Mickey was having a rough night. Rough week, more like it. Month? He didn't know if it could even be considered that if his whole life seemed fucking rough. His job was shitty, but it was a job, the rent seemed like it was always due, and the club he worked at was full of sleazy assholes almost all the time (he wasn't even allowed to turn them away for being douchebags, which would've made it better).
He was almost always immensely grateful when his shift ended and he could climb into his car. All he wanted to do was go home and crawl into bed. Just as he was thinking about how he couldn't wait to get home, he paused, one hand still halfway turning the steering wheel.
"Come on, baby, I'll take you home, I promise."
Mickey's head whipped around to find the source of the voice, and he almost gagged when he found it. An older man (if he had to guess, he'd say 50, but he was shit at guessing) had a redheaded twink pressed up against the wall of the club.
The kid was as limp and loose as a ragdoll, and his head lolled to one side, only halfway conscious. Mickey briefly recognized him as someone who worked in the club, but he couldn't for the life of him remember his name, or even if he stripped or bartended. From his long limbs, shiny hair, and pretty, boyish features, Mickey pegged him as stripper.
He turned his attention back to the exchange, just long enough to see the older man groping the redhead, purring something nasty in his ear.
His finger traced down the twink's jawline, the other hand cupping the bulge in his pants, and Mickey had seen enough. Maybe it was because of his shit day, and the fact that he was a little more on edge than usual, or maybe it was that he needed some good karma, but he groaned to himself, and took the key out of his car, stomping over to the side of the club.
"Off." He gestured to the man's hands. The older man pulled the redhead closer to him,
"Excuse me? Ian's coming home with me, aren't you, sweetheart?"
The redhead (Ian) furrowed his brow, and lolled his head the other direction.
"I g'tta go home," he slurred, slid back against the wall.
"I'll get you home," the man purred, and Mickey physically stopped himself from gagging.
No way was he going to let that man put Ian in his stupidly expensive car.
He shot a glance to Ian, who looked mildly confused, yet somehow sweet. He was sure this wasn't an unusual thing. Ian had that thing that men liked, that sweet, boyish, pretty look. His face was welcoming, his eyes were shiny, and he was tall, lean in most places and muscular in others. If they'd met in any other situation, Mickey might've been the one to take him home.
"Fuck no, you won't. Get off 'em," Mickey stepped up to the man, who had a few inches on him, but not enough for Mickey to back down.
The man seemed to take this as a challenge, and stepped closer to Ian, so Mickey shifted his wait to one foot, stepped back and punched him directly in the nose.
Unsurprisingly, he didn't put up a fight. The man stumbled backwards, his hands letting go of Ian and flying up to cover his nose, which was dripping satisfying drops of blood on the concrete. Ian slumped back against the wall, his expression mildly surprised.
"Don't fuckin' touch him," Mickey grumbled, and the man glared at the both of them.
"Take him," he replied, "Just a cheap whore, anyways. Can't wash that off. See you on Friday, Ian."
With that, he was gone, and Mickey made the sickening mental note that this guy was a regular of Ian's.
"Ian, hey. You want a ride home?" He asked, and Ian nodded his head, gave a sloppy, lopsided grin that went straight to Mickey's heart. Fan-fucking-tastic.
"Yeah. I g'tta go home," the redhead repeated, nodding. His smile was sweet, and it met his eyes, and Mickey never wanted to wipe that look off his face.
"Alright, Ian, c'mon." When he stepped towards his car, Ian at least seemed to get the hint, and stumbled after him.
"You know where you live?" Mickey asked, and slung Ian's arm around his neck, walking him to his rundown car. It was shabbier than the other man's, but at least he was actually going to take him home. Fuck knows what could've happened to Ian in his current state. He should've give a shit, but he did.
"S'in m'phone," Ian replied, and Mickey made his second sickening mental note, that Ian got this fucked up on the regular.
He nodded, and opened the door for Ian, who slid into the front seat, his lanky limbs filling up the small car effectively. Getting into the drivers side, Mickey started the car back up, looking over at Ian.
"You gonna buckle up?" He asked, and Ian's stupid smile returned as he grasped at the seatbelt. After several unsuccessful tries, Mickey leant across the console, and grabbed the belt for him. His heart stopped momentarily as his face was inches from Ian's stupid, drunken, adorable grin. How someone could turn into an angel just by smiling, he didn't know. With a shaky exhale, he buckled Ian in, sitting back up in his seat.
"Wha's your name?" Ian tilted his head to the left, loose and lanky again, and Mickey rolled his eyes.
"Mickey," he told him, "Give me your phone so I can get you home." Ian passed it over, and Mickey opened it- the fuck kinda person didn't keep a lock on their phone?- quickly finding the note labeled 'ADDRESS'. Clever. It was reasonably close, he noted, and he kept Ian's phone open just in case he forgot the complex number.
Glancing over at Ian again, the redhead's eyes were closed, and his head was leant back against the seat. Mickey felt like a fucking idiot for wanting to put his mouth all over that pale skin.
"Yo, if you're gonna puke, tell me, and I'll pull over," he told him instead, and Ian peeked one eye open. He smiled at Mickey, and Mickey internally cursed him.
"Okay," Ian replied, "M'good now, though."
Mickey nodded, and pulled out of the shithole parking lot. He watched Ian more than the road as he drove. It might've been unsafe, but Ian had a face that was hard to pull his eyes from.
Ian's complex wasn't far away, so they were there pretty quick. He didn't know if he was happy or sad to see him go. Part of him was just glad Ian got home safe, but the other part of him wanted to spend just a couple minutes longer in the car with Ian next to him.
"You're home," Mickey said, pulling up outside of the complex. "You know which one it is, right?"
"Wha's it say on m'phone?" Ian asked, and Mickey shook his head in disbelief.
"4C," he told him, and Ian nodded.
"Okay," he replied, unbuckling his own seatbelt, and opening the door.
He didn't get out just yet, leaning over the console, and placing a sloppy kiss on Mickey's cheek. Mickey froze, cheeks flushing rapidly.
"Thanks for th'ride," Ian said, pulling a key from the pocket of his sweatpants. He slid out of Mickey's car.
"You're welcome, don't worry about it," Mickey mumbled, and watched Ian walk to the front door, making sure he got in the complex okay.
He was so fucked.