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“Deep breath, princess. Might wanna grit your teeth for this one.”
Mickey cringes in sympathy as he brings the first stitch through Ian’s left eyebrow, his husband getting out a rough “Fuck you,” through gritted teeth. Mickey murmurs a “Yeah, yeah,” before he has to go back to concentrating on not jamming the thin sewing needle into Ian’s eye socket from the inside.
“Doin’ good, baby, jus’ a lil more. Few more,” he tries to soothe, using all his might to not let his hands shake. The gash isn’t the gnarliest thing Mickey’s ever seen, probably far from it, but it was bleeding like fuck and Mickey’s hands and wrists are still covered in red. In Red. Ian whimpers when the thin thread snags slightly on his eyebrow hairs, pulls on the cut, and Mickey shushes him softly. “Takin’ it like a champ, doll, really, just two more.”
“Keep talking,” Ian begs breathlessly, starting to sweat from how he’s all tensed up, and Mickey needs to focus, but he also needs to keep Ian from starting to squirm.
“Just these last ones, and then I’ll put some strips over this puppy, bandage you up real good. Get some painkiller in ya and you won’t even feel it, how’s that sound?” Mickey rambles, and by the end of it, he’s pulling the last stitch closed, one last drop of blood oozing out grotesquely. Good thing neither of them are squeamish.
Though Mickey’s taking deep breaths as subtly as he can, whilst faced with Ian in this state. Whilst trying to avoid fully processing what the fuck happened tonight and having a freakout about it.
“Mh. Sounds nice.”
“Uh-huh. Just the strips to go, then I’ll tape a huge dressing pad over this ugly sucker. You’ll be pretty again in no time, promise.”
A weak hit to Mickey’s side, Ian chuckling, his smiling face beautiful even through all the hurt. Mickey puffs out a little laugh of his own, right side of his mouth curled up before getting out a few wound closure strips. Ian winces again when Mickey touches near the sore wound, but again, takes it like an absolute fucking trooper as Mickey pinches the skin the slightest amount and puts them all on. The rustling of the tea-towel covered pea bag Ian’s holding against his left side indicates he’s just barely managing to stay so collected, though.
God, they must look like fucking crime scene escapees. The blood on Mickey’s skin is nearly entirely crusted, and the same goes for Ian’s face, where his cuts—eyebrow, split lip—and nose have been bleeding. They both need a shower, really, but what’s a little blood if it means they can get into bed sooner. Sheets can be washed. Or, well, replaced, realistically.
“It look okay?” Ian asks like he doesn’t actually want to know the answer, and in lieu of answering him, Mickey kisses him sweetly on the temple—the one not bearing the nastier than nasty cut.
“Looks beautiful,” he says, drying his fingers on his mangy shirt so he doesn’t get blood on the sticky side of the medical tape and render it useless. Ian wrinkles his nose at it.
“Change out of that before we go to bed,” he says as Mickey moves back into his space.
“Sure thing, ma. Hold this, right where my fingers are,” Mickey instructs whilst holding the edges of the big white dress-pad over the stitches. Ian fumbles a little, moving cautiously as he tries to move his left hand to where he can feel Mickey’s fingers. His coordination’s a little wonky and Mickey can see him sigh before bringing his right hand up, too, peas sliding down to his lap. Eventually, he gets it, and Mickey doesn’t acknowledge that Ian’s wrapped fingers—his index and middle, on his right hand—get a little in the way. Mickey just tapes it down good and strokes his hair after it’s secured. It obscures Ian’s vision slightly, covering the upper corner of his left eye, but it’s nothing compared to when the blood dripped into it earlier and made it sting like hell. Damn blinded him. Tonight’s just been one big fat shitshow.
“Right as rain,” Mickey tells him after thoroughly inspecting his handiwork and waiting a few moments to check Ian isn’t going to suddenly bleed through the white fabric. Ian looks up at him with a soft expression despite how his back’s starting to hurt from the kitchen chair they dragged in here for him to sit on. How his left side (real unlucky side to be on today, huh,) is starting to dully ache from where it definitely got bruised to fuck by steel-toed boots. Nothing much that can be done there, though, except holding frozen peas against it.
“Kiss me better?” he chances with a slight raise of his eyebrows before wincing at the pull. Mickey curses something Ian swears isn’t English but is for sure berating as he intensely eyes the gauze.
“Only if you don’t move the one muscle you shouldn’t be fuckin’ moving right now,” he fusses, and Ian grumbles out a whine.
“I know, I know, I’m sorry. Sorry, Doc, really; though I’m more sorry to myself,” he groans, definitely reaping his consequences. Mickey sighs at him. Kisses his hairline.
“I want a proper kiss. Really take my mind off it,” Ian mumbles up at him, head tilted back like his neck’s gone limp and he’s frustratingly cute, with his split lip and huge gauze accessory and no-longer-bleeding nose. There’s drying blood poured from his nostrils to under his dress-shirt collar, but it doesn’t put Mickey off. Never has, never will. He’s had a thing for that shit since he was a psycho teen.
Mickey leans down. Smiles when he sees Ian’s eyes close and those blood-red lips part in anticipation.
It’s like kissing metal at first. It makes him chuff into the kiss, then work hard to lick away all the blood that hides the taste of Ian. He practically mauls the already wounded man, and Ian’s quickly panting and moaning, happily letting him. Even when Mickey accidentally sets him back, rough kisses reopening Ian’s plush bottom lip, he doesn’t complain and if anything just leans further into Mickey. Slips his name into one of his little moans and it makes the older man groan, ease up on him a little.
Ian chases his lips when Mickey leans back. Has this wanting look on his desperate, hurt face. God, he’s stupidly attractive.
“Why’d you stop?” Ian pants, looking at Mickey’s lips that are no doubt swollen and red (half from the kissing, half from the smeared blood) before meeting his eyes.
“‘Cause I was about to do you some serious damage and then I remembered you’re already hurt, honeypie,” he croons regretfully. “Can’t go hurtin’ you more.”
“I can take it,” Ian replies instantly, big, green eyes looking up at Mickey like he’s all that exists. Fucking Gallagher. Knows damn well what the hell he’s doing.
“I wish you could, dollface.”
“Mick—”
“That little nick on your eyebrow wouldn’t hold up nicely whilst I was shoving you face-first into the mattress, E. I wish it would, too, but I’m not going through all this again just to plow you tonight.”
Ian groans out, long and low, head falling onto the back of the chair and his eyes closing. His bloody lip glints something ugly in the yellow bathroom light and Mickey’s wetting a washcloth before he fully computes making the decision to do so.
“God, man,” he murmurs a little solemnly, a total turnaround from the mood just a minute ago. He has Ian sit back up, uses the warm cloth to try wipe away some of the blood covering up pale skin, holding it to Ian’s lip everytime it decides to bleed. Ian doesn’t even flinch, though he does hiss a bit. “I didn’t realise how good he got you. How are you not in agony?”
Ian’s nose twitches. He hums, more a short grumble in the back of his throat, slowly shaking his head from side to side. “Hurts like fuck. I’ve just got a good doctor, luckily.”
“Yeah. Pay me fifty thousand.” Ian laughs a little. “You want those pain meds?”
“Yeah. Don’t think I’d be able to fall asleep without them,” he sighs, then yawns. Pulls on his damn lip again, and Mickey can’t resist kissing him, just quick, just once, before moving to open the medicine cabinet.
In the span of a couple minutes, there’s a glass of water from the kitchen alongside two pills layed out beside it. Mickey busies himself with putting toothpaste on each of their toothbrushes whilst Ian curses as he uses the hand with the wrapped fingers to place the pills on his tongue. He takes a big swig of water and looks down so it’s easier to swallow them, feeling Mickey pet at his floppy hair as the pills go down. He’s handed his toothbrush when he opens his eyes again. Takes it with a rusty “Thanks.”
They both brush in calm silence, and Ian spits into the glass of water so he doesn’t have to stand and lean over the sink, risk hurting his side. He ignores the blood swirled in his spit and so does Mickey.
Mickey takes the glass. Rinses and tips it down the sink drain, rinses off the toothbrushes too before putting them back in the cupholder. He can’t help yawning when he sees Ian doing so.
“Alright, now s’bedtime. Shower in the morning, after some deserved-ass rest time,” Mickey mumbles quietly, soothingly, hand once again smoothing through Ian’s soft, slightly overgrown hair. Ian keeps talking about buzzing it all off, says the upkeep irks him, but moments like these—Mickey’s fingers making him shiver—let him know he’ll probably never follow through on that gameplan.
“How about... you carry me there,” Ian mumbles with an assuring nod and stupid little smile, his beautiful green eyes drowsy and looking up and Mickey. That fat piece of dressing taped onto him does nothing to takeaway from his looks, unfortunately. Mickey puffs out a laugh, leans down again to gently kiss the top of Ian’s head, next to where his hand is.
“Ain’t you funny. C’mon, you can put all your weight on me,” he entices. He playfully mimicks Ian’s groan when Mickey puts an arm under his, helping Ian to his feet, careful of the bruise blossoming on the side of his stomach. Damn steel-toes.
“Lean on me, dollface,” Mickey says, because he knows Ian’s in pain no matter how skilled he is at masking it and Mickey will do anything to take that away from him. To bear it for him. Hell, he thinks, as he reaches his elbow to switch off the bathroom light; it should’ve been him that got his shit rocked, not Ian. The guy for sure saw them in the restaurant together, probably recognized Mickey, waited around outside for them. Mickey had to piss, told Ian he’d be right out, go get the car started if I take too long but next thing Mickey knows is he’s wiping his wet hands on his jeans as he leaves, cursing the crappy hand dryer before hearing Ian yell out from the alleyway that led to the parking lot and he’s running as fast as he can to find Ian getting fucking jumped. By a man Mickey near-immediately recognized as Terry’s old buddy no less.
God. It should’ve been Mickey with the split eyebrow and busted lip and bruised side. It should’ve been Mickey in pain and Ian completely untouched. All Mickey bears is bloodied, split and bruised knuckles from where he jumped on the guys back, pummeled his fists into his face until Ian had to pull him off, remind him someone could see and the guy was left off far worse than Ian, whimpering helplessly on the asphalt—but for Mickey, that still wasn’t anywhere near enough. Mickey wonders if he still lives at that dump seven blocks away from the Milkovich house. If he even survived tonight. Mickey really damn hopes he didn’t.
“Hey. Don’t think about that piece of shit,” Ian murmurs softly into his ear, when Mickey’s gotten his shirt off and is helping him to sit down on the bed (even though Ian definitely doesn’t need it and yeah, Mickey’s just coddling him now, to be honest). “He’s probably trying to find his teeth in the skin of his mouth.”
Mickey chuffs. Puts one of his pillows on Ian’s side so he’s got three instead of two. “Yeah, I hope so,” he mumbles.
But he’s still thinking about it.
Thinking about what if something held Mickey back a little longer in the bathroom, what if Ian wasn’t able to yell out or hadn’t managed to shove the guy off of him just before he snicked open his pocket knife. What if Mickey didn’t make it in time and his old actions (though not his, really—Terry’s) got the most important thing in his life hurt even worse than this, or damn killed—
“Mickey, baby...” Ian’s hands are suddenly on either side of his face, the cold of the tape on his warm skin managing to bring Mickey back to himself. He’s leaning over Ian, positioning his pillows but he must’ve paused when his mind started running a mile a minute. Ian leans up, kisses him. Keeps his voice soft as he reassures his husband.
“He’s gone. He doesn’t matter. I’m all patched up, I’m gonna be fine. I already am fine, huh? Look at me. Fuckin’ trooper, just like you said. We’re both okay.” The words get through to Mickey, and he swallows. Cups Ian’s face with a trembling hand. When he meets his eyes, he has to focus on the green of them, instead of the medical tape and dressing pad and crusted blood all on him. That wetted washcloth could only do so much.
“Yeah. I know,” he nods, trying his best to assure Ian he’s fine. That that little blip was nothing. “Lemme go turn all the lights off.”
“Hurry back.”
Mickey chuffs as he walks away, going back into the bathroom, first crumpling up all the packaging from the medical supplies in his hand. He grabs the glass still on the counter, going to put it in the kitchen to be washed, nothing but the hall light lighting the rooms.
He puts the glass next to the few other cups and plates from today. Throws the trash in the plastic bag they’re currently using as a trashcan. Then, he tells himself it’s time to go back to Ian, now.
Mickey finds himself standing there, though, for a minute, hands holding himself up on the edge of the counter and his head hung low between his shoulders. He breathes deep. Feels his lungs burn and holds it.
Ian could’ve gotten fucking killed. It’s a tough reality to face, let alone think of. If he was—if he took even a minute more—
“I do hope you’re not overthinkin’ it,” comes a knowing voice, right from the doorway.
Mickey’s head snaps up. He stands up straight, turning himself to face Ian. Ian, who’s silhouette is lit up by the yellow hall light, looking something like an angel. The same Ian who’s holding his blemishing side as he leans against the doorway. The same Ian with the fat piece of dressing over his stitched eyebrow and taped-together fingers and most likely bruised ribs.
“You can barely walk, why are you—”
“Painkillers are kicking in,” Ian dismisses simply, and he walks the short distance between them until he’s stood in front of Mickey. Brings the hand not hovering over his own side up to cup his jaw. “What’s on your mind?”
Mickey sighs, a deep, sagging exhale through his nose. It deflates him right into Ian’s hold, his warm palm. “You know what’s on my mind.”
Ian hmm’s. “The thing that wasn’t your fault?”
“Ha. Yeah, sure, whatever, man.” Mickey straightens himself up, leaning away from his husband and he feels cruel, for dumping his shit on Ian right now, but—he could’ve died. Died. It should’ve been Mickey—
“Mick,” Ian says sharply, hand falling down. “It’s in the fuckin’ past now. There’s nothing to be done. You know that. You patched me up, made me better. That’s all you can do about it.”
Mickey puts his head down. Licks at his bottom lip, itches at his eyebrow with his thumb. “I know,” he mumbles. Because he does. Of course he knows. Ian sighs quietly. “‘S just. Can’t stop imaginin’ it.”
A few beats of silence.
“Look at me, baby.”
Mickey scrunches his eyes shut. Opens them and looks up into green eyes. He can’t stop his gaze from flickering to the dressing.
“You know you saved me tonight, right? Prince Charming style, Mick.”
Mickey scoffs. Smiles, but it’s wry. “Yeah, totally, ‘course—”
“I’m not joking,” Ian cuts him off. Crowds in closer, until Mickey’s ass is against the counter and Ian’s hand is on the small of his back, effectively boxing him in, pressing close to him. “You beat that fucker to a pulp. All for me.”
Mickey looks to the right, at the succulent Lip got Ian that sits on the windowsill, next to Ian’s fresh basil plant.
He did. He bloodied his knuckles to keep Ian safe. That’s all Mickey wants to do—protect his Red. If you strip him down to his very basics, bare his very core, that’s all he really is. Ian’s. And total, soul-bearing honesty, he’s all for it if that ends up being all he’ll ever be.
“Lots of people wouldn’t of reacted that quickly.” Ian’s hand rubs lightly along Mickey’s upper arm, fingertips eventually dipping under the short sleeve, rubbing bare skin. “But not you, Mick. You saved me. Protected me, huh?”
Ian kisses his temple. His hand moves from bicep to cheek, making Mickey look at him before leaning in for a kiss. Mickey melts into it, tangles his fingers in the hair at Ian’s nape.
“Come to bed?” Ian asks softly once they’ve pulled away for breath, their noses lightly touching, foreheads nearly together—though not actually making contact, because they’re both avoiding putting Ian in any more pain. Mickey looks up into green eyes.
“Yeah. Alright,” he agrees softly, parting his lips when Ian smiles and leans back in, kissing him slow and sweet. “C’mon. Lean on me.”
Ian, despite his comment of the kicking-in painkillers, does so without hesitation.
They make it back to bed easy. Curtains drawn so the sun doesn’t wreck them in the morning, covers over them, Ian lying on his good side, back against Mickey’s bare (Ian insisted he take his dirtied shirt off) front. Mickey breathes deep, tangles one of his legs with Ian’s since he can’t slug an arm over him like he wants to. The reminder hurts.
After just a few minutes of them lying there Ian’s breath starts to even out. He melts into the sheets with exhaustion, the beating and resulting pain and also-resulting patching up probably having taken a fucking lot out of him, and Mickey breathes shakily.
The front door’s bolted shut. The windows are all closed. They’re up on the third floor anyway. Plus, they’re in the Westside. Nothing happens here.
Still, Mickey only gets a few hours of sleep.
.
Thankfully, it’s the start of the weekend, meaning Ian’s got two days before he has to sort something out with work. Mickey’s got a short shift this Saturday afternoon and that’s it.
“You’re leaving early,” Ian says to him the next day as he walks slowly into the kitchen. Mickey’s eating a sandwich, backpack already on his back, work clothes on. Ian goes to the fridge and gets the bag of peas back out. Once covered in a dish cloth, he holds them to his gnarly side. The bruises have really shined through and it brings bile up Mickey’s throat just looking at them. Makes him put down his sandwich, appetite fully gone.
“Yeah, says there’s a bunch of traffic today, somethin’ about an accident closing down the mile. Not riskin’ traffic piling up in the city and having to sit in it for hours.”
Ian hmm’s. Sips at his water. Mickey puts the other half of his sandwich in a ziploc; he’ll probably be able to stomach it later.
“Have a good shift,” Ian says after Mickey walks up to him, leaning up for a sweet kiss.
“Mmhm. Have a good restin’, dollface. I’ll message you before I’m home about pickin’ up something for dinner.” Because normally Ian chefs around in the kitchen but he looks strained just leaning against the counter and it’s been a while since they’ve had takeout, anyway.
“Sounds good,” mumbles Ian before leaning in for another kiss, free hand coming up to hold Mickey’s cheek. Mickey melts right into it.
“Call if you need anything, yeah?” Mickey murmurs, and they both know Ian’s being told.
“Yeah,” he agrees without hesitation, easing Mickey somewhat, and they kiss a final time before Mickey goes to put his boots on. Ian follows, opening the front door for his husband. “Drive safe. Don’t road rage.”
“I don’t road rage,” Mickey huffs grumpily as he stands up, adjusting his backpack strap before giving Ian a kiss on his right temple. “See you tonight, Red. Love ya.”
“Love you too, Mick,” Ian smiles, watching Mickey as he sets off down the hall. Mickey doesn’t round the corner until he hears their front door close.
.
Ian’s half-watching the news when Mickey trudges through the front door.
“Hey,” Ian smiles instantly, moving a little too hastily to get off the couch. It results in a groan, Ian pulling accidentally on his side and Mickey walks over to him in a fuss.
“Don’t get up. And hey, Red,” he says, returning the smile, leaning down for a kiss. Ian tilts his head back to deepen it. “Miss me honeypie?”
“You know it chuckle-monkey,” Ian coos, earning himself Mickey’s fingers tickling his neck for a second. He jolts, laughing, then holding his side as it pulls.
“Shit, sorry,” his husband murmurs. Ian waves him off. He took some more painkiller today, messaged Mickey to tell him. The thumbs-up and heart emoji Ian got in response had made him smile.
“Doesn’t hurt too bad.” Ian’s eyes hone in on the white plastic bag Mickey’s holding. He grins, looks up at the man. “Make it better by plating that up for me?”
A laugh. “You got it, Firecrotch.”
.
They sit on the couch and eat. Their tiny table and chairs in the kitchen doesn’t sound good on Ian’s sore frame at all and this way they get to sit close, thighs touching, the TV playing quietly for background noise as Mickey’s asked about his day.
“Only good part of it was when we called on my break,” Mickey says before sipping his can of soda. Ian smiles. “How was your day, huh?”
“Not as action-packed as yours. Showered, got all the dirty laundry together. You mind doing it tomorrow?”
“No,” Mickey agrees easily, shovelling another scoop of food into his mouth.
They sit in silence for a little while. Mickey’s scarfed down half of his grub already when Ian speaks again.
“Watched the news,” he says.
“Oh yeah?” Mickey replies half-commitedly. He’s eaten nothing today but that half-assed sandwich, given they slept in and he had to scrub at himself in the shower before then leaving early.
“Mhm,” Ian hums. “You know, surprisingly, nothin’ about the mag mile being closed down.”
Mickey slows down his eating. “Huh. Weird.” Another spoonful in his mouth.
“Yeah. Weird.”
More eating in silence.
“What’d you do, Mick?”
Mickey keeps his eyes on his meal. Takes another bite.
“You know what I did, man,” he mumbles, muffled by his full mouth. “You’ll probably catch it on the news tomorrow.”
A little laugh. Mickey holds in a jolt when a kiss is placed to the side of his head, Ian’s right hand coming up to hold Mickey’s chin, making him sit up straight so Ian can kiss along his jaw, cheek and mouth (after Mickey’s swallowed his food).
“My fuckin’ Mickey Milkovich,” he smiles. The split lip adds more to the picture of him and Mickey’s suddenly sent back to ten years ago, Ian laughing after they’ve just fought, both covered in blood—each other’s and their own—winded and laying side by side.
“Eat your food, Red,” he says, because he can feel his cheeks pinking and his heart soaring and it’s too nice of a feeling.
A final kiss, one that Mickey reciprocates happily.
They eat the rest of their dinner in peaceful silence.
.
“A man has been found dead in his house, a truly gruesome sight to behold—on-scene officers aren’t sharing the full details but there is talk of this murder being the most gory sight the Southside has seen in many, many years—”