Done To Death

A selection of one shots; each an Ian/Mickey cliché

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Ian Gets Sick

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Mickey was trying really hard not to care; he hadn't seen Ian in over a week and in no way was he worrying. It was good old fashioned selfishness that had him thinking about Ian – a week was a long time to abstain from sex, and while Mickey knew he could get it somewhere else, he also knew it wouldn't compare. Firecrotch by name: Firecrotch by nature.

There was no way he was calling at the house to find out what was going on, just like there was no way he was texting Ian and asking questions – he was nobody's bitch and he wouldn't give Gallagher the satisfaction of thinking Mickey missed him.

So why he was hanging around the Gallagher home at 8am counting the number of people leaving the house was nobody's business. And if he was breaking in the back door, having asserted Ian must be left in there alone, it was only because he was a Milkovich and no one had ever told him about using fucking doorbells.

There was a distinct smell of eggs and burnt plastic in the kitchen, the latter of which seemed to originate in the microwave where a previous superhero was dripping over the side. Mickey revived his sinuses by lighting a cigarette; it kept his hands busy and stopped him from lifting anything, not that the Gallagher's had much worth stealing.

The only sign of Ian living there, apart from the fag ends and empty beer cans which could have belonged to anybody, was his jacket flung over the back of the living room couch. Mickey was sure if he was to hold it up to his face he would have been able to breathe the scent of Ian in. But he didn't, because that would have been fucking stupid.

He nearly walked out the front door there and then, worried what the actual fuck he was doing, but then he heard a low moan from the second floor and Mickey was up those stairs before he knew where his feet were carrying him.

Ian was in the last room along the corridor; Mickey could see that flash of red hair through the open door. Satisfied Firecrotch hadn't seen him, Mickey sauntered slowly along the corridor taking deep drags from his cigarette. He didn't bother looking into the other rooms – not because he wasn't nosey, but because he honestly didn't give a shit. He stopped, leaning in Ian's doorway.

"Hey! Gallagher!" Mickey nearly yelled, stubbing what was left of his cigarette on the end of Carl's bed and letting it drop to the floor. He was just pondering giving up when Ian muttered "Mick?" and turned to face his favourite neighbourhood thug.

"Jesus Firecrotch, you look like shit."

"Thanks," Ian replied sarcastically, rolling himself fully onto his back; sweat slicked across his brow.

Mickey reached for another cigarette to keep his hands busy, but never lit it, rolling it instead between his fingers,

"You just gonna stand there?"

"Well I'm not going anywhere the fuck near you – I don't wanna catch that shit."

"It's just a fever Mickey, Jesus." Ian was purposefully making his voice stronger than he felt. All he really wanted was to sleep, ideally curled up in Mickey's arms, but he wasn't crazy enough to suggest it. He settled for the alternative "I know a great way to break a fever…"

"Is that so?" Mickey may have been feigning disinterest, but Ian noticed he had slipped the cigarette back into its packet.

"And what makes you think I wanna fuck you while you're looking like that?" Mickey asked, gesturing in Ian's general direction.

"You always want to fuck me." Ian was trying to sound cocky but the drowsiness was setting in.

"Screw you." Mickey cursed, hating how the other boy knew him so well.

"Whatever," Ian murmured before tumbling back into sleep.

"Gallagher?" Mickey crept closer to the bed but the other boy was out cold. Ian looked so small and pale curled up that Mickey nearly reached out to touch him. Maybe even to plant a kiss on his forehead. But then he checked himself for being too faggy and, spying a sharpie on the nearby chest of drawers, grabbed a snicker's wrapper from his pocket and wrote "I'LL BE BACK" before stuffing it under Ian's pillow.

Later he would curse himself for doing so – without it he could just have been a fever induced hallucination, but with it Ian had proof that Mickey actually gave a shit.

And the thing that sucked the most? He really did.