After their earlier argument, Mickey had resumed his place at the window for almost two hours, chain-smoking cigarettes and not bothering to pay Ian any attention as he stewed in his annoyance.

Knowing it was wise to keep his mouth shut and give Mickey space, Ian had drifted in and out of restless sleep before declaring he was hungry when his rumbling stomach became too much to ignore.

Mickey had replied with a grunt and, unable to deny his own hunger, retrieved two slightly soggy sandwiches from the cooler. Since the sun had gone down, and they were almost entirely in the dark, he grabbed the flashlights and stood them up around them, providing them with enough light to see their food. They sat cross-legged and facing each other with their bologna and mustard sandwiches in front of them, each unsure what to say to the other.

Ian ate his sandwich in silence, stealing wary glances at Mickey every so often.

After about a dozen not-so-subtle looks, Mickey snapped, "What the fuck are you lookin' at?"

"Nothing."

"Yeah, well, do you mind not chewin' like a goddamn cow?" Mickey asked as he obnoxiously chewed his own sandwich.

Ian swallowed hard, earning an annoyed look from Mickey for the sound. "Sorry."

After a minute, Mickey asked, "Has anyone ever told you that you're irritating as shit?"

"You could always let me go," Ian offered with an arched brow. "You wouldn't have to deal with me anymore."

"Fat fuckin' chance, gingerbread."

Ian took another bite of his sandwich and chewed it before asking, "Hey, did you ever hear about that guy who had the whole left side of his body cut off at the meat-packing plant?"

Mickey glanced up at Ian with an unimpressed look, his brows arched. "No."

"Yeah, uh, they say he's alright now," Ian said before a slow grin spread across his face. "Huh? Get it? All right."

Despite his better judgment, Mickey laughed and shook his head. "You're fuckin' lame. You know that?"

"I'm only tryin' to lighten the mood," Ian said with a shrug.

Mickey kept shaking his head as he looked down, his smile lingering. When he glanced back up, he watched as Ian chewed his food, his eyes downcast.

For the first time, he considered letting Ian go. The more he got to know him, the more he knew Ian didn't deserve any of it. He thought about telling his dad that Ian had escaped during the night, but Mickey knew that wasn't an option, not if his father had anything to say about it; Terry would never let it go. Things would only end up worse for Ian and the Gallaghers. Shit would be catastrophic for him.

"Yeah, well, now's not the time for fuckin' jokes," Mickey snapped, intent on keeping his stern demeanor intact and not letting Ian see his softer side. He'd already let his guard down enough around Ian to where the kid felt like making jokes. Mickey could only imagine what his dickhead father would have to say about that.

"Guess not," Ian murmured, all joking aside as he finished his last bite of the sandwich before standing and dusting his hands off.

"The fuck're you going?"

"To take a piss," Ian retorted. "Is that alright with you?"

"Yeah, whatever." Mickey finished his sandwich and relaxed against the wall as Ian did his business in the corner. He clamped his mouth shut, refusing to allow Ian to see his teeth chattering.

Ian finished pissing and walked over to sit next to him. He pulled the blanket around himself and glanced at a shivering Mickey. "Do you want some of this blanket?" he asked, his cheeks rosy, and his breath came out in puffs. "There's enough for both of us."

"Nah, I'm good," Mickey said, though he visibly trembled. The last thing he would do was share a blanket with the guy. It was bad enough that Ian was making lame-ass jokes, using his phone, smoking his cigarettes, and eating his food. Cuddling under a blanket together was where Mickey drew the line.

"You sure?" Ian pressed. "It's fuckin' cold out. You could catch pneumonia."

"Don't worry about me," Mickey snapped. "Worry about yourself."

Ian sighed. "Your lips are turnin' blue, Mickey."

"Fuck off."

"Will you stop bein' so damn stupid and take the goddamn blanket?" Ian said before moving half of the blanket onto him. "Don't worry. I won't tell anyone."

Mickey glared at him, wanting to argue but also needing to get warm. It was 17 degrees outside, and he didn't feel like getting sick; he had enough shit to deal with. As he snuggled under the blanket with Ian, he warned, "If anyone ever finds out about this, I'll bury you alive. You got that, Strawberry Shortcake?"

"Where do you come up with these nicknames?"

"Fuck you, they're brilliant," Mickey defended before his lip twitched upwards again.

"Uh-huh."

Mickey and Ian huddled together under the blanket. With their bodies close and their breaths mingling, neither cared at the moment how bizarre it all was. With the temperature below freezing, there was no room for feeling weird about sharing body heat.

"Hey," Ian whispered after some silence. "You awake?"

Mickey sighed heavily into the darkness. "I am now! What the fuck do you want?"

"I can't sleep."

"The hell do you want me to do about it?" Mickey asked. "Read you a bedtime story?"

"Now that you mention it, it wouldn't hurt."

"Alright," Mickey snapped. "Once upon a time, there was a stupid redhead who wouldn't keep his mouth shut. Big, bad thugman busted a cap in his ass. The end."

"Really?" Ian asked in amusement with a quirked eyebrow. "Big, huh?"

"Fuck off."

Ian's laughter drifted off. "Thanks for the story. It was riveting."

"You're welcome, asshole," Mickey grumbled into the blanket.

Ian laughed again before turning serious. "So, how do you think this whole thing will play out if Frank doesn't get the money?"

Mickey quickly swallowed down the lump in his throat. He waited a bit before answering, "I dunno, man. I never know what to expect from my dad."

"So, I should be worried, right?" Ian asked. "If Frank doesn't get the money the day after tomorrow, I'm done for?"

"I can't fuckin' answer that," Mickey snapped, wishing Ian would stop talking and making the situation harder than it had to be.

"It sucks, you know," Ian continued in a small voice. "I think I'm gettin' outta this shithole town, and it could all end over this, over something Frank caused. Like he hasn't messed up my life enough as it is."

Mickey closed his eyes and tried to even his breathing. "Your dad will get the money; shut the fuck up already." His ears perked up a minute later when he heard sniffling from beside him. He glanced at Ian to find that he was crying. "Are you seriously cryin' right now?"

"No," Ian mumbled even as he sniffled again.

"Fuck," Mickey muttered. "Look, nothin' will happen to you, alright? You have my fuckin' word."

"But what if he doesn't get his-"

"I said you have my word," Mickey said.

Ian sniffed again and nodded.

"So fuckin' dramatic," Mickey muttered, resting his head back. He felt Ian's knee press against his, and he froze, not knowing how to react. He wanted to shove Ian away and throw up all his defenses. But he also couldn't deny that it felt kind of nice.

Against his better judgment, Mickey knew he'd meant what he said: he wouldn't let anything happen to Ian Gallagher. If his own life was fucked, and he had nowhere else to go, he would at least do everything he could to make sure the kid could get out of the fucked-up town and even more fucked-up life. He would figure out a way to deal with his father if or when it came down to it.

The following day, Mickey woke up with a stiff neck and a full bladder. He looked around with bleary eyes before glancing down, finding Ian's head resting against his shoulder. He stared down at Ian, catching a whiff of his shampoo in the process. He eyed the faint dusting of freckles across Ian's nose and cheeks before gently shaking him off.

"Wake the fuck up," he grumbled as he rubbed his eyes and ignored his racing heart. "Did anyone ever teach your ass about personal space?"

Ian lifted his head with a grunt and glanced around. He rubbed at his bleary eyes and sat forward, letting the blanket fall away from him. "Shit, it feels like I haven't slept at all," he mumbled before yawning widely.

Mickey focused his eyes on the back of Ian's neck, noticing the freckles there, too. He quickly glanced away. He stood up and walked to the bucket to relieve his bladder and to put some much-needed space between himself and Ian.

"Any calls from your brothers?" Ian asked when Mickey finished zipping back up.

Mickey checked his phone to find that he had no missed calls or texts. "No, fuck!"

Ian's shoulders slumped before he stood up. "I didn't think so. Frank only has until tomorrow to come up with the money," he continued redundantly. "He's prob'ly passed out on a bench somewhere, three sheets to the wind."

"You don't know that."

"Trust me. I know Frank."

"You never know, the douchebag might love you," Mickey said. "Maybe he'll surprise you."

"Like your dad loves you?" Ian asked before he could think it through.

"Fuck you."

"Why do you defend him?" Ian asked, his brows furrowed. "Do you see what he's makin' you do, Mickey?"

"You ever think maybe I wanna do this shit?" Mickey retorted while lighting a cigarette. "That it's my fuckin' choice?"

"I don't believe you," Ian said, shaking his head. "This can't be all you want for your life."

Mickey stared at Ian incredulously before laughing around his cigarette. "You're kiddin' me right now?" On Ian's unamused look, he continued, "Don't sit there and act like you give a shit about me or my life."

"I… I see you, Mickey," Ian said before taking a hesitant step forward. "I see that there's more to you than this," he exclaimed, sweeping his arms around to motion around them.

Mickey sneered. "Why, because we spent one day together? Because I shared a blanket and some cigarettes with you? I'd be just as quick to pistol-whip you. Don't forget that."

Ian took another step towards him. "Mickey-"

"Whoa, hey," Mickey said, holding an arm out to keep Ian at bay. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Ian dropped his arms to his sides and sighed. "I just… I feel like I know you. I dunno what it is, but I… I get you."

Mickey laughed, but he found nothing funny about the situation. He flicked the barely smoked cigarette to the ground and crushed it with his boot before saying bitterly, "You get me, huh?"

Ian nodded minutely and visibly swallowed.

"You don't fuckin' know me," Mickey said, suddenly angry. "You think you know me? Well, guess what, Gallagher? I'm nothing. I'm shit. This is all I'm ever gonna be. I accepted that a long time ago, so I don't need some shithead like you comin' around spewin' all this bullshit, thinkin' you know shit about me or my life because of a few meaningless conversations. You don't know shit."

"I hear you when you talk," Ian continued after a pause, undeterred by Mickey's anger. "I see the way you look at me-"

"The fuck?" Mickey spat. "You callin' me gay?"

Ian sighed and ran a hand over his hair before saying, "I didn't mean it like that. I only meant that I know you don't enjoy doin' any of this. I know you wanna let me go, but you feel like you can't. And… and I know that, deep down, you do care about what people think. You don't want-"

Before Mickey could think about what he was doing, he punched Ian hard in the jaw with a right hook, sending him falling on his ass. He leaned over Ian and pointed a finger in his face. "Shut the fuck up, you hear me?" he admonished. "You don't know what the fuck you're talkin' about."

Ian stared back in stunned silence as Mickey walked away from him and back to the window. He swallowed the thick lump in his throat before glancing towards the exit with glistening eyes. Without thinking twice about it, he struggled to his feet and made a dash for it.

"Whoa, hey!" Mickey called out before chasing after him.

Ian hurriedly made his way down the steps, nearly tripping as he did so but catching himself in time. He felt high on adrenaline as he ran and made it outside into an open field. He ran as fast as his legs could take him, but somehow, strong arms wrapped around him from behind, and he crashed to the ground with a painful grunt, the wind knocked completely out of him.

"Get off me!" he cried out as he tried to wrestle the sturdy boy off him. All his ROTC training and hard work were failing Ian when he needed it the most. His body was too weak from lack of calories and sleep, and before he knew it, Mickey was straddling him and pinning his hands to the ground.

"Why the fuck did you do that?" Mickey bellowed in Ian's face. "Why did you run?"

"Get off me!" Ian yelled again, his lungs painfully gasping for air, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and his cheeks rosy and freezing from the cold.

"You're a fuckin' dead man, Gallagher!" Mickey yelled breathlessly as he stared down at him, his face red with anger. Involuntarily, his eyes dropped to Ian's lips. "You're dead," he said again, that time with much less conviction as his hold on Ian's bruised wrists loosened.

Ian stopped struggling and looked up at Mickey in wide-eyed confusion when he felt something hard pressing against his abdomen.

Mickey stared down at him for a few seconds longer before releasing Ian's wrists and standing up. He pulled the gun from the waistband of his pants and aimed it at Ian. "Get up."

Ian lay there slack-jawed and panting, still in shock from it all.

"Get the fuck up now!" Mickey exclaimed. Once Ian struggled to his knees, he grabbed Ian roughly by the collar of his jacket and tugged him up the rest of the way before pushing him back towards the abandoned building. "Don't try runnin' again, or I will shoot you! You hear me?"

Ian did as Mickey demanded and begrudgingly made his way back up to his prison.

"Get in the fuckin' chair," Mickey ordered while motioning towards the chair with the gun.

Ian reluctantly sat down in the chair and glaringly stared up at Mickey.

Keeping the gun pressed against Ian's back, Mickey tied him up the best he could while using one hand. "You ruined it for yourself," he said breathlessly. "No more mister fuckin' nice guy."

Ian's jaw flexed as he watched him walk away once Mickey had restrained him. "Why don't we talk about how your dick got hard when you were straddlin' me?" he said. He was through with playing nice, too.

Mickey spun around to confront him, his face flushed with anger and embarrassment. "The fuck you just say to me?" he asked before advancing on an unperturbed Ian.

"Go ahead, tough guy! Hit me. You know you want to," Ian urged. "Or do you wanna fuck me? Is that it? You wanna fuck me, Mickey? Or maybe you want me to fuck you? I bet that's it. You want my dick in your ass, don't you?"

Mickey backhanded Ian hard across the face. "Fuck you," he said, his voice shaking with emotion.

Ian spat out the blood pooled under his lower lip and looked up at Mickey indignantly. "You wanna hit me again, huh? Do you wanna fag-bash? Would that make you feel like a man?"

"I'm warnin' you, asshole."

"Are you mad because I see who you are?" Ian goaded. "What you are?"

Mickey aimed the gun at Ian's forehead with an unsteady hand. "Shut the fuck up, or I swear to god I'll put a bullet in your head!"

"Go ahead!" Ian shouted. "Do it!" He was crying by then, harder than he had in a long time.

Mickey stared at him for a few tense moments before lowering the gun. He tried to wrap his mind around the events of the past five minutes, wondering how everything had escalated so quickly.

"I'm gonna die, anyway, so fuckin' do it!" Ian yelled as hot tears rolled down his cheeks.

"Shut the fuck up," Mickey hissed.

"Do it!"

"Shut up!" Mickey spat, not allowing his mind to catch up to what he was doing. He bent forward and cupped Ian's face in his hands, pressing his forehead against his. "Shut the fuck up," he said again, their ragged breath mingling.

Ian continued to cry with his eyes squeezed shut.

"Shut up," Mickey whispered, their foreheads still touching and his hands holding Ian's face.

Just then, the sound of car doors opening and slamming shut brought them both crashing back to reality.

Mickey straightened up and wiped angrily at his cheeks, trying to get himself in check before his brothers walked in.

He didn't know what the fuck was going on. He didn't understand why it happened the way it did, but he'd felt a strange urge to be close to the other boy, to comfort him, to tell Ian that maybe he did see Mickey for who and what he was. Perhaps Ian recognized that part of him he'd always tried to keep buried and hidden deep down.

How Ian Gallagher had figured him out in less than two days freaked Mickey the fuck out, and he didn't like it at all.

Colin and Iggy stepped through the threshold and surveyed the scene before them.

"Nice," Colin said as he eyed Ian's bruised neck, busted lip, and welted cheek. "Keepin' the homo in line, I see. I underestimated you, Mick. Maybe you're not as big of a pussy as I thought."

Mickey ran a shaky hand over his mouth. His brows then shot up as he asked, "Is there any news yet? Did Gallagher get back to you or what?"

"Nothin' yet," Iggy said with a shrug. "He has 'til tomorrow morning," he paused and jerked his head towards Ian, "or we gotta off the kid."

Mickey glanced back at Ian, seeing that he appeared weak, small, and helpless. He then looked back at his brothers. "Look, we gotta talk to dad. Gallagher's only a kid. There has to be some other way we can go about this, some other way we can get the money."

"Are you stupid?" Iggy retorted. "Pops has his mind made up on this one. Frank's been puttin' shit off for way too long. It's time to pay up or deal with the consequences. You know how that shit goes."

Mickey shuffled a bit and ran a thumb over his bottom lip. "I'm gonna go talk to him. Ig, do you mind watchin' after him while I go?"

"I'll stay," Colin offered while cracking his knuckles.

"No fuckin' way," Mickey said, his brows shooting up. "The kid will be dead by the time I get back."

"Nah, not dead," Colin clarified with a sniff. "Just a bit broken."

"No," Mickey snapped. "Iggy, you stay and don't touch him, alright? He's had enough."

"Yo, Mick." Iggy warily eyed his brother. "Why the hell do you care so much?"

"I don't," Mickey spat. "I just don't want some kid's murder on my hands, and neither do you." He then motioned toward Colin. "Let's go." He glanced back at Ian, his chest growing heavy despite himself, before following his oaf of a goddamn brother out the door.

Mickey walked into the Alibi Room, already knowing that's where he'd find his good old Pops in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday.

"What's up, Mickey! Where you been?" Kevin Ball asked from behind the bar, already pouring Mickey's favorite draft beer.

"I ain't staying," Mickey said before heading towards his father, where he sat at his usual booth in the back by the pool table, surrounded by his lowlife, alcoholic, scummy friends. "Hey, uh, Pops, can I talk to you for a second? It's important."

"Not now," Terry complained without bothering to look up from his cards. "Can't you see I'm fuckin' busy here?"

"It's about Gallagher," Mickey said, relieved when his father stood and indicated with a jerk of his head to follow him towards the back by the payphones.

"You hear from Frank?" Terry asked while puffing on his cigar.

"Look, Pops," Mickey started, mentally scrambling to figure out a way to plead his case. He was never one to question something his dad ordered; he knew better than that. Still, he had to try. "The Gallagher kid. I think he's had enough."

"Enough? Fuck off," Terry spat. "I'll decide when he's had enough."

Mickey swallowed hard before continuing, "Turns out, Frank ain't his real dad. He doesn't give two shits about the kid, so I think we're goin' about it the wrong way. I think we should let him go and figure something else out."

"Let him go?" Terry asked before letting out a harsh laugh. "You gotta be fuckin' joking, right?"

"He's a dumb kid," Mickey countered. "Why don't we go after Frank? Kidnap his ass and torture him a bit. We can use the blowtorch. Maybe cut off some of his fingers? Uncle Joe works at the foundry. We can get him to let us in and-"

"Goin' after Frank is all well and good, but it doesn't get me my money," Terry interjected. "I want my goddamn money."

"Pops…"

"Are you questioning me, kid?" Terry snarled. "You're gonna do as I say, and you're gonna do it right. The Gallagher kid is dead tomorrow morning if I don't have my money, and you're gonna do it. You! End of story." He patted Mickey hard on the cheek to emphasize his point.

Mickey stood inert as his father walked away, ending the conversation. He heaved a deep sigh and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He didn't know what the fuck to do.

Ian opened his eyes, realizing he must have passed out from exhaustion because Mickey was no longer there. Instead, Mickey's scruffy blond brother was sitting in the opposite chair, creepily watching him sleep at gunpoint.

"Sup, freckles?"

Ian twisted his aching neck and licked his split lip. "Where's Mickey?" he asked, his voice coming out hoarse and broken. He needed a drink in the worst way, but he didn't think the gun-toting goon would comply, so he saved his breath.

"For some reason, he's off tryna save your stupid ass. He went to talk to our Pops, though it ain't gonna do much good," Iggy said as he lazily twirled the gun around his finger. "If my Pops wants you dead, you're dead."

"You could always kill me now and get it over with," Ian said, trying to appear tough and unaffected even though he felt broken inside. "Why wait?"

"Can't," Iggy answered with a smirk as he leaned forward to place his elbows on his knees. "Have to wait for my Pops' order. 'Sides, he'll prob'ly want Mick to do it."

Ian closed his eyes and hung his head.

"So, why does my asshole brother give a shit whether you live or die, anyway?"

"How the hell should I know?" Ian asked, done playing nice. He figured if he was going to die, he might as well speak his mind before he went.

Iggy smirked at him and stood up. He walked to the window and looked outside when they heard a car pulling up. "Mick's back." He turned and eyed Ian smugly. "Judgin' by the look on his face, it don't look so good for you."

Ian said nothing; he was too weak to argue or care.

A few moments later, Mickey entered the room, his eyes immediately landing on Ian. It relieved him to see that Ian was how he'd left him. He looked at Iggy and said, "Colin's waiting in the car. He said to hurry your stupid ass up."

Iggy turned to Ian and saluted him with his gun in hand before leaving.

After ensuring they were alone, Mickey walked over to Ian and stopped a foot away. He rubbed the corner of his mouth with his thumb and asked after a few beats, "You good?"

"If you wanna know if he beat the shit outta me, the answer's no," Ian grumbled, refusing to look up.

Mickey started pacing the floor. "I talked to my dad. He's not fuckin' budging. I'm thinkin' about goin' out and lookin' for Frank myself."

"Don't bother," Ian murmured. "You'll only be wastin' your time. It's a lost cause."

Mickey stopped pacing. "Fuck that. It ain't a lost cause. We have to do something. I'm gonna find Frank, and he's gonna get you that money."

Ian let out a mirthless laugh and lifted his head. After a brief staredown, he asked, "Now who's livin' in fantasyland?"

Mickey chewed on his lip. "I'm gonna get you outta this," he said without thinking. "You hear me?"

"Why do you care so much?" Ian asked, his brows furrowed. "You didn't even know me two days ago. Yesterday, you were chokin' the shit outta me. Two hours ago, you were aimin' a gun at my head."

"Because you were right," Mickey admitted. "One of us deserves to get outta this shithole in one piece. It's never gonna be me, but it could be you. As annoying as shit as you are, you deserve to live and get out. I don't want your death on my hands."

Ian sniffed and looked down at his lap, closing his eyes.

"Look," Mickey began tentatively. He rubbed a hand down his face before going for it. "I shouldn't have put my hands on you earlier. I had no right touchin' you like that. It won't happen again."

Ian nodded weakly, still looking down.

Mickey watched him for a few moments before saying, "I'm gonna trust you here, Gallagher."

Ian lifted his head to give him a blank stare.

"I'm gonna trust you. I don't do that with a lot of people," Mickey added. "I'm gonna leave you here, tied up and alone, and trust that you won't try to escape. If you escape, my dad will kill me. He'll kill me, and then he'll kill you." When Ian didn't answer, he continued, "I'm gonna go find Frank."

Ian nodded weakly and dropped his head back down. He closed his eyes and unsteadily exhaled when he felt Mickey's hand land on the crown of his head, lightly squeezing. It was the simplest of gestures, but it still felt oddly comforting.

"I'll be back," Mickey assured him before leaving.

Ian sat in that chair, not moving or thinking, only waiting and allowing himself to hope, even just a little against his better judgment, that maybe Frank would act like a father and pull through for him once.