After checking Batty Sheila's, the shantytown under the L, and random bars to no fucking avail, Mickey was coming up empty-handed. He knew he had to get back to Ian soon; not because he didn't trust the kid, but because he didn't want his brothers (or worse, his father) to show up and find that he had left the goddamned ginger alone.
He shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets and huddled against the cold, unrelenting wind. He crossed the street, narrowly avoiding getting hit by a car (making sure to flip the driver off, even though he fully knew it was his own fault), and started back toward the abandoned warehouse where Ian was being kept.
He had one more stop to make, and he had been really fucking hoping he wouldn't have to go to the Gallagher house looking for Frank. He didn't know how well he'd be able to hold up with all the annoying fucking questions that would undoubtedly follow after having a Milkovich show up at their door.
He didn't know what the fuck to do. For the first time in a really long time, he felt completely helpless and uneasy, and he hated that feeling. He knew his dad meant it; if Frank didn't comply by morning, Ian Gallagher was a dead man…and Mickey would have to be the one to pull the trigger.
He looked up and stopped dead in his tracks when he caught sight of a lump on a nearby bench. He walked to get a closer look and laughed bitterly at the irony of it all. Ian had been fucking right all along. Fucking Frank was passed out drunk on a fucking bench, a bottle of scotch cradled protectively against his chest.
"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," Mickey muttered as he lifted a leg and kicked the heel of his muddy boot sharply into Frank's side. "Get the fuck up, you piece o' shit!"
Frank bolted upright, grunting and groaning and then swearing when his precious liquor crashed to the ground, shattering. "Look what you made me do!" he exclaimed, looking up at Mickey with hooded, bloodshot eyes. "What's your problem? I don't have anything you want! Get outta here!"
Mickey gripped Frank up by the wool collar of his coat and pressed their faces together. He almost gagged from the stench coming from the other man. He smelled like booze, body odor, and piss. "I don't want anything from you, asshole," he said through clenched teeth. "What I need you to do is get your drunken ass together and go save your fucking kid!"
Frank's face crumpled in confusion for only a moment before he bent down, searching the ground. "Where'd my scotch go?"
"Did you fucking hear a word I just said?" Mickey yelled, tugging Frank's face back to his. "Ian is in trouble! My dad wants his money, or something bad is going to happen to him. Do you not fucking get that?"
"Ian?" Frank grumbled, clearly befuddled.
"Yeah, Ian," Mickey snapped, quickly losing his patience, not that he really had any to begin with. "Your fuckin' son, remember him?"
Frank shook his head and frowned. "No. No, he's not my son. He's Clayton's son, not mine."
"You've gotta be fucking kiddin' me," Mickey muttered in disbelief.
"Get your hands off me!" Frank snapped, shaking out of Mickey's grasp. "Leave me alone, you goddamn hoodlum." He rested back against the bench, already on the verge of passing out again.
Mickey stared down at the man, knowing that Frank was a lost cause. "Fuck you," Mickey hissed, and then he spat on Frank, spat square in his face, but the older man just groused and went back to sleep. Mickey ran a hand over his face and looked up and down the busy street, not knowing what else the fuck to do.
When Mickey got back to Ian, he was relieved to find that Ian was right where he had left him. Mickey knew then, without a doubt, that he could trust him. Ian had passed the test. He walked around Ian and untied his hands, his fingers working delicately on the rope and barely brushing over Ian's bruised wrists.
"Did you find Frank?" Ian asked weakly.
"Yeah. Yeah, I found him," Mickey grumbled. He then stood in front of Ian and ran a thumb over his own bottom lip. "You were right. The fucking scumbag was passed out on a fucking bench, drunk off his fucking ass."
Ian nodded knowingly and just sat there, looking as if he had already long since given up. "So, what now?"
Mickey pulled the vacant chair over and sat down in front of Ian, the chair backward. He studied Ian's face, suddenly shocked by how different he looked from just a few short days ago. "Was he always like that?"
"You mean a piece of shit? Yeah," Ian said, rubbing tiredly at his eye. "He doesn't give a shit about anyone but himself…never has, never will."
Mickey contemplated his next move for only a fraction of a second before reaching out and squeezing Ian's shoulder twice.
Ian lifted his intense green eyes to Mickey's, and they stared at each other, neither of them saying anything for a few long moments.
Mickey was the first to look away, and he pulled his hand away quickly. He stood up and began pacing. "We have to do something. Frank obviously isn't getting the money." He paced a few steps before stopping, his thumb still working on his lip. "What about your sister? Can she get the money?"
"No," Ian said, shaking his head adamantly. "No way. I'm not bringing my sister into this. Even if I did, there's no way she'd be able to come up with that kinda cash."
"If we don't get the money, my dad could kill you, and then he could go after one of them." Mickey then silently cursed himself for even putting that morbid idea in Ian's head.
Ian's face immediately fell. "Do you really think he'd go after them?"
"Fuck if I know," Mickey said, sounding exhausted as he swiped a hand over his face. "Maybe you should call them. Tell them what's going on and tell them to go somewhere safe. Tell them to keep a low profile while I figure something out and come up with a plan." He pulled his phone from his pocket and tossed it at Ian.
Ian clumsily caught the phone against his chest and dialed home as Mickey continued pacing. He sighed with emotion when Lip answered the phone. "Lip."
"Ian, where the fuck are you?"
"Lip, listen to me. I'm in trouble, okay?" Ian blurted, his eyes brimming with tears. Fuck, he missed his brother. "Frank, he owes someone a shitload of money, and they kidnapped me for ransom. Frank has until tomorrow morning to pay up or I'm done."
"Kidnapped? Ian, what the fuck! Where the fuck are you?" Lip exclaimed. "Who kidnapped you?"
"Just listen to me, Lip, alright!" Ian bellowed. "You have to take Fiona and the kids and go somewhere safe! Don't go to the cops. We're gonna try to handle this ourselves."
"Who the fuck's we?" Lip demanded. "Ian, shit, just tell me where you are. You're not making any fucking sense right now!"
"Just fucking listen to me, Lip!" Ian yelled, not in the mood for the third degree. "Go somewhere safe! Christ, even V and Kev's, anywhere but the house. Just lock yourselves inside and lay low for a few days, no school, no work, nothing. Make sure you have protection, a gun or something. Don't go to the cops, you'll just make things worse. Do you hear me? No fucking cops!"
"Fuck, Ian!" Lip exclaimed. "What the fuck did you get yourself into?"
"Fucking promise me!"
"Alright, alright!" Lip finally relented, sounding as scared as Ian felt. "I fucking promise!"
"I'll call you as soon as I know anything else. Don't worry about me," Ian said before hanging up the phone and handing it back to an apprehensive Mickey.
"You think he'll listen to you?"
Ian nodded. "Yeah, I trust him, he'll listen. He won't go to the cops. He won't risk it."
Mickey nodded. "Good, 'cause if they go to the cops, my dad will really have it out for them. I gotta handle this shit myself. I'll think of something."
Ian watched as Mickey continued pacing the floor. "You sure you really wanna do this?"
"I'm not fucking sure of anything right now, but I'm definitely fucking sure I'm not about to put a bullet in your head," Mickey exclaimed. He then stopped pacing and faced Ian. "We need to get out of here," he said, rubbing his lower lip. "I have some money on me. It's not much, but it'll have to do. We need to get out of town, go a few towns over, and find a motel or some shit, and we need to think. We need to get that money and stop this whole fucking thing from snowballing."
"You really wanna go against your dad and leave town?" Ian asked, standing up. "Say we leave and by some chance come up with the money, what if he doesn't accept that? Then what?"
"I don't fucking know!" Mickey exclaimed, his expression wild. "I guess that's a fucking hurdle we'll have to jump when we get there, isn't it?" He was about to brush past Ian, but he stopped when he felt a hand grab his. He looked down at their connected hands before lifting his eyes slowly to Ian's.
Ian stared into Mickey's eyes and licked at his dry, bruised lips. "Thank you," he said, his voice calm and steady, sincere.
Mickey swallowed the lump in his throat and finally pulled his hand away. "Don't thank me yet."