Work Text:
The cold glow of the fluorescent lights stretched across the mall, painting long shadows against the tiled floor. It was well past midnight, an hour where shoppers had long since gone home, leaving behind a vast emptiness that echoed with distant, muffled music from the speakers. The night shift at the mall wasn’t exactly the most thrilling job, but it paid enough for Mickey and Ian to scrape by without resorting to anything that might land them back in prison. The two of them, surprisingly, had fallen into something like a routine since their release and the… well, death of their former patrol officer Paula (that bitch deserved it). Sure, the monotony was annoying, but after the chaos of their past, it felt good to have some kind of normalcy for once. Even if normalcy meant wearing cheap security uniforms and patrolling dim hallways all night. Mickey was stationed near the back entrances tonight while Ian had been assigned to the main floor. The job wasn’t glamorous, but it was quiet work and not a scam job like the one Paula had pushed Ian into. “I hate this fucking shit,” Mickey muttered into his earpiece, his voice crackling through Ian’s headset. “Like we’re rent-a-cops or something.” Ian grinned as he leaned against a railing, overlooking the deserted food court below. “Hey, beats wearing yellow jumpsuits. Besides, getting paid to stand around doing nothing all night? Better than driving past people dying on the streets because: fuck yeah, money” “Tch, yeah, except I don’t stand around, bitch. I gotta walk laps around this creepy fucking back corridor. I swear there‘s rats down here.” Mickey’s voice had that familiar edge, half serious, half teasing. “Bet you’re lounging right about now.” Ian laughed softly, keeping his voice low so it wouldn’t echo through the empty mall too much. “Totally lounging. You jealous?” Mickey didn’t respond immediately, but Ian could hear his footsteps through the earpiece, a steady rhythm echoing in the quiet. After a moment, Mickey spoke again. “You get off early tonight, right?” “Yeah. Lucky me. I’ll be outside waiting for you until you’re done though.” “Better be, Gallagher. I’m not walking home alone like some loser night-shift guard... Jesus fuck, I need a beer.” Ian smiled at the sound of Mickey’s voice – this banter was something he’d learned to love over the years. They’d come a long way from the chaos of their old lives. Being together like this, even if it was just through a headset during a dull shift, made things feel... lighter somehow. For once, things weren’t spiraling out of control. By the time Ian clocked out, the sky was still a deep, inky black with no hint of dawn on the horizon. He waited outside by the staff entrance, leaning against the wall with his hands shoved into his jacket‘s pockets. The air was brisk, biting at his skin, but it was nothing he wasn’t used to. Eventually flipping open a pack of Marlboros, he got one cigarette out of the pack and rummaged through his back pockets for the grimy lighter. He didn’t even notice the three men approaching until they were right in his face. “Well fuck me, if it isn’t Ginger boy,” one of them sneered. Ian’s eyes flicked over them quickly, taking in their faces and postures. He recognized them immediately – old “buds” of Mickey’s from way back, guys he hadn’t seen in years. And judging by the way they were smirking, they weren’t here for a friendly chat. “Still can’t believe you’re Milkovich’s bitch” the second guy said, grinning. “Man, Mickey’s really gone batshit. Fucking faggot” The third thug, the tallest of the bunch, spat on the ground near Ian’s feet. “You fucked his masculinity right out of him in prison, huh? He’s been a softy ever since, hanging around with you instead of real men.” “Remember when he used to fuck every bitch in view… Good ole’ times.” Ian clenched his jaw, his fists curling at his sides. He could handle a lot, but hearing them shit-talk about Mickey like that made something snap inside him. The tallest of the three closed in on him and grabbed his red hair to tossle his head around while grinning. “Tch, Terry should just shoot you two fags for good. Can’t imagine how terrible it is for the old man to have a cock-sucker as a son.” His breath smelled of cigarettes and rotten eggs, and before Ian could think twice, he swung hard, his fist connecting with the tall guy’s chin. The man went down hard, crumpling to the ground with a grunt, but Ian didn’t have time to savour the victory. The other two lunged at him, and before he could react, one of them had grabbed his arms, pinning him against the wall with a metal-like grip. He struggled, but the other was stronger holding him in place and spitting on his face. “Big mistake, Gallagher,” he growled, the other shifting behind him. Ian saw the glint of metal too late. White-hot pain. It exploded in his side as the knife pierced through his skin into his abdomen and Ian gasped an airless gasp. He felt the familiar warmth of blood soak through his shirt as the blade got pulled out of him and the two thugs released him, letting him slide down the wall onto the ground. “We’re fucking done here,” the one with the knife muttered, grabbing their dazed friend from the ground. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” Ian lay there, clutching his side and trying to keep pressure on the wound as his vision blurred around the edges. The world tilted around him and he struggled to stay conscious all while cursing himself for being such a stupid prick. He needed to hold on – Mickey would be out soon. He just had to wait a little longer.
Mickey stepped outside of the staff entrance groaning, quickly pulling his jacket tighter against the cold. He expected to see Ian waiting by the wall with the trash containers, maybe leaning against one casually with that stupid smirk of his. But what he saw instead made his heart stop for a beat or two.“Gallagher?!” Ian was slumped against the wall on the ground, his hand pressed to his side, blood seeping through his fingers. He shivered ever so slightly and looked up as Mickey rushed over, the latter’s expression somewhere between panic and fury. “Jesus fucking Christ Ian, what happened?” Mickey demanded, reaching for his phone when Ian didn’t reply. “Fuck this, I’m calling 911.” “No, no- wait,” Ian rasped, his voice strained. He grabbed Mickey’s wrist, stopping him from dialling the second 1. “Can’t... I- started it. It’s three against one- I- could fail probation. P-please, Mick.” Mickey cursed under his breath, torn between anger and fear. He hated seeing Ian like this, hated that they couldn’t even have one peaceful night without something going horribly wrong. But he couldn’t ignore Ian’s plea. “Alright, fine,” he muttered. “You’re still fucking bleeding out though, so what the fuck are we doing, huh?! Who even stabbed you? Was it fucking Terry?! Ohhh I’m going to fucking kill that fucking fucker-” Ian looked up weakly, his hand slipping from Mickey’s wrist. “Old- friends... of yours. Ran their mouth about how you’re a faggot and Terry should just kill you to spare everyone- from-” That was all Mickey needed to hear. He didn’t ask any more questions, didn’t need to. Ian had been a stupid idiot. Again. His stupid idiot, to be exact – apparently too in love to hear anyone shit-talk about him. Stupid fucker… He wrapped an arm around Ian, helping him to his feet as carefully as he could. “Come on, let’s get you home, Gallagher.”
By the time they reached the Gallagher house, Ian was barely conscious, his steps faltering with every corner they turned. At the stairs to his home he finally collapsed, too weak to keep going. Without hesitation, Mickey scooped him up right then and there, carrying his gasping and groaning boyfriend inside and gently placing him on the couch. The house seemed empty, the usual chaos and screaming in the kitchen missing – Fuck. “Anyone there? Come out fuckers, Ian is bleeding out on the couch right about now”, Mickey screamed through the room and hoped for a familiar face rushing down the stairs or coming out of the downstairs toilet. But the house remained silent save for Ian’s ragged breathing beside him. Not even Frank rotted somewhere on the ground. Mickey let out a series of curses and grabbed his phone to call his last hope standing: Veronica Fisher. “V, it’s me. Fuck, I need your help. Ian’s been stabbed, it’s uh – bad.” V didn’t ask questions; she just promised to be there as soon as she could. Mickey hung up and knelt beside Ian, one hand resting on his – fuck – way too cold face, the other pressed tightly against his bleeding side. “Stay with me, Ian,” he said quietly, his voice shaking every so slightly. “You’re not fucking leaving me, man. I’ll kill you if you do, I swear-” Ian managed a faint smile despite the pain. “Didn’t... plan to, Mick.” Mickey stayed by his side, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. He didn’t care what it took – those guys were going to pay. He’d blow their brains out with a shotgun, fuck probation. But right now, all that mattered was keeping Ian alive and safe. And for the first time in a long time, Mickey realized – with the familiar feeling of tears welling up in his eyes – that having someone to care about – someone who cared about him – wasn’t such a bad thing after all.