After checking Batty Sheila's, a homeless shelter, the shantytown under the L, and a few bars Frank frequented, Mickey was coming up empty-handed. He knew he had to get back to Ian soon, not because Mickey didn't trust him, but he didn't want his brothers (or worse, his father) to show up and find that he'd left their captive alone.
He shoved his hands deep inside his coat pockets and huddled against the unrelenting wind. He crossed the busy street, narrowly avoiding getting hit by a car (and flipping the driver off, even though he knew it was his fault). He started back toward the abandoned warehouse where they were holding Ian.
Mickey had another stop to make on the way back. He'd been hoping he wouldn't have to go to the Gallagher house looking for Frank. He didn't know how well he'd hold up with all the annoying questions that would undoubtedly follow after having a Milkovich show up at their door.
He didn't know what the fuck else to do. 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.
For the first time in a long time, he felt helpless and uneasy. He hated it.
Mickey glanced up and stopped dead in his tracks when he caught sight of a body on a nearby bench. He walked to get a closer look and laughed bitterly at the irony of it all. Ian had been right all along; Frank was passed-out drunk on a bench, a bottle of whiskey cradled against his chest. The grimy asshole cared more about Jim Beam than his own damn kid.
"You gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me," he muttered as he lifted his leg and kicked the heel of his muddy boot into Frank's ribs. "Get the fuck up, you piece of shit!"
Frank bolted upright, grunting and groaning before swearing when his precious alcohol bottle crashed to the ground and shattered. "Look what you made me do, you hooligan!" he exclaimed, looking up at Mickey with hooded and bloodshot eyes. "What's your problem? I don't have anything you want! Get outta here!"
Mickey gripped Frank up by his coat's wool collar and pressed their faces together. He almost gagged from the stench coming from the other man; he smelled like liquor, body odor, and piss. "I don't want anything from you, asshole," he said through gritted teeth. "What I need you to do is get your drunken ass together and go save your fuckin' kid!"
Frank's face crumpled in confusion for only a moment before he bent down to search the ground. "Where'd my whiskey go?"
"Did you hear a word I just said?" Mickey bellowed, tugging Frank's face back up to his. "Ian is in trouble! My dad wants his ten grand by tomorrow, or something bad is gonna happen to him. Do you not fuckin' get that?"
"Ian?" Frank grumbled, looking befuddled.
"Yeah, Ian," Mickey snapped, quickly losing his patience. Not that he had any, to begin with. "Your son. Remember him?"
"No." Frank shook his head and frowned. "No, he's not my son. He's Clayton's son, not mine. Get the money from him."
"You gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me," Mickey muttered in disbelief.
"Get your hands off me!" Frank spat, shaking out of Mickey's grasp. "Leave me alone, you goddamn hoodlum." He slumped 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," he hissed. He spat on Frank, expecting a reaction, but the older man only grumbled and drifted back to sleep.
He ran a hand over his face before glancing up and down the busy street. He ignored a disdainful look from a passing stranger, who probably thought Mickey had been shamelessly harassing an innocent homeless man. If only they knew the ugly truth. Mickey swore under his breath before turning to head back to Ian, not knowing what else to do.
When Mickey got back, it relieved him to find that Ian was right where he'd left him. He knew then, without a doubt, that he could trust Ian; he had passed the test. He walked behind 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, his voice weak.
"Yeah, I found him," Mickey grumbled before moving to stand in front of Ian. He ran a thumb over his bottom lip and said, "You were right. I found the scumbag passed out on a fuckin' bench, drunk off his ass."
Ian nodded and sat there, looking as if he had already long since given up. "So, what now? We sit here and wait for your dad to kill me?"
Mickey pulled the vacant chair over and sat in front of him. He studied Ian's face, suddenly shocked by how different he looked from a few short days ago. "Was he always like that?"
"You mean a piece of shit? Yeah," Ian said, rubbing at his eye. "He doesn't give a shit about anyone but himself. Never has, never will. We all accepted that a long time ago."
Mickey contemplated his next move for only a fraction of a second before reaching out and squeezing Ian's shoulder.
Ian lifted his intense green eyes to meet Mickey's. They stared at each other, neither saying anything for a few moments.
After removing his hand from Ian's shoulder, Mickey was the first to look away. He stood and began pacing. "We have to do something. Frank ain't gettin' the money." He walked a few steps before stopping, his thumb still working on his lip. "What about your sister? Can she get the money?"
"No," Ian said, adamantly shaking his head. "No fuckin' way. I'm not bringin' my sister into this. Even if I did, there's no way she'd be able to come up with that much cash."
"If we don't get the money, my dad will kill you, and then he could go after one of them," Mickey said before silently chastising himself for even putting that morbid idea in Ian's head.
Ian's face immediately fell. "You think he'd go after them?"
"Fuck if I know," Mickey said, sounding exhausted as he wiped a hand over his face. "Maybe you should call and tell 'em what's goin' on. Tell 'em to go somewhere safe and keep a low profile while I figure somethin' out and come up with a plan." He pulled the phone from his pocket and tossed it at Ian.
Ian clumsily caught the phone against his chest and dialed home as Mickey continued to pace. He sighed with emotion when Lip answered after the second ring. "Lip."
"Ian?" Lip asked. "Where the fuck are you?"
"Listen to me. I'm in trouble, alright?" Ian blurted, his eyes brimming with tears. "Frank owes someone a shitload of money, and they kidnapped me for ransom. Frank has until tomorrow mornin' to pay up, or I'm dead."
"Kidnapped? What the fuck? Where are you?" Lip exclaimed. "Who kidnapped you?"
"Just listen to me, Lip!" Ian bellowed. "You gotta take Fiona and the kids and go somewhere safe! Don't go to the cops. We're gonna try to handle this ourselves."
"We? Who the fuck's we?" Lip demanded. "Fuck, Ian, tell me where you are! You're not makin' any goddamn sense right now!"
"Fuckin' listen to me!" Ian yelled, not in the mood for the third degree. "Go somewhere safe! Christ, even V and Kev's, anywhere but the house. Lock yourselves inside and lie low for a few days: no school, no work, nothing. Make sure you have protection: a gun or something. Don't talk to the cops; you'll only make things worse. Do you hear me? No fuckin' cops!"
"Fuck, Ian!" Lip exclaimed. "What the hell did you get yourself into?"
"Fuckin' promise me!"
"Alright!" Lip relented, sounding as scared as Ian felt. "I promise!"
"Look, 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?"
"Yeah, I trust him. He'll listen," Ian assured him. "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 'em. I gotta handle this shit myself. I'll think of something."
Ian watched as Mickey continued pacing the floor, and he swallowed hard before asking, "You sure you wanna do this?"
"I'm sure I ain't about to put a bullet in your head," Mickey exclaimed. He then stopped pacing and faced Ian. "We need to get outta here," he said, rubbing his lower lip. "I have some cash on me. It ain't much, but it'll have to do. We need to get outta 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 entire thing from fuckin' snowballing."
"You wanna go against your dad and leave town?" Ian asked as he stood. "Say we leave and by some small chance come up with the money… what if he doesn't accept that? Then what?"
"I don't fuckin' know!" Mickey exclaimed, his expression wild. "I guess that's a hurdle we'll have to jump when we get there, ain't it?" He was about to brush past Ian, but Ian stopped him by grabbing his hand. Mickey glanced down at their entwined hands before slowly lifting his eyes to meet Ian's.
Ian stared into Mickey's eyes and licked his dry, bruised lips. "Thank you," he said, his voice steady and sincere.
Mickey swallowed the thick lump in his throat before pulling his hand free. "Don't thank me yet," he said. "This shit's far from over."