Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ian sighed as the door opened and Mickey stumbled in, blood dripping from his lips and a cut flowing from his eyebrow. This – is what could you say – was regular. Mickey would tell Ian a story about how a guy didn't pay up front, or how still had debt to pay, he even went after the fucks that messed with Carl on his drug runs. After telling him Ian already knew, and didn't bother wasting him breath going against it, that Mickey would go out, find the fuck and beat him to a plump. The factor that played with all of this, was Mickey didn't always get the first punch – as much as he said he did, Ian secretly knew that sometimes Mickey was a disadvantage against the hench fucks that bought off him. One thing Ian did know, for defiant, was that Mickey always got the last punch – it could even be fatal.

“Again?”Ian lifted himself up from the couch, inspecting all of the cuts that were replacing the old ones. “Seriously Mickey, you're gonna get yourself killed one of these days.” He poked Mickey's cheek to push it to the side, noticing a cut against the smaller boys ear. “Fuck, Mickey.”

Mickey let Ian pull him towards the bathroom, this happened a lot and he'd just got to grips with Ian always patching him up. “Fuck off, stop acting like I can't handle myself.” his voice was soft, his intimidating side never worked on Ian, not anymore. “The dick deserved it.”

“They always do.”Ian rolled his eyes, pushing the bathroom door open and flicking the lid of the toilet seat down. “Sit.” he pointed to the seat, leaning to the cabinet and pulled out some sticky strips and a couple of bandages.

Mickey turned his hand over and scanned over his knuckles. “I ain't a fucking dog Gallagher.”

Ian leaned over Mickey to grab the bottle of whisky by the toilet seat – Iggy's secret stash that he used in “emergencies” - he turned the tap on and ran his hand underneath it. “You might as well be from the way you fucking fight.” Shoving Mickey's legs apart he stood between them.

Mickey hissed as the flannel hit his face, warm water hitting against the stinging feel on his skin. “Fuck, be careful with that.” he muttered, hissing each time Ian pushed against a cut and then wiped the flannel over it. To reduce the stings and pricks he placed his hands on something that would take his mind off things.

“You grabbing my ass?” Ian asked, tilting his head towards the semi-grinning boy in front of him.

Mickey glanced to the white flannel, that had a shade of red to it – wonder when that happened? Huh.- he licked his soapy, sweet lips and wiggled his eyebrows. “No, I'm grabbing your dick.”

“Hm. Maybe later.” Ian hummed, placing the flannel into the sink bowl, rinsing it and pressing it harder against Mickey's face. “Fucking hell! You dick.” Mickey screeched, grabbing Ian's wrist and pulling it away from his face.

“What? You don't like me taking care of you?” Ian let Mickey rest his hands against his hip bones, he grinned towards him and slapped the flannel against Mickey's arm. The brunette jolted, but caught the wet flannel anyway, pulling it from Ian's firm grasp and flinging it into the sink. “Oh great, now you've made the bathroom into a swimming pool.” Ian flapped his hands against his sides.

Mickey stood up, checking himself in the mirror. He could do atleast one thing by himself – he didn't need Ian to apply some stupid fucking sticky strips. “Stop being dramatic you big girl, its just a puddle.”

“A puddle you're fucking cleaning up.” Ian chucked a towel towards the other boy, leaning against the sink – eyes following Mickey's movements.

“Fuck off, I ain't cleaning jack shit.” Mickey bellowed out, applying the last strips against his eyebrow. Wincing his turned himself around, not bothering with the excess blood that still stained his face. Ian was looking at him in that way, the way that told Mickey he would do anything Ian said.

Humming to himself, Ian pushed himself up. “You don't mind cleaning up my cum with your mouth though, huh.” His voice was husky, only a whisper in Mickey's ear – something that never failed to make him shiver. The redhead smoothly exited the room, his feet padding towards their bedroom. Mickey went to follow him.

Well he tried.

Fuck that puddle. Mickey took one step forward and slipped against the wet circle on the tiled floor, he hit his ass off the hard floor and yelped in loud pain. From what he could hear, Ian was howling with laughter – his voice clear from the other room. “Don't worry Mick, its just a puddle.”

–-

Mickey did get into a lot of fights and Ian would always clean up him, stitch up gashes and wipe the blood off – but on some rare, and really rare, occasions Mickey would be able to return the favour. Sometimes a guy would beat Ian up at the club, or he'd get mugged in the middle of the street and due to his med's making him weaker and tired, during adjusting, he could never have the strength to punch back. Sometimes the guy's punch would be the last – it could even be fatal.

The door slammed a slumped redhead stumbled through, Mickey shot up and headed towards the door. Ian had been an hour late, he nearly committed a homicide – he was always on the edge when it came to Ian, even if the fuck was cooking dinner he was scared the fuck would burn his finger on a pan or something. “What the fuck happened?” he turned Ian's chin from side to side.

Ian closed his eyes, wincing, he bit his lip. There were cuts across his face, one spilling with blood under his eye. “About that.” He began, but as usual when it came to getting hurt he would never get a word in edge ways.

“Who the fuck did it?” Mickey snarled, his thumb stroking against the taller boys bruised chin and then it dropped. The anger rose in his chest – as usual – he couldn't help but want to grab his gun from the cabinet and shoot every fucker till he found the guy that did the deed. “Ian?” He asked again, trying to calm himself.

Biting his lip, Ian took a moment to answer – his face flushing with embarrassment. “More of something than someone.” He let Mickey lead him to the bathroom, just as he always did, it didn't happen much but when it did he just let the older boy take him.

Kicking open the door to the bathroom, he used his foot to close the lid of the toilet seat. “Park your ass down and tell me, who the fuck you covering for?” the idea flicked in his head. “Jesus, you been fighting with Lip? Again?” Now that did happen often.

“No. No.” Ian stuttered, sitting down on the toilet seat, pulling off his jacket. “Nothing like that, I.. uh, no one hit me.” he ducked his head shamefully, hearing Mickey's rough movements through the cabinet and then to the tap, that for some reason squeaked when it turned.

Mickey leaned down and grabbed the nearly finished bottle of whisky – fuck, Iggy was going to kill them - “Not being funny Ian but you can't fucking lie when your face looks like a trucks hit it, ain't gonna work.” He grabbed a nearest towel and dipped it into the soapy water, pressing the whisky onto it.

“I ain't lying.” Ian hissed, gripping to Mickey's wrist to reduce the stinging sensation. “No one hit me, I swear.” Mickey stopped, glaring down to Ian, confused.

“Oh, so you hit yourself? You do that now?” Mickey questioned, tilting his head – Ian could see right through Mickey, read him like a book, but sure as hell Mickey could read through Ian's lies like a fast track torpedo. “Who the fuck hit you Ian?”

Ian rubbed the back of his neck, letting Mickey's hands fall from his face. “I.. uh.. fell.” he stuttered out, shaking his head with a laugh. It had been stupid really.

“God, you sound like fucking Mandy.” Mickey spat, dipping the towel back into the water and pinned it against Ian's face, roughly, making him yelp and hold a hardened grip against Mickey's wrist.

“No, I'm being – ah stop doing that – serious, Mick.” Ian called out, crying out each time Mickey spread the towel over the cut directly under his eye. Mickey pulled back, kicking Ian's legs for them to open and he stood between them, eyes asking him for answers.

“I was walking back from Patsy's and the wind, it kinda caught me and I didn't see the curb and tripped over it.” He looked down towards his hands, noticing small cuts on his palms from where he'd fell hands first onto the road. “It's stupid I know, but yeh.. I don't even know what happened. It just happened.”

Mickey began laughing then – not just a sniffle or a huff – but full on belly laughing. Ian would say he was offended, his boyfriend was laughing at his fallouts- at the fact the pavement got the better over him and beat him up. But that laugh, that smile, it was contagious. And it was Mickey's.

“Yeh. Yeh, laugh it up.” Ian snorted, grabbing the towel and pressing it against his own face. “You can't really talk you fell down the alibi stairs the other week, so fuck off.”

“Yeh, because someone fucking pushed me. You basically just fell over thin air.” Mickey laughed again, grabbing the sticky strips and putting one in his mouth – the other going forwards to Ian's face, the redhead squeezed his eyes shut awaiting the strip to go against his eye.

Ian peeped one eye open, still managing to pull of a slick smirk. “Could of been worse.” Ian always had that thing of underestimating situations.

“Yeh it could of.” Mickey rose an eyebrow. “I can't beat the shit out of a curb can I? Or should I say thin air, fucking tough guy.” He laughed again, dodging a smack that Ian flew his way. The taller boy stood up, nodding for Mickey to lead the way out of the bathroom.

The brunette shrugged and chucked the towel into the sink, yet again the water fell over the edge of the bowl, this time hitting Ian's legs. “What the fuck Mickey!” he shouted, nearly slipping over the puddle formed against the cold, flat tiles.

“Come on, Firecrotch. Don't fall over the fucking doorway while your at it.” Mickey shouted over his shoulder, already stripping from his clothes on the way into their bedroom. Fucking dick.