Mickey hurried to the bar down the block where Ian usually picked up his Johns. He scanned the nearly empty parking lot, seeing that there were only three cars left. He flicked his cigarette away, pulled open the door, and stepped inside. He scanned the dim, smoky bar area, not finding Ian anywhere, just a couple of lonely losers drowning their sorrows while watching the Bears' game. He walked up to the bar and impatiently waited for the bartender to spot him.
"Ay, some fucking service down here, please?" he yelled after only about ten seconds. Patience had never really been his thing.
The bartender finally sauntered towards him, a disapproving smirk on his face. "What can I get for you, pal?"
"I'm looking for someone," Mickey blurted, "he's sixteen, about this tall, freckles, red hair. You seen 'im?"
"A sixteen-year-old redhead? Not tonight, man, sorry," the bartender said with a smirk before walking away.
"Fuck," Mickey grumbled, panic rushing through him. He went to the men's room, checked the stalls just in case only to find them empty, and then left, intent on going back to the room, in case Ian had made his way back.
Deeper panic set in when Mickey suddenly realized that Ian could have very well made his way back to the motel room with a strange man, and Mickey wouldn't be there to protect him if something went wrong.
It didn't take him long at all to get back to the room, only to find that Ian still wasn't there. "Fuck!" Mickey yelled, punching a hole in the wall before fully realizing what he was doing. He cradled his aching hand against his chest, a half dozen possibilities rushing through his head and making him sick.
Maybe Ian had finally gotten sick of him and his bullshit and had gone home by himself, but how? Ian didn't have money on him. Then Mickey had the dreadful realization that Ian may have hitchhiked home. The thought of Ian being in some stranger's car made his stomach churn.
He began pacing again before stopping dead in his tracks. The worst scenario of all popped into his head, that maybe Ian had met another guy and was in trouble.
Without thinking any more about it, he left the room again, intent on checking every fucking bar within a five-mile radius.
After checking another bar to no avail, Mickey spotted a tavern sign in the distance and hightailed in that direction. He couldn't remember a time when he had been that worried about anyone in his life, and that was a thought that fucking terrified him. He hadn't realized he cared so much about the guy, especially in such a short amount of time. It completely blindsided him, but Mickey didn't have time to think about it.
He crossed the parking lot to the bar and stopped dead in his tracks when he spotted a lump lying at the far end of the parking lot, half-shrouded in shadows. He instantly recognized the dark blue and bright orange of Ian's coat. Dread settled in the pit of his stomach and he sprang into action, sprinting across the parking lot as fast as his legs could take him.
"No, shit!" Mickey sputtered in panic as he dropped down hard to his knees next to Ian. "No, no, Ian!" he yelled, lifting and cradling Ian's limp body against his chest. "Ian, fuck! Ian!" He stared down into Ian's face, a large gash spreading across Ian's forehead, his face and hair matted with dark crimson blood. Before Mickey could wrap his mind around what was happening, he felt hot tears spilling down his cheeks. "Ian, come on, man!" He looked around in a panic for help but didn't see anyone. "Fuck!"
Ian finally made a noise at the back of his throat and grimaced in pain without opening his eyes.
"Ian," Mickey muttered, overcome with overwhelming relief. He held Ian even tighter against him and impulsively pressed his lips into his matted red hair.
"Fuck happened?" Ian grumbled hoarsely, still grimacing in pain and reaching up to touch his forehead gingerly.
Mickey stared down at him, suddenly thinking that Ian's voice was the most beautiful fucking sound he'd ever heard in his life. He made a vow, right there and then, to never fucking complain about Ian talking ever again. "I don't fucking know," he answered thickly, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears as he continued staring down at Ian.
Ian finally opened his eyes into slits and stared up at Mickey. His face then crumpled. "Fuck," he whispered. "The guy. There was a guy…in a red Porsche."
Mickey's heart immediately tightened in his chest.
"He…he wanted to fuck in his car, but I wouldn't. I tried to leave, tried to get out. Next thing I know, everything went…went black," Ian said, struggling to sit up on his own.
"Fuck," Mickey blurted, his chest burning. "Fuck!" he said again, standing up. He paced a few times before stopping to look down at Ian. "I should have never let you do this! I should've never let you put yourself in this fucking situation. I knew it was fucking stupid the moment it came out of your mouth!"
"It's not up to you to protect me, Mickey."
"Yes, it is!" Mickey exclaimed, surprising the both of them. "Fuck," he murmured, running a hand over his mouth as he regarded Ian sadly. After a few heartbeats, he crouched down next to Ian. He reached out and cupped his cheek.
Ian closed his eyes and leaned gently into Mickey's touch.
"Are you hurt anywhere else?" Mickey asked, rubbing a hand over Ian's head to check for more gashes. "I need to get you to a fucking hospital to get you checked out, man."
"No, I can't," Ian argued, shaking his head vehemently. "I'm fine, it's just a cut. I'm alright."
"You need to get checked, Ian."
"No! They'll just ask a bunch of fucking questions. I'm sixteen! They're not just gonna let me walk in and out without asking questions. I'm fine," Ian snapped. "Help me up."
Mickey grabbed Ian's hands and pulled him up.
Ian stumbled a little and fell into Mickey. He sighed heavily when Mickey immediately wrapped his arms around Ian and dug his face into Ian's neck.
"I'm sorry. I should've fucking been there." Mickey pulled away after a while and gazed up into Ian's eyes. "I shoulda been there."
"I wanna go back to the room," Ian muttered, not wanting to read too much into Mickey's actions, he'd made that mistake one too many times before. "Please? Can we just go back?"
Mickey wrapped an arm around Ian's waist and held Ian's hand over his shoulder, steadying him, and nodded. "Yeah," he said gently. "Yeah, we can go."
Once they arrived back at their room, Ian immediately shrugged out of his coat and pulled his shirt over his head.
Mickey's eyes trailed over Ian's naked torso before forcing himself to look away, knowing that it was definitely not the time to check him out. When he looked back a few seconds later, he was surprised to find Ian standing there stock-still, his bottom lip slightly trembling. "What? The fuck's wrong?"
Ian didn't say anything, just stared down at his belt buckle that had been bent, his zipper broken, telltale signs that something unpleasant had happened in that car, something he couldn't even remember. Before he could stop them, hot tears spilled down his cheeks and he angrily swiped at them.
Mickey immediately strode over to Ian and pulled him into his arms with a hand to the back of Ian's head, anger rushing through him in waves. If he ever found the fucking piece of shit that did this…
"I can't…I can't remember what the fuck happened," Ian choked out. "I mean, that's probably a good thing, though, right?"
Mickey cradled the back of Ian's head in his hand. He didn't care if this was foreign to him, new territory. Hugging Ian right then felt like the most natural thing in the world to him, and he didn't want to let go. "Come on," he muttered after a few minutes. "Let's get you in the shower and get you cleaned up, see how bad it is."
Ian nodded weakly and pulled away, turning to head to the bathroom. He weakly finished undressing as Mickey turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature.
Mickey wanted to give Ian privacy, and he turned his back while Ian stepped out of his boxers. "Water should be good. I'll be out there if you need anything." He started to leave the bathroom, but Ian grabbed his wrist, stopping him. He turned around and locked eyes with Ian, his breath caught in his throat and his heart thundering.
Staring into Ian's wide, red-rimmed eyes, he couldn't help himself. He swallowed thickly and reached up to cup Ian's face in his hands and leaned in, pressing his lips softly to Ian's dried and bloodied lips. He kissed Ian slowly and softly, not caring about anything at the moment aside from kissing the irritating, stubborn, beautiful redhead in front of him.
When they pulled apart, they tapped foreheads, neither of them knowing quite what to think or say to each other.
"I'm gonna hop in before the water gets cold," Ian finally said, breaking the silence first.
Mickey nodded dumbly, not blaming Ian for wanting to change the subject. He was surprised, however, that for the first time he was the one that didn't want to change the subject. "Okay," he simply said. "I'm gonna run down to the store real quick and grab some things. You're gonna need some aspirin and definitely stitches."
Ian just nodded curtly as he stepped into the shower.
Mickey gave Ian one last look before leaving the bathroom and closing the door with him.
A half an hour later, Mickey entered the room to find Ian sitting at the table, dressed in a red t-shirt and sweatpants. His hair was damp and slicked back and, after cleaning the blood off, the gash on his head looked even worse than Mickey had initially thought.
"Christ, Ian," Mickey said, placing the bags on the table and shrugging out of his coat. He walked over to Ian and hooked a finger under his chin, tilting Ian's head back so he could inspect the wound further.
"Jesus, I'm fine," Ian assured him, swatting Mickey's hand away. "I grew up in the Gallagher house with five siblings. I've had worse cuts before, trust me."
"It doesn't look fine," Mickey said as he pulled the second chair out and sat down on it backwards in front of Ian. He pushed the sleeves of his sweater up and emptied the contents of the bag onto the table.
Ian watched him, liking the fact that Mickey was being so protective and caring, but not wanting to read too much into it. He then looked down and inspected what Mickey had purchased: rubbing alcohol, scissors, thread, and the biggest needle he'd ever seen in his life. His eyes widened. "What the fuck, Mickey."
"I gotta stitch you up," Mickey said, handing Ian three ibuprofen. "Here, take these. They'll help take the edge off later."
"You are not stitching me up," Ian said, even though he could feel the warm flow of blood still seeping out of the cut on his forehead.
"Trust me, I got this," Mickey insisted. "Growing up in the Milkovich house, you learned how to do shit like this yourself to avoid trips to the hospital. They ask too many fucking questions and charge you a shit ton of money for something you can do yourself at home."
Ian's eyes grew wide as he watched Mickey thread the too-big needle. "No fucking way are you coming at me with that thing."
"I gotta stitch you up, man."
"Not with that fucking thing, you're not!" Ian exclaimed, still eyeing the unusually thick needle.
Mickey looked at Ian, his eyebrows cocked. Eventually, his face broke into a grin. "Relax, Gallagher, I'm just fuckin' with you." He then pulled a tube of super glue out of the bag. "Super glue works just as good."
"Super glue?" Ian asked skeptically even as he relaxed a little.
"I got this," Mickey assured. "Just trust me, alright?"
"Yeah, you keep saying that."
Mickey's smile faded as he lifted his eyes to Ian's. "You probably don't trust me right about now, do you?"
Ian sighed and rubbed tiredly at his eye. "This wasn't your fault, Mickey. Tonight wasn't your fault. I was mad at you, and I went out before you could stop me. It's my fault."
Mickey suddenly leaned forward so that his face was mere inches from Ian's, and he began cleaning Ian's cut with the rubbing alcohol.
"Ah, fuck!" Ian exclaimed, jumping back. "Warn me next time, maybe?"
Mickey grinned as he continued carefully cleaning the cut. Without meaning to, his eyes dropped to Ian's, and he was taken aback by how intently Ian was watching him. He forced his eyes away and continued doing what he was doing, all the while his heart was hammering in his throat. "Almost done," he murmured to fill the tense silence.
Ian watched as Mickey grabbed the super glue and gingerly worked on closing the cut. He grimaced in pain but kept his cool for the most part. "You sure this is gonna work?"
"I'm fucking sure, stop asking so many questions," Mickey assured him, his voice throaty. Finally, satisfied with his work, he sat back. "There, that should do the trick."
"Thanks," Ian said, still trying to catch his breath. He hated that Mickey's close proximity had such an effect on him. He'd have to learn how to deal with that better. "What if I have a concussion?"
"Again, growing up as a Milkovich, we've had plenty of concussions, so I know what to look for," Mickey explained. "I'll keep an eye on you, don't worry."
Ian nodded and rubbed the back of his head. "Would you mind if I just lie down now? I'm exhausted."
Mickey just shook his head and followed Ian with his eyes as he stood up and went to the bed. He watched with a quickened pulse as Ian climbed under the covers and curled into a fetal position. He knew Ian was just trying to pretend he was okay, to pretend he was strong.
Ian's eyes flew open when he felt the bed dip and, before he could turn around and question it, Mickey was right there behind him, pressing against his back, wrapping a strong arm around his waist. "What're you do—"
"Just shut up," Mickey rasped against the back of Ian's neck, his lips just barely brushing against his skin. "We don't have to talk tonight."
Ian just nodded, not having the energy to argue, and closed his eyes, allowing himself to feel safe in Mickey's arms, even if it didn't mean quite as much to the other man.
Mickey snuggled closer and tightened his arm around Ian, his hand clutched in a fist against Ian's rapidly beating heart. It seemed like forever until he finally gained enough courage to grumble into the back of Ian's shirt. "You scared the shit outta me, asshole."
Ian's eyes opened and he sucked in a soft breath as he took in Mickey's words. He didn't say anything, didn't know what to say, so he just snuggled back a little closer and tightened Mickey's arm around him.
Mickey nuzzled his nose deeper into the fabric of Ian's shirt, inhaling Ian's scent and not wanting to pretend for the night. He would go back to pretending tomorrow. Right then, he just wanted to hold him.