iggy lose his shit before, it makes the family resemblance to Mickey much more obvious.

“You tell it, man.”

Mickey grins and Ian decides that he actually likes seeing Mickey around his brothers. He is gruffer, cruder and cockier but it suits him. They’re like a little wolf pack and Mickey is, by some weird cosmic irony, the Alpha.

Despite the high emotions and disastrous driving, they reach their destination in one piece and all four look with disdain at the run down house that their sister is supposedly living in. It looks eerily like the Milkovich house but with a mailbox and a full set of windows and that is a personal affront to each of Mandy’s brother’s for different reasons, souring the mood in the car instantly.

For Joey it feels like Kenyatta is trying to be better than them with his fancy windows and mail box.

For Iggy it is confusing to see a house so like his own in a different state and he hates it impulsively  

For Mickey it enrages him that this is the best Kenyatta could do for Mandy. Bastard couldn’t even give her a half-way decent house.

Ian just despises all of it. Every brick, window, and blade of grass.

The four men get out of the car and after surveying the street for a minute, Mickey leads them across the road and up the steps.

The front door barely withstands the first kick and gives in without protest after the second.

“KENYATTA!”

Mickey bellows, his brother’s fanning out around him. Ian keeps close to Mickey, guarding his back, his bat held high, ready. He can hear someone moving upstairs and apparently he isn’t the only one because all around him guns are being drawn and they are moving forward, Iggy and Joey take the stairs two at a time but Mickey pauses, Ruger in his right hand, his left pressed flat against Ian’s chest, keeping him back.

“Mick, what …?”

Mickey jerks his head irritably and Ian falls silent. There is a heartbeats space of silence and then all Hell breaks loose above them. They can hear Mandy screaming at Iggy, the crash of bodies hitting the floor, scrambling, cursing and then Kenyatta stumbles down the stairs, blood streaming from his nose, clutching his ribs. Mickey drops his gun and lunges upward as Kenyatta swings clumsily at Ian. They sprawl into the living room, crashing against a shitty recliner chair in a tangle of limbs. Ian throws himself into the fray and fists fly.

Every blow that Ian lands is a catharsis. At some point, he shoves Mickey bodily out of the way and straddles Kenyatta’s hips pinning him and raining punches with wild abandon and he doesn’t stop.

Not when his knuckles split.

Not when his own cheekbone is cut with a stray fist.

Not until Mandy reaches him.

“IAN? IAN STOP IT! FUCKING STOP!”

Mandy’s voice cuts through the haze of adrenaline and Ian blinks, smearing blood over his face as he mops at it with his sleeve. Kenyatta begins to sit up but freezes as metal touches his throat.

“Don’t fuckin’ move, asshole.”

Iggy warns, the tip of his saw pressing against flesh just enough to leave an indentation as Ian stands shakily.

Mandy shakes her head in disbelief and then slaps Ian’s face with the flat of her hand

“You promised me, Ian! You fucking promised!”

“Hey! Don’t hit him!”

Mickey snaps at his sister, yanking her away from Ian. Mandy turns her fury on him in an instant, pitching forward and bashing her fists against Mickey’s chest, glaring at him through bruised and bloodshot eyes.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Me? What the fuck is wrong with you? Look at the state of your face! You let this piece of shit hit you again?”

Mickey glares right back and kicks Kenyatta dismissively

“Stop it!”

Mandy yells, her hair is matted and she looks half-starved and it is that rather than her words that give Mickey pause. He takes in the state of her clothes and the haunted look in her eyes and shakes his head before kicking Kenyatta in the ribs, harder this time.

“Mickey! Don’t …”

“You’re fuckin’ defending him now? Jesus, Mandy! Come home.”

“Home? HOME? To that house? You call that a home?”

“It’s different now.”

Mandy closes her eyes with an almost hysterical laugh, pressing the heels of her hands painfully against them. Kenyatta makes a noise from the floor and all five Southsider’s look down at him with disgust, silencing him instantly.

“Nothing is ever different, Mickey.”

Mandy’s voice is flat and she shakes her head, wrapping her arms around her middle and stepping back from them all. Mickey glances at Ian and twitches his lip uncertainly, he’s done the part he is good at and now he is out of his depth.

“You okay to deal with this?”

Ian murmurs, gesturing to Kenyatta, his hand briefly caressing the swell of Mickey’s shoulder.

“Yeah, we got it. Go.”

Ian follows Mandy as she makes her way into the kitchen. He has done this sort of thing many times with her brother but though neither of them would admit it, Mickey is actually easier to deal with than Mandy.

“It was my idea Mandy. Not Mickey’s. I got a voicemail from your fight last night and I had to do something.”

“Crash into my home? Assault my boyfriend?”

Mandy sits down at the table and lights a cigarette with shaking hands, before offering Ian the packet.

“It’s not a home, Mandy. You’re not safe here.”

Ian doesn’t dare touch her, but he sits close and when she doesn’t move away, he lays his hand beside hers on the scarred table top.

“I was never safe there either, Ian. You know that.”

Ian nods and swallows heavily. He does know that, they all let Mandy down. Every single one of them.

“It is different now though. We’re there, me and Mickey, and Svetlana and Yev too. It’s a little fucked up but it works. It’s a safe place Mands. We could look after you.”

Dark eyes flash dangerously as Mandy glares up at her friend

“I don’t need you assholes to look after me.”

“Then let us be there while you get what you need to look after yourself.”

Ian counters and Mandy presses her swollen lips together, trembling slightly but not ready to back down.

“You can’t stay here. Not really. Not with him. He’ll kill you.”

Ian presses on despite the look on her face. Like her brother, she responds better to frankness, almost harshness in a way, a gentle approach means nothing to Mandy, she needs to cold steel of a bat to swing, not the soft comfort of a pillow to clutch. He can see that his words are sinking in and being accepted as slowly the fire in her eyes dims to a shimmer.

“What are you gonna do with him?”

“Whatever you want us to. Please Mandy. Please come home.”

Mandy nods, licks her lips, and gently places her hand over Ian’s long fingers. He picks up her hand and cradles it in his own.

*

Mandy doesn’t have much to pack and whist Ian gathers sparse possessions from the bathroom, Mickey helps her stuff her clothes into a couple of bin liners.

“This all of it?”

“Yeah.”

Mandy nods, clutching the larger of the two bags to her chest.

“Alright, give it here.”

Mickey reaches for it, gesturing impatiently

“You don’t have to...”

“Let me carry the damn bag for you for fucks sake.”

He snatches it roughly out of his sister’s hand, begins walking to the door and then stops, dropping both bags at his feet and whirling to face her, irritation and guilt warring for control of his features.

“You should have fucking called me, Mandy.”

She isn’t prepared for the hug but as her big brother’s arms fold around her, she feels her body begin to slacken in quiet relief.

“You’re here now, Mick.”

“Yeah well … just as well too! You’re skinny as fuck.”

Mickey breathes into her hair, his fingers cupping the back of her head as gently as if she were made of brittle glass.

“You’re getting fat.”

Mandy shoots back and then tightens her grip around his middle, her fingers gripping the back of his shirt for dear life.

“Douche.”

Mickey sniffs wetly and squeezes her gently

“It’s gonna be alright, you hear me? You’re gonna be okay. We got you.”

It is probably the most comforting thing any of her family have ever said to her and if Mandy Milkovich was a crier, she would have wept all the tears her body could shed. But Mandy does not cry. She pulls back, sniffs and kisses Mickey’s cheek.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“And get you some food!”

Mickey nods in agreement and grabs her bags, leading the way downstairs.

*

Kenyatta is propped up against the wall and watches Mandy leave with flat eyes, but she doesn’t look at him. Not once.

Mickey crouches in front of the huge man and slaps his cheek lightly, almost tenderly

“My brothers are gonna stay a while, have a chat, straighten some things out with you, man. You better hope that they are the last Milkovichs you ever fuckin’ see because if not, if you try and come near Mandy again, we’re gonna have to kill you. You know that, right?”

Kenyatta nods and Mickey gives him a bright smile, beautiful and menacing in equal measure.

“Good.”

With that, Mickey dusts off his hands on his thighs, stands and walks away. Ian knows he should follow. Their work here is done, but can barely drag his eyes from the man at Joey’s feet. He knows he’ll be punished for Mandy’s treatment at his hand, Joey is more than capable but a part of Ian wishes he was the one to do it, to wreak a little havoc on the man who catapulted Mandy’s so brutally.

“Ian? Let’s go.”

Mickey calls from the porch steps. Ian tears his eyes away from Mandy’s now-ex boyfriend and begins to leave, pausing to grab his bat. The steel is cool and welcome in his heated palm and he twirls it absentmindedly, looking around the room.

He wanders over to the windows and peers out from between the dirty curtains. How many times did Mandy do this? Peer out at the world, scared either of what was coming or scared of what was already waiting upstairs. On the porch, Mickey catches sight of Ian’s movements and walks across to stand in front of him on the other side.

“What the fuck are you doing? Let’s go.”

Ian nods but doesn’t move. His fingertips press against the smeared panes and he slowly traces Mandy’s name into the grime. On the other side, Mickey cups his hands against the glass and peers past Ian into the house making sure they haven’t forgotten anything of Mandy’s or anything that Mandy might just want, hers or not.

Ian makes a decision and his lip lifts upwards in a small smile

“Take your fuckin’ hands off the glass, Mick.”

“Huh?”

“Move!”

Ian hefts the bat and Mickey reads his intention, leaping back just in time as one after the other, Ian puts the windows out. He smashes the bat through each of them with a malicious relish that he hasn’t felt in years and beams at Mickey through the gaping holes.

“You done now, Al Capone?”

“Yep.”

Ian nods, answering the arched eyebrows and amused smirk on his boyfriends face with a happy smile.

*

They leave Iggy and Joey to their business, Mickey drives and Ian sits in the back with Mandy, not wanting to leave her alone. His fingers untangle some of the knots in the tips of her long hair and she lets him do it, relaxing into the touch little by little.

“How’s Yevgeny?”

“Fat.”

“Mickey!”

Ian chides, laughing despite himself. Mickey half turns to glance back at his sister and shrugs

“It’s true. Little bastard eats, shits, and sleeps as much as Iggy.”

“He looks just like Mickey though. His eyes have gone the exact shade of blue and he’s getting a proper smirk.”

Ian smiles proudly at this and Mandy allows a small smile to lighten her own face.

“Poor kid!”

“Fuck you!”

Mickey gives an exemplary smirk around the filter of his cigarette as he pulls into a McDonalds drive thru. He orders too much food and pays with a few crumpled bills, smiling politely when the cashiers gaze lingers on his bruised and bloody knuckles.

The only free space is a disabled bay, which Mickey parks in without a second thought, heedless of the signs, and hands the brown bags into the back seat. Mandy eats with as much enthusiasm as her brother and Ian can’t help but laugh at them both, though he covers it as choking on a fry. Once she has eaten her fill, Mandy wipes her hands and face on a napkin and slumps back against Ian’s shoulder, sighing in drowsy contentment. Her breathing grows heavy as they leave the parking lot and Ian wraps a protective arm around her shoulder, keeping her close as she sleeps.

“She okay?”

Ian looks up and meets Mickey’s worried eyes in the rearview mirror.

“She will be. You did good, Mickey.”

Mickey’s cheeks turn a dusky pink at the praise and he snorts, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

“Didn’t do bad yourself, Gallagher.”

“We make a good team.”

Ian smiles and Mickey grins at him happily, blue eyes holding green firmly.

“Yeah we do.”

*

Months later …

*

Ian is making his way back to the Gallagher house, his hand is throbbing beneath the hastily wrapped up bandages and he is grateful for this because it lets him know that he is still alive. He can barely see, barely hear, everything is white noise and great swathes of colourless normality stretching out into the infinity of his gaze.

“Ian?”

He turns slowly and sees Mandy walking towards him, head bowed against the cold evening breeze.

“You okay?”

“Yeah I gotta …”

He trails off, lifting his injured hand in illustration of the point he can’t quite seem to make.

“Shit! That needs changing.”

“I can do it. Or Fiona. I don’t care.”

Ian sighs tiredly and Mandy links her arm through his, making the decision for both of them.

“I’ll do it. Come on.”

Inside the Gallagher house, Ian sits down whilst Mandy finds the first aid kit. Sammi hovers around them until Mandy asks for a cup of coffee, giving the needy blonde a simple task to complete somewhere else.

“Kinda matches my left hand now, huh?”

Ian says quietly, the joke feeble as he shows Mandy the older scar

“Oh yeah? How did you do that one?”

Mandy replies, rolling the clean fabric over Ian’s blistered palm. Ian draws a shuddering breath and then sighs

“Military. I hot-wired a helicopter, other stupid shit too and burnt myself. Then I ran away, went AWOL …”

“Did Ian say something? Does he want a coffee too?”

Sammi’s head pokes around the kitchen door and Mandy throws a weary look over her shoulder at the older woman.

“No Sammi, thanks.”

“Okay but I like to be included in conversation in my own house you know!”

Sammi sing-songs as she retreats back into the kitchen, bitchy but blessedly oblivious. Mandy shakes her head and presses a finger gently to Ian’s lips when he draws a breath to continue his confession.

“Not now, okay? Gotta be careful who you tell about this stuff.”

Mandy tucks the end of the bandage in and covers Ian’s hand gently with both of her own, cradling it.

“Thanks.”

Ian says looking Mandy in the eye for the first time.

“You’re welcome.”

She kisses his head lightly and stands up

“Let’s get out of here. No offence but your sister is weird and Mickey will be home soon.” Ian smiles slightly and nods, leaving Sammi behind and following Mandy home.

[crudechucky]

That ‘FUCK OFF’ look Mickey gives, when his In-Laws interrupt…..

[shamelessly4shameless-blog]

Nickovich 13

In which we have our first canon fixer toward an eventual different story at the boarder. In 7x10 Mickey seems to barely notice how the near miss with the cop cruiser effects Ian, how much is freaks him out in that moment. 

Hypothetical questions are pretty fucking high on the long list of things that piss Mickey off. They’re worse than normal questions because at least with normal questions, people are being nosy fuckers for a reason. Not a good reason, there is never a good reason for people not minding their own damn business, but A reason. Being hounded with hypotheticals is something Mickey cannot abide and he has made his feelings on it known in such a way, a loud, aggressive and threatening way, laced with swears and name calling, that neither his asshole boyfriend or bitch new friend are currently speaking to him.

Instead, they’re both making him slightly homicidal by speaking to each other and asking the kind of inane bullshit that makes Mickey’s chest hurt with the strain of not flipping out again.

“Yeah but it’s shell is it’s home, so it’s homeless.”

“But it’s what covers the turtles body so you could argue that it’s naked.”

“But then where does it live?”

“The ocean? Yeah! Okay, so it lives in the ocean but WEARS a shell so it would be naked.”

Mickey can see Nicky thinking about this and grips the steering wheel tightly, shaking his head a little. They’re both stoned and Mickey wishes he was too. He can see the cogs ticking over in Nicky’s brain and just knows she’s going to counter Ian’s bullshit with some other, more obscure bullshit and despite pressing his lips together and flaring his nostrils, Mickey knows he is going to snap like a fucking twig if …

“Riiiight. But what if …”

“THE TURTLE IS FUCKIN’ DEAD! YOU RIP OFF ITS FUCKIN’ SHELL THE FUCKER IS GONNA FUCKING DIE!”

Mickey clamps his mouth shut again and briefly closes his eyes, almost willing the car to veer off the road into a tree and put an end to his suffering.

“How do you know?”

Ian says quietly and Mickey can hear Nicky sniggering to herself in the back seat.

“Because, dumb ass, the shell is like its fuckin’ spine or some shit.”

“Huh.”

Ian shrugs and gives Mickey a small placid smile, not reacting to his tone in the slightest. He rolls his head innocently across the headrest until he is practically leaning on Mickey’s tense shoulder and smiles beatifically up at his cranky lover.

“Mick?”

“What?”

Mickey’s eyes flick away from the road, down to Ian who blinks up at him and asks

“Would you rather …”

“Fuck. Off.”

Mickey grits as Nicky snorts and leans forward to punch Ian’s shoulder lightly

“Quit it junior! You’re gonna make Daddy turn the car around.”

“I wish I could turn the fuckin’ car around. Kick your stupid asses out and leave you on the side of the road.”

Mickey grumbles to himself, glancing down as Ian ghosts his palm over his crotch and settles his fingers beneath the hot weight of Mickey’s balls.

“Shit. Not even a semi? You really are pissed.”

He laughs and then dodges back across to his side of the car as Mickey takes one hand off the wheel and mimes backhanding him but there is a small smile lurking in the crease of Mickey’s eyes as he does it. Ian’s touch is normally enough to bring him out of even the worst moods, although he would never admit it to the cocky redheaded bastard.

They’ve been driving a few hours and the further out of the city they get, the more relaxed Ian seems to become – or sort of relaxed. Mickey isn’t sure whether it is actual relaxation or more like a sort of delirium but he doesn’t have the time or the inclination to worry about that. It might be selfish but Ian is here and that is what really matters, that is all that matters to Mickey.

“One of you swap with me. Sick of driving and listening to you act like idiots.”

“I’ll take a turn.”

Ian smiles and Mickey pulls over to the side of the road.

“Anyone gotta pee?”

“Jesus! You really have gone all pack leader! If I had to pee, I’d have told you that … oh. Wait. Yep. I do have to pee.”

Nicky laughs and staggers out of the back seat, wandering over to stand next to Mickey who is facing away from the car, one hand on his zipper as he aims into the scrub.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Uh … I know you hate hypotheticals so I’m just gonna assume that you’re not keen on rhetorical either and this one was an accident. What does it look like I’m doing?”

Nicky grins, popping open the button of her jeans.

“It looks like you’re about to pee on the side of the road?”

“Well there you go! You figured it out! Hey good for you, Abe. Really. I’m proud.”

“Hey! You can’t … Jesus! Don’t just get your ass out on the freeway. Go behind a fuckin’ shrub.”

“You’re getting your dick out! What? Is my ass somehow more frowned upon than your penis?”

Mickey pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales strongly. He’s never thought of life as a cosmic joke, a cosmic fuck-up sure, but not a joke. He probably would have gone his whole life without doing so but here he is, on the run from the law, desperate for a piss and arguing the toss about it with the world’s most annoying human poodle and Mickey is torn between a toddler style melt down and hysterical laughter.

“I’m gonna kill someone.”

He says, a quiet calm descending as the menacing revelation hits him.

“Is it Ian? That turtle thing was damn annoying. Of course the answer would be ‘homeless’…”

Nicky notices the gleaming side-eye she is being given and tiptoes to kiss Mickey on the cheek.

“Okay, I’m going. Please don’t drive off without me. I am very adverse to walking.”

“Go.”

Mickey snaps firmly and waves her away, yanking his zipper down with far more force than is strictly necessary.

Walking round to the passenger door, after he has finished, he ducks his head to light a smoke at the exact moment a vehicle rushes past from the other direction. Mickey glances after it, eyes widening at the familiar sight of a cop cruiser disappearing into the distance.

“Ha!”

His bad mood all but evaporates as he swings into their car, motioning to the mirror with his cigarette

“Fuck! Did you see …”

The smile freezes on his face as he looks at Ian, who is staring out into the middle distance, his face unusually pale, jaw clenched.

“Ian? Hey,”

Mickey reaches across and cups Ian’s chin in his hand, waggling it slightly until Ian blinks and looks round at him, a shudder running through his body.

“You okay?”

Mickey asks and Ian lets out a shallow breath, shaking his head to clear the white noise filling it.

“That was too close, Mickey.”

“What? That fuckin’ cruiser? Man, that guy was probably thinking about how to improve his morning jack off, he ain’t thinking about me… unless he uses my mug shot to get himself goin’.”

Mickey tries a joke but Ian is not ready, not even close to ready to laugh about it.

“C’mon Ian. It’s fine. We’re fine!”

Ian shakes his head, closing his eyes and pulling his chin out of Mickey’s grip as Nicky clambers into the back seat, a quip about interrupting a moment dying on her lips as she realises that she really is interrupting a moment and it looks like a damn tense one.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah.”

Mickey shoots over his shoulder, carding a hand through his hair and gesturing at the road with an impatient flick of his hand, ash from his smoke skittering across the dashboard.

“Let’s go.”

Ian nods mutely and starts the engine, then shakes himself and rubs his hands frantically over his eyes. His tension is making Mickey tense too and he slaps a hand down on the ashy dash impatiently.

“Ian! Come on! Drive the fuckin’ car!”

“I can’t. Shit. I’m sorry, my head is spinning, Mick …”

“It’s fine, I’ll drive.”

Nicky offers, she’s stoned but the atmosphere shift has sobered her enough to take the wheel. She and Ian swap places quickly while Mickey broods in the passenger seat and after adjusting the seat for her shorter legs, Nicky accelerates down the road.

*

Nicky glances in the rear view mirror to check Ian is asleep and then turns to Mickey who has been sitting in a moody silence for nearly an hour.

“What was that?”

“What?”

“With you and Pumpkin Spice?”

Mickey snorts at the nickname but keeps his eyes resolutely on the passing scenery, thumbing anxiously at the corner of his mouth.

“Cruiser rolled by. Freaked him out.”

“Oh shit! Did they notice you?”

Nicky takes her own eyes off the road to turn and look at Mickey properly

“Yeah, no, they stopped, had a little chit-chat, we took a selfie to show the boys in the precinct … Course they didn’t fuckin notice me. You think we’d be driving at this leisurely fuckin’ pace if they noticed me?”

Mickey shakes his head disbelievingly as Nicky grins, rolling her eyes in mild exasperation.

“So what’s the problem?”

“The fuck should I know? One minute he’s talking shit about turtles, the next he’s subverbal cause a car drove past us.”

“Cop car.”

Nicky defends gently and Mickey shrugs, not giving a shit and scrunching his nose dismissively to make sure she knows it.

“Whatever.”

Nicky stretches her back, shifting uncomfortably in her seat and groans as her back pops loudly.

“Listen, I love you like a shitty little brother who I kind of want to hug but also frequently want to physically assault …”

“Fuckin’ weirdo…”

“And Pumpkin clearly loves you too or he wouldn’t be here. So you gotta think about how he must feel at the thought of you being caught and hauled back to jail. Probably fucking terrifies him, man.”

Mickey tongues his cheek and shrugs, squinting deliberately into the sun. He knows it’s probably some mind trick or something but with every mile further south they get, Mickey swears the sun feels hotter on his face. He briefly thinks about where they can pick up some sunblock for Ian but casts the thought aside as temporarily unimportant.

“Hey – it doesn’t mean he’s not down for this, alright? Just that you need to be a bit more reassuring, bit gentle, yeah?”

“What is it with you always tellin’ me to be gentle?”

Mickey scowls around at her, grabbing Ian’s bottle of gator aid from the drink holder and taking a swig. Nicky reaches for her own, accidently nudging Ian’s booted foot as she fumbles for it in the back.

“It would not hurt you to mellow out a fraction. You’re always yelling and bitching at everyone.”

“The fuck? I don’t yell and bitch!”

“Yeah you do, and it’s pretty cute most of the time but learn when to turn it down and control yourself. Don’t yell at your boyfriend for worrying about you.”

Mickey draws a heavy breath through his nose, nostrils flaring as he purses his lips irritably. He doesn’t doubt that there is some truth to what Nicky has said. Not so much about his attitude because fuck that! He is who he is and Ian knows that well enough. Mickey doesn’t doubt that he has the capacity to change, he’s made enough changes to himself over the last few years to know that he can, but actually he’s comfortable with himself now. Gay, tough, free, and Ian’s. Those are the things he knows he is and they are enough.

Still Mickey remembers how he felt when Ian was being taken away, the gut clenching fear of losing him, of not being able to do anything to help … maybe Ian felt a little bit of that fear when then cops rolled past and if so then … well then Mickey can understand that.

“I didn’t mean to yell at him.”

“About the turtles or the driving?”

“The driving. Both of you needed your asses kicked for the damn turtle bullshit.”

Mickey smirks and then sobers again, rasping his hands down the rough denim of his jeans, thinking. When he speaks, his voice is quieter

“Whatever happens I’m not going back to jail. I had eight years for an attempted something - they catch me now after an actual escape? What do I get twenty? Thirty? I don’t fucking know but I’m not going back.”

“Well then, we better start being more careful where you pee. Get you like a mask to wear or something.”

Nicky pats his leg in quiet support and nods. Neither of them needs to spell out what he is saying and neither of them want to dwell on it.

“Would you rather wear a pee mask or a shit cape?”

Ian says quietly and both his favourite fugitives jump, not realising he was awake.

“Like a cape you have to wear to take a dump?”

Nicky grins into the rear view mirror as Ian leans forward, yawning and wrapping one arm around the back of Mickey’s chair to settle across his broad chest.

“Yeah, or a mask you have to put on every time you pee.”

Mickey rolls his eyes and huffs but answers all the same, his hand coming up to stroke the pad of his thumb across Ian’s knuckles

“Shit cape. Lotta bathrooms are fuckin’ freezing.”

Ian gives him a little squeeze and leans in to kiss the shell of his ear gently as Nicky picks up the thread and starts extolling the virtues of a pee mask. Somehow with Ian’s finger thrumming his nipple, Mickey finds the hypothetical questions a bit easier to bear.