The next morning, Ian woke up once again to find Mickey gone. The familiar feeling of dread settled over him, and he buried his face in his hands with a trembling sigh. He inhaled and exhaled deeply for a few beats before glancing at the clock to see that it was barely 11 AM. Surely Mickey wasn't dumb enough to rob a place in broad daylight. Then again, he'd given up trying to figure out how Mickey's mind worked.

With some effort, he crawled out of bed, took a slightly satisfying shower and, by the time he walked back into the room with a towel wrapped around his waist, he found that Mickey had returned and was sitting at the small round table, a Glock 45 sitting in front of him.

His eyes immediately landed on the gun, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. A big part of him had been hoping that Mickey had changed his mind about it all, that he'd gone out to get the morning paper, breakfast pastries, and coffee.

Mickey watched him warily while rubbing a thumb over his bottom lip. He was the first to break the tense silence. "It's kinda fuckin' scary how easy it was to get that thing. I barely had to walk three blocks before I found some crackhead sellin' shit outta the back of his car."

Ian continued staring at the gun, his shoulders slumping as he sat down on the bed.

Still rubbing his bottom lip as he eyed Ian sheepishly, Mickey said, "Got a good deal on it, too. Didn't set us back too much."

Ian's eyes shot up to meet his. "Are you fuckin' insane, Mickey?" he exclaimed. "What if it had been a cop posing and baiting, did you think of that? No, 'cause you don't fuckin' think!"

"It wasn't a fuckin' cop," Mickey spat.

"Oh, yeah?" Ian snapped. "Maybe not this time, but it fuckin' coulda been!"

"What if one of those douchebags you picked up at the bar had been a cop, huh?" Mickey countered. "It goes both fuckin' ways!"

"Don't change the subject," Ian retorted. "This isn't about me. It's about you and your dumbass decisions!"

Mickey stood up abruptly and grabbed the gun, tucking it into the back of his pants. "Look, don't fuckin' worry about it, alright? You think this is the first time I've done something like this? The first time I've bought an illegal gun and robbed a place? Get your head outta your goddamn ass, Gallagher, and grow the fuck up!"

Ian felt tears threatening to spill, but he held them in, not wanting to seem like even more of a fucking kid. He didn't want to give Mickey more ammunition to use against him. "Oh, I don't doubt it's the first time," he said. "I know it won't be the last time, either, because you're fuckin' stupid, Mickey. You're stupid!"

"Fuck you!" Mickey spat, moving to get in Ian's face. He stared up at him, his nostrils flaring and brows arching, daring Ian to continue his rant.

"That's all you'll ever be, huh, Mick? Some fucked-up criminal? That's all you'll ever amount to. Doin' your dad's dirty work, breakin' the fuckin' law! That's all you are! A lowlife piece of South Side trash!" Ian pressed his hands against Mickey's chest, pushing him back with all his might.

Mickey was dumbstruck as he stared back at him. He regained his balance and pushed Ian back just as hard. "Fuck you, I know how to get shit done! That's the difference between you and me! I know how to get shit done!"

"By solvin' everything with violence? By breakin' the law? You kidnap someone with no second thought! You steal cars like it's normal! You think about robbin' a fuckin' store at gunpoint without blinkin' an eye!"

"Fuck you, don't worry about it!" Mickey spat.

"I dunno what I ever saw in you," Ian said, pushing him back, the tears finally spilling down his cheeks. He didn't care if he sounded like a kid right then. He was scared, fucking terrified, of Mickey getting caught, of him picking the wrong clerk to mess with and getting shot at. Scared of never seeing him again. "You're a piece a shit!"

It caught Mickey off guard when Ian threw a fist, barely catching him in the jaw. "The fuck, Ian?" he called out in surprise and quickly grabbed both of Ian's wrists before he could hit him again.

Ian struggled against him, sobbing. "Fuck you, Mickey! Fuck you!"

Mickey continued to struggle to restrain Ian, knowing that everything he had bottled up in the past week and a half was finally erupting. "Ian," he said, his voice calmer as they struggled. "Ian, stop! Fuckin' stop!"

Ian eventually relented and stopped trying to hit him. He tore away from Mickey's hold and turned away from him, angrily wiping at his wet cheeks.

Mickey stared at Ian's back, still trying to wrap his head around everything. "Fuck." He ran a shaky hand through his hair, his eyes darting around the room.

Ian inhaled and exhaled deeply before turning around abruptly, his face softened through his tears. "Don't do it, Mickey. Please, don't do it."

Mickey stared back at him, his chest heavy with raw emotion. His shoulders slumped after a few beats as he stared back at a broken Ian.

"Don't do this," Ian repeated, his voice barely above a whisper that time.

Mickey reached out and grabbed Ian by the back of the neck, pulling him towards him. He felt resistance at first, but then, finally, Ian fell into him and buried his wet face against the crook of his neck.

"It's up to me to fix this, you hear me?" Mickey murmured. "I got you in this mess, I'm the one who gotta get you out."

"It's not up to you," Ian muttered. "We're both in this, remember?"

"I won't do it," Mickey mumbled against Ian's bare shoulder. He cupped the crown of Ian's head and buried his fingers in his hair. "Okay? Alright? I won't do it."

Ian nodded weakly against Mickey's neck, his body eventually relaxing in his embrace.

Mickey continued to hold Ian as he cried. He realized, at that moment, that the thing between them went beyond the physical, for both of them, and that scared him a hell of a lot more than anything his dad could throw at him.