Mickey hurried to the bar down the block where Ian usually lured their targets. He scanned the parking lot, seeing that there were only three cars parked. He knew the likelihood of Ian choosing to pick up a douchebag in a bar with hardly anyone there was slim, but he felt determined to check. He flicked his cigarette away, pulled open the heavy door, and stepped inside. He scanned the dim and smoky bar area, not seeing Ian anywhere, only a few losers drowning their sorrows while watching the Bears' game. He walked up to the bar and impatiently waited for the bartender to spot him.
"Hello, some fuckin' service down here, please?" he exclaimed after about ten seconds; patience had never really been his thing.
The bartender sauntered over to him, an unimpressed look on his face. "What can I get for you, pal?"
"I'm lookin' for someone," Mickey blurted. "He's sixteen, about this tall, freckles, red hair, kinda hard to miss. You see 'im?"
"A sixteen-year-old redhead in my bar? Not tonight, man, sorry," the bartender said with a smirk before walking away.
"Fuck," Mickey grumbled. He noticed one of the barflies glancing at him with a curious look, and he snapped, "Can I fuckin' help you?" After the man snickered and shook his head before going back to watching the game, Mickey made his way to the men's room and checked the stalls to find them empty before leaving, intent on heading back to the room, in case Ian had made his way back.
Intense panic set in when he suddenly realized that Ian could have made his way back to the motel room with a strange man, and he 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!" he yelled, punching a hole in the wall before 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 to his stomach.
Maybe Ian had finally gotten sick of his bullshit and had gone home by himself, but how? Ian didn't have money on him. 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 serious trouble. Without thinking any more about it, he left the room again, intent on scouring 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'd 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 he 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 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! Fuck!" he sputtered in panic as he dropped hard to his knees next to him. "No, Ian!" he yelled, lifting and cradling Ian's limp body against his chest. "Ian, fuck! Ian!" He stared down at Ian's face. A large gash spread across his forehead, and blood covered his face and hair. Before Mickey could wrap his mind around what was happening, he felt hot tears trickling down his cheeks. "Ian, come on, man!" He glanced around in a panic for help but didn't see anyone. "Somebody please fuckin' help me!"
Ian finally made a noise at the back of his throat and grimaced in pain without opening his eyes.
"Ian," Mickey uttered, overcome with overwhelming relief. He held Ian even tighter against him and impulsively pressed his lips into Ian's matted red hair.
"What happened?" Ian grumbled, still grimacing in pain and reaching up to touch his forehead gingerly.
Mickey stared down at him, suddenly thinking Ian's voice was the most beautiful fucking sound he'd ever heard in his life. He made a vow to never complain about him talking ever again. "I don't know," he answered thickly, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears as he continued staring down at him.
Ian opened his eyes into slits and stared up at him before his face crumpled in pain. "Shit, the guy," he muttered. "There was a guy in a red Porsche."
Mickey's heart immediately thundered in his chest. He glanced around, only seeing a beat-up Chevy Impala and a silver Ford pickup truck.
"He wanted to fuck in his car, but I wouldn't do it. 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 tightening. He stood after making sure Ian was steady. He paced a few times before stopping to look down at him. "I shoulda never let you do this! I shoulda never let you put yourself in this situation. I knew it was fuckin' stupid the moment it came outta your mouth!"
"It's not up to you to protect me, Mickey."
"Yes, it is!" Mickey exclaimed, surprising them both. "Fuck," he murmured, running a shaky hand over his mouth as he regarded Ian sadly. After a few beats, he crouched down next to him. He reached out and cupped Ian's cheek.
Ian closed his eyes and leaned gently into Mickey's touch.
"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 fuckin' hospital to get you checked out."
"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 ask a buncha questions. I'm sixteen!" Ian snapped. "They're not just gonna let me walk in and out without askin' questions. I'm fine. Help me up."
After some hesitation, Mickey grabbed his hands and pulled him up.
Ian stumbled a bit and fell into him. He sighed heavily when Mickey wrapped his arms around him and dug his face in his neck.
"I'm sorry, I shoulda fuckin' been there." Mickey pulled away after a beat and gazed up into his eyes. "I shoulda been there."
"I wanna go back to the room," Ian muttered, not wanting to read into Mickey's actions too much. He'd made that mistake too many times before. "Please, can we just go back?"
Mickey wrapped an arm around Ian's waist and held his hand over his shoulder, steadying him, and nodded. "Yeah," he said, his tone gentle. "Yeah, we can go back."
Once they arrived back at their room, Ian gingerly 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 it wasn't the time to check him out. When he glanced back a few seconds later, it surprised him to find Ian standing there stock-still, his bottom lip slightly trembling. "What? The fuck's wrong?"
Ian said nothing as he stared down at his undone belt buckle and broken zipper, 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 wiped at them.
Mickey immediately strode over to Ian and pulled him into his arms with a hand to the back of his head, anger rushing through him in waves. If he ever found the piece of shit that did this…
"I can't… I can't even remember what happened," Ian choked out. "I mean, that's prob'ly a good thing, right?"
Mickey cradled the back of Ian's head in his hand. He didn't care if it 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 beats. "Let's get you in the shower and get you cleaned up, see how bad it is."
Ian nodded 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 him privacy, so 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 moved 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 hammered in his chest.
Staring into Ian's 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 against Ian's dried and bloodied lips. He kissed him slowly, 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 what to think or say to each other.
"I'm gonna hop in before the water gets cold," Ian said, breaking the intense silence first.
Mickey nodded dumbly, not blaming Ian for wanting to change the subject. It surprised him, however, that for the first time he was the one who didn't want to change the subject. "Alright," he said. "I'm gonna run down to the store real quick and grab some things. You're gonna need something for the pain and definitely stitches."
Ian nodded curtly as he stepped into the shower.
Mickey gave him 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 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," he grumbled, placing the bags on the table and shrugging out of his coat. He walked over to him and hooked a finger under Ian's chin, tipping his head back so he could inspect the wound closely.
"Jesus, I'm fine," Ian assured him, swatting his hand away. "I grew up in the Gallagher house with five siblings. I've had worse cuts before, trust me."
"It don't look fine," Mickey said as he pulled the second chair out and sat down on it backward 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, enjoying the fact that Mickey was being so protective and caring but not wanting to read too much into it. He 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 before handing him three ibuprofen. "Here, take these, they'll help take the edge off later."
"You are not stitchin' 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. "Growin' up in the Milkovich house, you learned how to do shit like this yourself to avoid trips to the hospital. They ask too many questions and charge you a shitload of money for somethin' you can do at home."
Ian's eyes grew wide as he watched Mickey thread the too-big needle. "No fuckin' way are you comin' at me with that thing."
"I gotta stitch you up, Ian."
"Not with that fuckin' thing, you're not!" Ian exclaimed, still eyeing the unusually thick needle.
Mickey stared at him, his brows cocked. Eventually, his face broke into a grin. "Relax, Gallagher, I'm fuckin' with you," he said before pulling a tube of superglue out of the bag. "Superglue works just as good."
"Superglue?" Ian asked skeptically even as he relaxed a bit.
"I got this, alright?" Mickey assured him. "Trust me."
"Yeah, you keep sayin' that," Ian muttered.
Mickey's smile faded as he lifted his eyes to Ian's. "You prob'ly 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 leaned forward so that his face was mere inches from Ian's, and he began cleaning the wound with the rubbing alcohol.
"Ah, shit!" 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 felt taken aback by how intently Ian was staring at 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 superglue and gingerly worked on closing the cut. He grimaced in pain but kept his cool, mostly. "You sure this is gonna work?"
"I'm fuckin' sure, stop askin' so many questions," Mickey assured him. He delicately dragged his thumb over Ian's cut, making sure he sealed it. 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 proximity had such an effect on him; he'd have to learn how to deal with it better. "What if I have a concussion?"
"Again, growin' 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 ya."
Ian nodded and rubbed the back of his head. "Would you mind if I go to bed? I'm exhausted."
Mickey 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 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 behind him, pressing against his back, and wrapping an arm around his waist. "What're you do—"
"Just shut up," Mickey breathed against the back of Ian's neck, his lips barely brushing against Ian's skin. "We don't gotta talk tonight."
Ian 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 as much to the other boy.
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 eventually 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 said nothing; he didn't know what to say, so he 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 his scent and not wanting to pretend for the night. He would go back to pretending tomorrow. Right then, he wanted to hold him.