They don't fucking hold hands on the way home, or any of that sappy shit. They've both just gotten the shit beaten out of them, and honestly they're not even in the mood to talk much. They were riding adrenaline right after the cops drove away, but that lasted about five more seconds until they both felt like complete and utter shit.

Ian clutches his ribs and breathes like it hurts. Mickey reaches over to help him walk, but Ian waves him off, grumbling that he's fine. Neither of them is fucking fine, but shit, Mickey's in no mood to press the point. Still, the kid looks like he might pass out at any second. And not that Mickey's about to admit it, but Ian actually looks kinda hot, all roughed up and bloody like that.

The only light on at the Gallaghers' is the porch light. When they open the front door, Mickey sees a shitton of tiny blonde kids all over the living room. Out cold, every damn of of 'em.

"What gives?" he asks. He doesn't bother to be quiet. "You Gallaghers are like fucking rabbits."

"Not ours," whispers Ian.

Then Ian shuts the door with care so it doesn't slam. Then he puts a hand on Mickey's arm and leads him upstairs. The stairs make Mickey suddenly feel kind of dizzy, so he grabs the banister with one hand and Ian's shoulder with the other. Ian looks down at him from a few steps higher and smiles encouragingly, almost with a little pride. Mickey breaks the eye contact and just pushes Ian forward.

Ian leads him into the bathroom. They both squirm out of their coats, which is difficult for both of them, but especially Ian. The kid's got some busted ribs, and the way he moves his left shoulder makes Mickey think something's wrong with it. Mickey steps behind Ian and grabs the back of his coat, helping him out of it.

"Thanks," Ian says, with a wince.

"No problem," Mickey says.

He tosses Ian's coat into the corner, on top of his own. He's surprised when Ian starts trying to peel his shirt off, too. He's got a bruise forming, big and ugly on his left side.

"Shit, Gallagher," Mickey says.

He lifts Ian's shirt over his head, since the kid clearly can't do it for himself. Even with Mickey's help, when they've got his shirt off Ian doubles over with an arm pressed against his midsection like a safety bar. Mickey grabs him by the shoulder and stoops to look him in the eye.

"You okay?" he asks seriously.

Ian won't look at him. He nods, but his posture and his expression have already ratted him out. Mickey helps Ian stand up straight. He keeps his hands on Ian's shoulders.

"You need some ice? Bandages or something?"

Ian shakes his head. "Just, a shower, I think."

"You got the energy?"

Ian shoves off Mickey's hands, smirking. "What kind of wuss do you think I am, man?"

Mickey can't help but laugh at the kid's moxy. Ian turns around and starts the shower, and then he kicks off his shoes. Pants and boxers go next, both layers mottled with blood. Mickey's not sure what of it is Ian's, what of it is someone else's.

"You coming in or do I gotta do this all on my own?" Ian calls.

If there's one thing Mickey's never needed, it's an invitation to see Gallagher naked. He shucks off his own clothes and joins Ian in the shower. He gets in front and turns the dial up a little more, and the hot water feels like a fucking godsend. Mickey notices it pooling, mixed red and brown, at the bottom of the tub.

"You look like hell," Ian says in his ear.

Mickey turns around and gets a good look at Ian. He's got blood and dirt caked on his face and in his hair, and he's still got a lot of it on his body. It's running in little lines down his body, tracing along his pecs, his stomach, hipbones, legs. It pools around his feet, since the drain's shit.

Mickey runs his fingers over a bruise on Ian's collarbone. He says, "How long do you think it'll take for me to cover that up with one of my own?"

"Please, you can't leave a hickey for shit," Ian says.

"Is that a fuckin' challenge, Gallagher?"

"It would be if you didn't have a busted lip."

Mickey puts a hand to his mouth. It kinda stings, but it'll heal up quicker than anything else his dad gave him tonight.

"For what it's worth," says Ian, "You do look kinda sexy right now."

Mickey flips him the bird and turns to grab the soap. It's the generic store brand. Mickey flips the lid off and takes a whiff. It just smells sterile. Which is actually kind of nice, because right now they smell anything but.

Mickey helps Ian wash himself, since he can't twist around too much without any pain. Ian helps get the blood out of Mickey's hair – not because Mickey needs help, but because Ian is just big on affectionate shit like that. He starts to rub Mickey's shoulder, but Mickey turns around and smacks him low on his abs.

"You finished, Helen Keller?"

A simple, "Nope."

Ian pulls Mickey against him and kisses at his neck. He bites hard a few times, and the amount of tongue he uses borders on messy. It feels fuckin' great though, and Mickey lets him have at it. Ian gets a little handsier, and he gives Mickey's ass a good squeeze, right over the scar from where he got shot.

Mickey jumps. He puts a hand on Ian's chest to create some distance. "You really think either of us is in any shape to be fucking right now?"

"I'm fine," Ian insists.

"Yeah, no," says Mickey. "I'm not getting all hot and bothered just so you can realize halfway through slamming it in that you can barely move."

Ian's still got his arms around Mickey, and then he does that pouting face that looks like the dog that the Milkoviches used to have. Terry'd kick the poor thing around sometimes, and then one day it finally got itself run over.

Mickey stand on his tiptoes, holding tight onto Ian's arms so he doesn't slip, and kisses him. Soft at first, enough to say he's there and he cares. Then he's got an arm around Ian's neck and Ian's tongue is in his mouth, but then Mickey pulls away, swearing under his breath.

"Mick?"

"Fine, yeah. Shit."

He clutches a hand at the edge of his jaw and moves it around a little, testing it out. It pops out in a way it probably shouldn't when Mickey opens his mouth too wide or moves his jaw to either side.

"I'll call Veronica in the morning," Ian says. "You okay to make it through the night?"

"Yeah, fine," Mickey says again.

They're both disappointed by the distinct lack of boning, but they're both tired of dead tries at this point. They get out of the shower and towel off, and Ian tosses Mickey an old t-shirt he can borrow for the night.

Mickey heads for the bedroom that Ian shares with Liam and Carl, but Ian grabs him by the hand and pulls him in the other direction.

"Fiona's room is empty," Ian whispers, careful not to wake his siblings.

Mickey doesn't protest, because a wave of exhaustion crashed on him as soon as he got out of the hot shower. Fiona's bed is bigger, and Mickey is glad he's not sleeping on the floor again tonight. Not that Ian forced him into that – Mickey didn't want to give Ian's siblings any ammo to make fun of them. Not much point now, he figures.

They've curled up in bed like this together before, and they barely have to fidget to get the positions right this time. Ian's got an arm across Mickey's side, his hand held in Mickey's smaller one.

They're both quiet, and Mickey assumes that Ian's as tired as he is. For once. That kid's been firing on all pistons lately, and shit if it hasn't got Mickey equals parts annoyed and concerned.

Then, really quietly, Ian whispers, "I'm proud of you."

They hear the L-train go by, and someone shouts out for a guy named Leo a few streets away. Mickey doesn't reply.

"I'm sorry I pushed you into it," Ian adds.

"Yeah, well," Mickey finally says, fidgeting a little, "Bound to happen eventually. Just glad there were plenty of witnesses around this time."

This time. As if either of them needed the reminder of last time. Ian presses his face into Mickey's neck, and Mickey grips his hand tighter.

"We'll deal with our shit in the morning, 'kay?" he finally says.

He feels Ian nod against his back. He reaches his free hand around to pat Ian comfortingly, and he winds up patting his bony hip.

It's a tossing and turning kind of night, and Mickey wakes up with the night sweats more than once. At some point he pulls off his t-shirt and tosses it across the room, and he pulls the sheets down a little because it is fucking boiling in here. Ian's not much help, being all warm and pressed up against him like a goddamn magnet. He's pretty sweet-looking when he sleeps, though, and Mickey likes him when he's sweet. Hard to resist all those freckles and that little mouth.

Mickey wakes up a few more times, and he's glad when the last one is when it's finally light out. Ian's not up though, so he just settles into his pillow and tries to get comfortable. He doesn't try to fall asleep. Instead, he keeps remembering last night, out of order and then the whole way through and then backwards and all over again.

He's still surprised at his own balls for humping a cop car and shouting about how Ian gives it to him. Go hard or go home, he figures. Milkoviches never do things by halves, especially not the youngest son.

The bedsprings creak then, and Ian moves against Mickey's back. Mickey twists and pushes himself up on an arm to look at Ian.

"You up?" Ian asks.

"No, I'm sleep talking right now, dipshit," says Mickey.

Ian gives Mickey a shove. "Move, asshole. I need to pee."

They get out of bed, and Mickey runs to get in the bathroom before Ian. They shove each other across the hallway, and Mickey gets there first. He slams the door behind him and gladly claims first shot at the bathroom. He's used to fighting for it with his brothers and Mandy. Sometimes they'd ignore him and just come it to do whatever it was they needed to do anyway. Mickey can't count the number of times he's had someone brushing their teeth while he was taking a dump.

"Dick," Ian calls through the door.

A few minutes later, Mickey trudges down to the kitchen and hears the coffee pot bubbling. He grabs a t-shirt from the top of the dryer so he's not just walking around in boxers, although Ian probably wouldn't object.

"What happened to the brat pack?" Mickey asks, jerking his thumb toward the empty living room.

Ian shrugs. He pulls the coffee pot out and fills two mugs, and he passes one to Mickey.

Breakfast is just eggs, and they sit at the table and munch quietly. It's around ten o'clock, and they can hear the neighbors shouting and cars roaring by at what's probably at least fifteen above the speed limit. The house is empty, though. It feels weirdly domestic, like a glimpse into a possible future.

Ian rubs a hand against his forehead, and the way he scrunches up his face is actually kind of cute. His other hand, the one closer to Mickey, is just kind of sitting on the table. Mickey looks at it, and back at Ian, and back at his hand. It's a little thing, really, and they've held hands in bed plenty of times before.

He's been nutting up about every other damn thing in his life lately. He reaches over and puts his hand on Ian's like it's nothing, and he tries not to get flustered when he laces his fingers with Ian's. He can see Ian staring at him in his periphery, but he doesn't look up. He eats his eggs more intently than any normal person would, and eventually Ian stops staring at him and eats his own breakfast.

It kinda scares him that he immediately misses it when he lets go of Ian's hand to go put his plate in the sink.

"I got it, don't worry," Ian says, gesturing toward the sink.

"I wasn't," says Mickey. "Enough of you in the house, I figure someone's always taking care of shit."

"Asshole."

Smirking, Mickey pulls Ian away from the sink by the belt loops on his jeans. He starts to kiss him slow and hard, but just like last night he pulls away in pain. Feels like a damn bolt in either side of his jaw, and he's pretty sure his lip just split open again.

"Fuck," he mutters.

"Let me," Ian says.

He switches them around so that Mickey's pressed up against the counter, grabbing the edge of the counter to steady himself. Ian picks up where they left off in the shower. There's something to be said for a guy who's not afraid to use his tongue, which is a whole lot hotter than Mickey used to think (you're like a damn Labrador, Firecrotch).

And then Ian drops to his knees and tugs Mickey's boxers down, and Mickey's barely got time to gasp before Ian's got his dick in his mouth and jesus Christ, that kid is really, really good at it. Knows the right way to work his tongue. Doesn't need his hands, though, not when Mickey's as small in the crotch department as he is.

Mickey breathes in heavy, so heavy it almost makes his head spin. He doesn't moan during sex, or call out Ian's name, or any of that other shit that's nothing more than a one-way ticket to getting found out. It's just a mutter of, "Fuck, Gallagher!" when he comes, because Mickey's a goddamn pro.

Ian stands up, looking all proud of himself because he's a little shit like that. Mickey really wants to kiss that look off of his face but damn he can still feel some pain in his jaw, and he should really get some ice on that right fucking now.

"I'm gonna call Veronica," Ian says.

He kisses Mickey on the temple and then goes for the phone. Mickey pulls a frozen pack of peas out of the freezer and slaps it against his jaw. It's so cold it fucking hurts, but damn it feels nice, too. Mickey's always big on blurring the line between pleasure and pain.

"You might wanna put some pants on," Ian says, once he hangs up.

Mickey flicks him off with one hand and catches a pair of sweats that Ian tosses him with the other. He pulls them on and then grabs his peas again.

Veronica shows up a few minutes later. Ian opens the door for her, because she's got her medical bag over her shoulder and a baby girl in each arm. Mickey's seen the newborns around the Alibi, but that doesn't mean he remembers their names or anything.

Veronica puts her babies and her bag down on the couch. She points at the leftover space and says, "Shirts off, and sit down."

They do as she says. Veronica pulls some bandages and Neosporin out of her bag. She says, "Kev told me what happened."

"He did?" says Ian.

"Yeah. That took a lot of courage," she says, looking at Mickey. Her tone is soft, gentle, not anything that Mickey's used to.

He nods, suddenly feeling very on-the-spot and very uncomfortable. Just a brisk, "Thanks."

Then Veronica sits on the coffee table and takes his face in her hands to check him out. She grips a little too tightly, and Mickey pulls away.

"You gonna let me help you or not?" she demands.

"Just, easy on my fucking jaw," he says. "Damn."

Now mindful of his injury, Veronica examines Mickey's face and chest. She dabs on Neosporin where necessary, and she tells Mickey where would be a good idea to apply ice.

"You boys should've called me last night," she says, as she checks that all the bones in Mickey's hand are okay. "Ian, you know better than to let someone fall asleep if they might have a concussion."

"Sorry, V," Ian says.

Veronica steps back from Mickey and hands him his shirt. She was kind of quick with him, or at least more than she is with Ian now. Mickey doesn't complain. He's glad she's taking extra care with the kid. In a minute, Veronica makes Mickey get up so Ian can lie down while she checks his ribs.

When she's done, she says, "You're a bunch of lucky bastards, I'll tell you that much. Didn't come away nearly as bad as you could've."

"Yeah, I'm sure my dad was letting us off easy," says Mickey.

Veronica looks at him with pity, and Mickey suddenly feels like punching something. If there's one thing he doesn't fucking need – not ever – it's anyone's goddamn pity.

As she's leaving, Veronica turns around and says, "Oh, I should probably mention, maybe take it easy for a week or so, y'know?"

"No working out, got it," says Ian.

"Not what I meant, hon," Veronica says, scrunching up her nose. "I don't know what you boys get up to but I'm guessing it's not like the geriatrics at the home do it."

Mickey makes a face at the thought of some old fucks boning, but he still decides to hell with Veronica's advice. As soon as she's gone, Mickey pulls his shirt off and grabs the bottom of Ian's, too.

"Probably not a good idea," says Ian, but he lets Mickey pull his shirt off anyway.

"Come on, man," Mickey says, grinning. "House is empty. You can be as loud as you like."

He knows that's the trump card, because they don't ever get a good bit of privacy to just have a nice, long, loud fuck. They're either at Mickey's, where he's got a house full of whores, or here, where there are a million kids, or in some bathroom somewhere or a back alley, because maybe some stereotypes hold up. Mickey knows that Ian loves to be loud as fuck in the sack, and sure enough that takes the fight out of the kid.

They go upstairs, taking off what few layers they've got on as they go. They stop in front of Ian's bed, because they've realized that they've got a problem on their hands.

"Well shit," Ian says.

"Yeah, ditto," says Mickey, scratching at the back of his head.

Ian puts a hand against his ribs, clearly wondering whether he's got it in him to top. Mickey can see him thinking and thinking and overthinking, and he just settles the damn question by dropping to his knees.

"What about your – fuck!" says Ian, ending on a gasp.

Mickey figures out pretty quickly that if he keeps his jaw still and just works his tongue to hell and back, he can still get the job done. It helps that he has to use his hands, because that's at least one part of him in decent shape.

Ian's hands are in Mickey's hair, and he keeps fucking thrusting his hips forward and moaning like he's getting paid to do it. And Mickey loves every fucking second of it.

That's what Ian does – no subtlety, no hiding, no shame. Even when they were fucking in the freezer way back when, Ian didn't bother much to keep his voice down. And his moans are deep and long and slow, and they drag out of his throat like Mickey pulled them out with his teeth.

And shit, when Ian gets there, he seems to want to let the whole neighborhood know. Mickey stands up and flicks him on the cheek. Ian smacks his wrist away, and they almost start to wrestle until Mickey stops for Ian's sake.

They flop onto the bed and both lounge back against the wall. Mickey pulls a cigarette from the pack on the windowsill and lights it. He takes a drag and then hands it to Ian without having to be asked.

"I am sorry, for what it's worth," Ian says, smoke puffing in front of his mouth.

"That again?" Mickey says derisively.

It does actually mean something to him, because he feels like he's been pulled in every damn direction lately. He was never one for idealistic fantasies of what love and romance should be like, but God he just wanted one person who didn't expect more of him than what he could give.

"I should've let you do it on your own time," says Ian. "Your own terms."

"Doesn't matter now," Mickey says. He takes the cigarette back and sticks it in his mouth to spare himself having to say more.

"It does, though. I just don't really know what to do beyond an apology, I guess," says Ian.

"Me either. The Russian fuck doesn't have anything hanging over my head now, though, so that's something. And Dad's probably gonna get a few more years for breaking probation so quickly. So I figure this is all shit we can worry about a long way down the road."

Ian's looking at Mickey all weird again, and he's smiling like he knows a secret.

"The fuck you looking at, man?" Mickey says.

"Long way down the road?" repeats Ian. "That mean you're in it for the long haul?"

"Damn right. I didn't get the shit beat out of me for a fucking fling."

Ian throws an arm around Mickey's neck and pulls him close, ruffling his hair. From somewhere near Ian's stomach, Mickey tells him to fuck off and calls him an asshole. In a minute, he stubs out his cigarette and puts some pants on. He's still got shit to take care of. The world didn't stop turning just because he came out.