Chapter Text
“We’re not keeping it.”
“But Mickey – “
“No fuckin way, Ian. Thing’s probably got, like… herpes, or whatever.”
Ian tilts his head, clutching the small, shivering puppy to his chest. “You mean rabies?”
Waving a hand, Mickey stalks over to the kitchen, brushing past Ian without looking twice. “I mean it’s probably sick, or something, man. What are we gonna do with a sick dog?”
“I dunno,” Ian’s voice trails him, hot on Mickey’s heels. He sounds amused, and Mickey tosses a dishtowel over his shoulder in a huff. “Take it to the vet, help it get better?”
Mickey snorts humorlessly, unlatching the door to the dishwasher and letting it fall open with a bang.
Ian sighs, shifting the wiggling bundle in his arms. “And could you not take out your anger with me on the innocent kitchen appliances, please? If we have to call Martin back in for more maintenance, he’s gonna think we’re fucking… liabilities or something. Report us to admin for destruction of property, and then we’ll be homeless. You wanna be homeless?”
“Ain’t my fault you put rice down the garbage disposal last week,” Mickey griped back, bending down to unload some plates from the bottom rack.
"Hey.”
Mickey ignores him, stacking dishes on the counter to be put away. In Ian’s arms, the skinny, black puppy whines, squirming into the crook of his elbow, searching for warmth. Making the conscious effort not to look too long, Mickey still feels a pang in his chest. Its little eyes aren’t even open, yet. It’s so small.
“I know you’re pissed at me,” Ian says, then, and his voice has dropped a bit, more serious. His hand snakes around the puppy’s little head, scratching gently behind its ears. “I was being a dick earlier, and I’m sorry. But… he’s just a baby, Mick. He would’ve frozen to death, if I left him outside. He needs someone to take care of him.”
Mickey chews on his lip, looking between the puppy and Ian’s open, earnest face. “What if it’s already someone’s pet, or whatever?” he mumbles, and turns back to the dishes.
“He was in a box,” Ian sighs, and the dog makes a quiet, whining sound as if in agreement. “Behind a dumpster. Looked like there were more in there, at one point, but he was the only one left. The runt, maybe. I don’t think anyone’s gonna be looking for him, Mickey.”
Mickey tried not to picture it — picture that little, fragile thing, alone in a box in the Chicago winter. It makes his chest ache. “Well, what if it’s sick?” he tries, shifting on his feet. “We’ll take it to the vet, and wind up havin’ to put a shitton of money into it.”
Ian pauses, at that, narrowing his eyes. He watches Mickey for a long moment, and Mickey tries not to bristle under his gaze, hair sticking up on the back of his neck. “You don’t care about the money,” Ian says after a long moment, like a fact. “You’re worried about getting attached to him.”
“‘m not worried about anything, man.”
“Didn’t you say you wanted a dog, at some point? A big backyard, couple of pitbulls?”
Mickey pushes out a long breath, taking up the silverware basket in-hand to sort away their two-of-everything utensils. “Said I wanted a dog. Not some… shaky fuckin’ rat.”
“He’s a baby,” Ian reiterates, as if Mickey had forgotten, in the twenty-five seconds since he’d said it last. “Way too young to be away from his mom, honestly. And he’s scared, right now. He’ll get bigger, more comfortable. Just gotta get him clean, and warm, and fed.”
“What if I… hurt it, or something?” His gaze trails over the puppy, the tiny paws, the little, floppy ears. “It’s the size of my fucking shoe, man.”
“Here, give me that.”
And before Mickey knows what’s happening, Ian’s using one hand to pull the silverware from Mickey’s grasp, setting it down to the countertop, and then Mickey’s blinking down at his sudden armful of little black puppy.
It’s eyes aren’t even open, yet, Mickey’s mind hones in on again with a lurch. Someone just left it in a fucking box behind a dumpster, and it’s not even old enough to open its eyes?
Mickey adjusts his hold, hyper-aware of how small and breakable it is. He glances up at Ian, tearing his gaze from the tiny, pink tongue that’s only just visible. “What the fuck, Ian?” he hisses, and Ian just shrugs, smiling ever-so-slightly.
“Just hold him for a second, Mickey. Please? I wanna go get some stuff together to clean him up, and we have to keep him warm.”
Mickey blinks at him, eyebrows raised, about to protest, but then —
— the puppy in his arms yawns, face scrunching up and tongue curling, and then presses his face into Mickey’s chest. For the first time since Ian’s walked through the door, he stops squirming, stops wiggling, goes totally still.
It makes Mickey’s heart pound in his throat.
“Shit,” he curses, and bites down on his lip. He drops his head, watching closely, eyes trialed on a little belly that has a patch of white fur down the middle. “Fuck, I think I killed it.”
“Mickey.” Ian’s voice, full of amusement, can’t draw his gaze up — he needs to make sure it’s breathing. “Mickey, he’s sleeping. He likes you.”
He feels a hand on his shoulder, then, and lets Ian tug him under his arm. Feels Ian’s lips against the side of his head, but Mickey still can’t lift his gaze from the little puppy, curled up in the blankets, watching for the little rise and fall of it’s breath.
“I’m sorry,” Ian apologizes again, murmuring against his hair. “For earlier. And if you really don’t want him, we can take him down to the shelter or something first thing in the morning. But we at least gotta get him cleaned, and warm, and fed for tonight. Okay?”
And it’s there, the little up-and-down of its chest, of it’s little white belly, and Mickey can feel slight washes of heat against his chest where the dog’s face is nestled. He wets his lips, rips his gaze away from the little nose and the eyes that haven’t opened, and finds Ian’s gaze. There’s a trace of something in those green eyes, something warm and full, and Mickey can’t even remember what they were fighting about earlier, really, or why they were so upset with each other.
It seems stupid, in retrospect — whatever dumb, pointless argument they’d had. Trivial, when there’s someone leaving boxes of puppies outside in the cold.
He chews on his lip, knowing somewhere deep down that he’s lying when he says, “Fine. Just for tonight.”
If the way that Ian smiles at him and kisses his cheek before bounding off to get some warm towels ready is any indication, he knows it, too.
They compile every scrap of information they can about caring for puppies under eight weeks old. They take him to the vet, get everything that they need to get him healthy and growing — heating pads and soft blankets and special formula that costs way too much, but the little puppy guzzles down like nectar, and it goes… a lot better, than Mickey anticipated it would.
It’s not ideal, to have a puppy separated from its mother that young, and there are a lot of extra steps they have to take to make sure he gets everything that he needs to thrive. Mickey makes up a whole notebook about it, rivaling his wedding-planning binder, and when the puppy falls asleep in Mickey’s lap, safe and sound and getting stronger every day, he can’t help but think that maybe… maybe he’s okay at this whole taking care of others thing, after all.