i only came for the free beer 2/2
“Debs will be in a play this Saturday,” Lip says, vaulting over the couch and fishing the remote out of the ashtray.
Ian opens the cupboard and brings out the blue plastic cup. “Oh? What’s it of?”
“Her class is doing The Wizard of Oz. Debs is playing Glinda the Good Witch.” He tosses the invitation at the coffee table after perusing it.
Ian pours the juice and hands it to Lip who makes an appreciative noise and gives him a thumbs up. “You can bring your friend if you like,” Lip says oh so casually. Too casually.
Ian doesn’t look up from the sink. “What friend?”
“You know,” Lip shrugs. “The only guy besides Kevin who knows who Batman and Robin are.” His tone has a hard edge to it though Ian knows the venom isn’t intentional.
“He’s probably busy,” Ian says, thinking about what a picture that’d make: He and Mickey wedged in the backseat of Lip’s Ford pickup in crisp dress pants. Nah. Mickey’d probably laugh in his face if he asked him to come.
“Doing what exactly?”
It’s Ian turn to shrug. He folds himself against the other end of the couch and scoops a handful of nuts from the bowl on the coffee table. “I don’t know. Stuff. Mickey stuff.”
Lip makes a face and sips his juice, looking contemplative, but doesn’t press the issue.
Ian spends all of Wednesday night mulling the idea over though, and by Thursday morning he’s convinced he’s effectively lost his mind.
When on Friday night he and Lip finish patrolling early, he changes out of his Robin suit and heads straight for Mickey’s place.
“Hi,” Ian says, beaming when the door opens. Mandy isn’t home, which is a good sign. He isn’t ready to see her yet, not after last week, still mortified at getting caught with his dick up her brother’s ass.
Someone needs to fix the lock on the bathroom door before something like that happens again, Ian thinks.
“I was wondering,” Ian continues before Mickey could get a word in, “Are you free tomorrow night?”
It takes Mickey a full second to respond. “Why?”
Ian digs the toe of his shoe into the floor, curling in his shoulders shyly. “My sister is playing Glinda the Good Witch in a school production tomorrow night, and I was wondering if you’d like to come. Actually, Lip gave me the idea but we don’t have to sit through the whole thing, you know? We can leave whenever you feel like it, I don’t really mind. Not a big fan of plays, but it’s my sister, so.”
Mickey looks duly unimpressed.
Ian chews the inside of his cheek and starts babbling. “A date if you want to call it that, but I thought you might not want to call it that.”
Mickey gives him a brief once over before leaning against the door with his arms folded. “A date. With your whole family?”
“It’s just.” Ian’s face heats up. “I wanna do things with you outside the bedroom.”
“Kinky,” cuts in Mickey; Ian rolls his eyes.
“Please? Just this once? I’ll go down on my knees if I have to. I really will.”
Mickey mutters under his breath something that sounds a lot like Jesus, you’re pathetic but gives in eventually when Ian makes pleading eyes at him.
“Fine, fuck it. What time does this thing start?”
--
“Well don’t you look... nice,” Fiona says when she meets Mickey outside the auditorium. Her voice is clipped. “And you are?”
Ian takes the liberty of introducing them. “Mickey Milkovich.” He elbows Mickey in the stomach so that Mickey would take the hint. Grudgingly, Mickey shakes Fiona’s hand. She eyes the tattoos on his knuckles but doesn’t comment.
“Fiona!”
Dispelling the awkwardness, thankfully, is Debbie who bounds towards them in her fluffy pink dress, silver crown askew on her head. She gives them a little twirl and taps Ian on the shoulder with her long plastic wand, like when a queen selects someone for knighthood. Then she sees Mickey and her grin fades instantly.
Debbie’s eyes narrow speculatively. “Who’s your friend?”
“Debs, this is Mickey Milk--”
“Isn’t he Robin’s new boyfriend?”
“What?” Mickey says.
“What?” Ian says.
“I saw it on the news. Mickey Milkovich: Robin’s alleged boyfriend. It’s all over the internet.” She steps up to Mickey, gaze sliding down to his brand new pair of loafers. Lip had lent him his old clothes that evening: a brown button down shirt and a pair of jeans that fit him nice and tight. Ian’s been walking a few paces behind him just to get good look at his ass.
“I thought you’d be taller,” Deb tells Mickey.
Ian laughs nervously. “Debs,” he scolds her, patting her teased up hair. She shoots Mickey one last look over her shoulder before wandering off to join the rest of her class backstage.
“Kids, huh,” Ian says. He drops the smile when Fiona excuses herself to go find Veronica.
--
It’s not that the play is boring, it’s just that it’s not Ian’s thing. All the singing is making him sleepy.
When Mickey leaves after the first act, Ian sends Lip a text before following him out the door. Mickey’s standing outside the entrance, smoking, when Ian catches up to him,
“Hey,” Ian says, watching Mickey hollow out his cheeks and then exhale. “Bored?”
Mickey shrugs. They’re good at the whole not-talking thing. Someday, they’re gonna have to work on that, Ian thinks. He hopes they get to that point.
Mickey passes him the cigarette. “Thanks,” Ian smiles, feeling shy all of a sudden as he takes a tiny puff. He hands it back to him and lets their fingers touch, just to see what Mickey would do.
No one’s around to see them so Mickey doesn’t yell or glare or shuffle away like he always does; instead he does nothing.
“You look nice tonight,” Ian tells him. It’s true, of course. He’s not just saying that. Mickey’s not the best looking guy in the room half the time but Ian likes him. A lot. He likes what they have, whatever it is.
“Thanks,” Mickey laughs, picking at the hem of his borrowed shirt. He grinds his cigarette with the heel of his shoe and then glances sideways at Ian balling his fists inside the pockets of his jacket just so he has something to do.
“You look good too, you know,” Mickey says charitably.
Ian looks up in surprise. “Yeah?” he grins.
Mickey shrugs. “Not too shabby.”
Ian nods. Bolstered by this sudden change in atmosphere, this burst of kindness, he steps closer until they’re standing chest-to-chest.
Ian leans in, cupping Mickey’s shoulder gently to whisper in his ear. “Wanna get out of here?” he says, hoping he sounds as casual as he’s trying to be and not all that hopeful.
Ian feels Mickey draw in a sharp breath, shiver.
If Ian were the type to talk dirty he’d tell Mickey all sorts of things right now, like how he’s always wanted to come in Mickey’s face if Mickey’d only let him, or fuck Mickey with a vibrator and leave it inside him for hours until he’s a shaking babbling mess, rutting against Ian’s thigh.
Crazy shit like that that Ian’s never even dreamed of doing to anyone until Mickey came along.
But Ian’s not the type, which is why people often think of him as the Good Kid, the Nice Kid, the kid least likely to become a superhero vigilante, so instead he settles for putting on his most earnest smile and skipping back a step.
“C’mon,” he says, holding out a hand, knowing Mickey won’t take it but hoping for the best anyway; he’s optimistic like that which often leaves him susceptible to disappointment.
“I’ll even buy you dinner afterwards,” Ian promises, raising both eyebrows. “You must be hungry, right?”
Mickey snorts, rolls back his shoulders and sniffs, sign language for: Jesus, what am I gonna do with you?
“Food and a blowjob?” He slaps Ian’s hand away but doesn’t shrug him off the second time when Ian wraps an arm around his bicep. “What a fucking gentleman.”
--
Ian rubs his hands together when their food arrives piping hot.
Mickey reaches over the table to steal a french fry from his plate and Ian doesn’t even complain because he’s in such a good mood. Sex does that to him, makes him feels loose limbed and content. Makes him feel desirable.
Eleven City Diner is packed tonight so the two of them have to talk over the din of multiple conversations going on around them.
Mickey pinches the crust off his Spring sandwich. Half corned beef, half pastrami double decker sandwich on rye with swiss cheese.
Ian, chewing idly on a greasy fry, watches Mickey eat.
You can learn a lot about a person by watching them eat, Fiona used to say to him. That’s how you knew whether or not they were the type to stay the night or leave the light on in the bathroom or give you spare change when you needed it the most.
Ian’s not sure how eating habits equated to any of those but that’s Fiona for you. She’s very perceptive, a trait that bypassed Ian completely.
Mickey’s cheeks bulge out as he chews and he licks the pads of his fingers clean before sipping on his chocolate milkshake.
Ian would make fun of him for his choice of beverage but he doesn’t want to risk getting kicked under the table. Besides, he doesn’t want to ruin a good evening, something Ian hasn’t had in very long awhile.
“Enjoying your food?”
Mickey snatches another fry from him.
They hit the street again, afterwards, flagging down a cab after a few unsuccessful tries. Ian can think of a few things to top what is already the best night of his life but manages to reign in his enthusiasm even when Mickey opens the cab door for him.
Ian hands Mickey the bag of takeout which Mickey accepts without comment.
Ian feels like he’s the fucking man.
--
Mickey asks to be dropped off a few blocks from his street, something the cab driver is more than grateful to comply with considering the neighborhood’s crime rate.
“Here,” Ian says, handing him a crisp hundred dollar bill. “Keep the change.”
He joins Mickey in the street, falling into step with him, hands inside his pockets. It’s a cold night tonight, the sky wide with no stars, the air sharp in his lungs.
Ian bumps playfully into Mickey’s side. Mickey doesn’t bump back but he smiles a tiny smile that makes Ian’s heart climb up his throat.
“Hey,” Ian says, and because it’d be a shame not to, stops and leans over to kiss him.
For once, probably because he’s caught off guard or tired or full or just fucking comfortable in his skin, Mickey doesn’t evade him, gliding his hands up Ian’s hips, his back, coming up to rest them on Ian’s shoulders.
Ian feels the rasp of Mickey’s stubble against his cheek when they pull away simultaneously, breathing the same air, pressed chest-to-chest.
Ian slips a hand inside Mickey’s shirt. His stomach is warm. His ribs are warm. Ian runs his thumb along the outer edges of a newly healed scar on Mickey’s side. That’s warm too.
Then someone wolfwhistles at them from across the street and Mickey turns away abruptly, zipping up his borrowed jacket over his borrowed shirt. And no more touching, no more anything.
The moment broken, Ian has to sprint to keep up with him.
“I’m not letting you walk me home,” Mickey tells him, shaking a cigarette free from the pack.
“Okay,” Ian says, trying to figure out what to say so he doesn’t piss Mickey off or get punched. Or both, if he’s lucky.
“Are you still following me?” Mickey asks once they round the corner. “I thought I told you not to.”
“I’m not,” Ian says a little too quickly for Mickey not to be able to spot the lie. “We just happen to be going the same direction.”
Mickey rolls his eyes at the joke. “Right. Get lost. You’ve done enough tonight.”
Enough? Ian thinks, feeling furious all of a sudden. Not nearly enough, never nearly enough.
He throws his arms out in exasperation. “Jesus, Mickey. Would you calm the fuck down? I just want to be with you, all right? Why do you have to always make it so hard?”
Mickey glares at him but without any real heat. “Fuck off, Gallagher.”
“Mickey!”
“I said fuck off,” Mickey hisses. He shoves Ian aside and lumbers down the street.
Ian walks a few paces behind him, hands dug inside the pockets of his jeans, trying his level best to seem casual and cool, and not, in spite of the bile rising in his stomach, desperate and sad. The only thing worse than looking needy is if he started the water works.
“Mickey,” Ian sighs, hoping Mickey would turn around and look at him. But Mickey doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.
Mickey tosses the bag of takeout over his shoulder and it lands with a splat on the sidewalk, a mess of noodles and meatballs, red like a massacre. The door slams before Ian can run up to it and he stands there on the porch for a few minutes before resting his hand on the door, wishing he could will it to open.
Frowning, Ian turns and pulls the collar of his jacket over his mouth. His breath moistens it, and by the time he gets home, the moisture has turned to ice.
--
Ian stumbles into bed face-first. The second his eyes close, however, Lip is at his side, prodding him gently with the toe of his boot. He’s dressed. As Batman.
Ian groans and waves him off. “Lip, I’m not in the mood for your games. Mickey and I just had a fight.”
Lip prods him again, harder this time. Ian yelps. “Jesus. What do you want?”
Lip throws his suit at him, then his mask, which ricochets off the wall and clatters to the floor. “Get dressed. Mayor’s taken hostage again.”
“That’s the sixth time that’s happened in the last month,” snaps Ian, unbuttoning his shirt.
Lip lights a cigarette and it bobs as he speaks. “Yeah, well. Man’s got a lot of enemies. Hurry up.”
--
Ian gives Mickey as much space as he needs.
Grand gestures won’t work on him, and neither will begging, or bribery, so Ian leaves him alone for a week and stews in his misery.
In the meantime, he smokes a lot of pot and helps old ladies with their plumbing when he’s out on patrol, stopping by Kash & Grab when he’s in the neighborhood for free Orange Hostess cupcakes and Bud Lights.
Sometimes, Ian gets the feeling Kash is interested in nailing him, but he’s probably only imagining it because he’s gone awhile without sex.
Ian’s not sure what he misses more: waking up at three in the morning and being able to hold someone while they slept or watching the rhythmic bob of Mickey’s head as he sucked Ian off.
Because even though Mickey kicked in his sleep and hogged all the blankets and laughed open-mouthed spewing food everywhere, he let Ian hug him sometimes, after sex, before sex, whenever he was feeling nice, and shared his cigarettes, and his beer, and his shirts, and once, even made Ian breakfast then let Ian do him on the kitchen table.
Ian can’t figure Mickey out half the time, because he’s not like Fiona who can tell on sight what a person’s intentions are, their goals, whether they plan to stick around for the long haul and put up with your shit. It’s why she insists on going out with Steve (or Jimmy or whatever he calls himself these days) because even though he lies and steals and bribes officers of the law, at the end of day, he’s a good guy and he loves her.
Ian can’t say the same for Mickey; they hardly talk at all.
Ian spends the afternoon at the basement (The Bat Cave), watching the Radar for changes, trying not to nod off and feel sorry for himself. He’s not even eighteen yet, he tells himself. He’ll get over it.
Lip pushes himself from underneath the Bugatti (The Bat Mobile) throwing an oil-soaked towel aside before making himself some coffee.
“So are you guys, you know?” Lip asks, making an indeterminate motion with his hands.
Ian props his chin on his fist, blinking out of his thoughts. “Broken up?”
“On hiatus.”
Ian ponders the question. “I don’t know,” he says after a moment. “We haven’t spoken in awhile. Think I must’ve pissed him off.”
“Yeah? What’d you do? Serenade him?”
That almost makes Ian laugh. “No, not even close,” he says, pressing his cheek to the edge of the table, imagining it now, smiling. Mickey would throw a beer bottle at him, probably.
“I kind of kissed him. In the street. Someone saw. Then he went crazy. As usual.”
“Yikes.” Lip pours him coffee out of sympathy and hunkers down next to him at the console.
“So what happens now?” asks Lip, stretching his tired muscles.
Ian shrugs and wishes he knew.
--
It takes Ian another two days to cave.
He shows up at Mickey’s porch one night, bringing beer with him and food, because Lip says you can never go wrong with either one. People may let you down, he said. But never underestimate the power of a full stomach.
Ian sniffs at an armpit to check if he’s remembered to put deodorant on then smoothes back his hair and rings the doorbell.
Nothing.
He tries again.
The light is in the living room is on but he can’t detect movement. Ian checks the door. It creaks open easily when he turns the knob. Cautiously stepping inside, he puts the food down on the coffee table and does a quick perimeter check.
“Mickey?” he calls out. No answer. A bowl of Cheerios sits congealing at the kitchen table.
Ian feels his heart jitter frantically out of his chest as his mind runs through a million and one scenarios. Before he can properly freak out, he calls Lip for help, carding a shaky hand through his hair and grinding his teeth.
“Lip?” He lets out a relieved sigh when the line connects. “I’m at Mickey’s and--”
That’s about the last thing Ian remembers saying before he’s knocked unconscious.
--
Ian wakes tied to a chair.
This is nothing new; it’s has happened before, like a couple of times when he pissed the Riddler off by giving him lame answers to his riddles.
Ian is sure he can find a way out of this. Except. This time it may not be so easy.
The chair he’s tethered to is facing a glass window overlooking the city. Right now he’s just a civilian, not Robin the Wonderboy, Batman’s loyal sidekick, which may complicate things.
Ian gives up the struggle when the rope starts chafing his skin.
It’s too dark to make out if there’s anyone behind him but he squints anyway, deciding to push his luck.
Flanked by her underlings, the person he least expects walks out of the shadows.
Ian recognizes that feline gait.
“Hello, dearest,” she smiles, sliding her hands down his shoulder.
“Catwoman.”
Ian feels all the blood drain from his face.
--
“So, Ian Gallagher, son of Frank Gallagher, is Batman’s trusted sidekick.”
Catwoman crosses her legs, drumming impatient fingers against her knee. Her lips curl in disdain.
Ian checks the left side of the room for exits. None. “You don’t know that,” he says, stalling. No exits to the right, either. Where the fuck is he?
Catwoman rises to her feet, laughs, high and harsh. Her lipstick is bright red in the murky dark. A leather gloved hand rises to meet the side of Ian’s face and Ian yelps, flinching when it rises again, threatening to strike.
“Don’t lie to me boy,” Catwoman says through gritted teeth. Her fingernails hurt Ian’s scalp when she rakes them up his hairline. “I bugged your boyfriend’s house. I know it’s you.”
She gestures to one of her underlings. Out of the dark stumbles Mickey, face bruised and lip bleeding, hands tied behind his back. Underling #1 has a tight grip on his arm which Mickey tries to dislodge unsuccessfully.
“Mickey,” breathes Ian, swallowing thickly in his throat. “You’re alive.”
Mickey shoots him a blank look, then turns away.
“Not for long,” says Catwoman, pulling out a pistol which she points straight at Mickey’s head. “You will tell me who Batman is or he dies.” She looks like she’s not fucking kidding about it, too.
And then the lights start flickering, before shutting off completely, plunging the room into inky darkness.
All hell breaks loose.
--
Catwoman screams.
A shot is fired.
Ian hears the heavy thump of a body hitting the floor and his thoughts turn immediately wild and panicky. Mickey.
Ian tips the chair over, grunting at the bloom of pain when his jaw hits the floor.
Ian crawls over to where he estimates the body has fallen but then the lights turn back on again and Lip is standing there, over him, over the dead body of underling #1, looking very very pissed.
Lip cuts off the ropes. They look up simultaneously when they hear the click of a gun. “Not so fast, Batman.”
Shit. “He’s got Mickey.”
Ian raises both his hands in surrender. Lip’s voice doesn’t break when he says, “Now there’s a good kitty. Put the gun down.”
Underling #2 is standing right behind Lip, pointing a gun at the back of his head and still Lip’s face is impassive.
It’s always been like this though, Ian thinks; Lip is Batman after all, take-charge kind of guy that he is, the show runner.
Ian is the reluctant sidekick who gets thrown around a lot and kidnapped-for-ransom and occasionally, propositioned by criminals-in-the-making. The weaker link. Batman’s Achilles heel.
Ian can throw a mean punch but that’s about the extent of his abilities. Lip, though. Lip can take care of anything. That’s why he’s Batman. That’s why he’s the Dark Knight. He’s tough and smart and strong and he’ll do the right thing even if it means putting his life on the line. That’s why Ian can’t let him die.
Ian meets Mickey’s gaze levelly. I’m doing this for you, he thinks, evening out his breathing, bracing himself for what may be the dumbest thing he’ll ever have to do in his life.
Ian grabs Lip’s gun from his holster, uses it on underling #2 before whirling back quickly to face Catwoman, gun still in the air.
“Bull’s eye,” she says when their eyes meet. She tips her head back, laughing, and it’s only then that Ian realizes that his chest is bleeding.
Ian crumples to the ground, clutching his middle.
--
Everything is a blur after that, like Ian’s head is being held underwater and he’s watching everything in slow motion.
Lip chases Catwoman to the rooftop but not before screaming at Mickey to call a fucking ambulance.
Ian doesn’t realize Mickey is talking to him until he’s yanked into Mickey’s lap and Mickey’s cradling his face and pushing Ian’s sweaty hair out of his eyes.
“Hey,” Ian says gently, wondering where all the time had gone.
There’s a hitch in Mickey’s breathing. “Don’t you fucking die on me Gallagher,” he warns. “Don’t you fucking dare or I will kill you.”
Ian laughs, even though the pain makes him delirious; he feels disconnected from reality, like the only thing attaching him to this world is the pain. The pain and Mickey.
“So you care about me after all, huh?” he says, trying to lighten the mood. Ian doesn’t dare look down, too scared to accept the fact he may actually be dying.
“Don’t be a prick,” Mickey says to him, and Ian must’ve been imagining things because Mickey squeezes his eyes a few times before pawing roughly at his face. He’s not crying. Milkoviches do not cry. Besides, Ian’s not too sure Mickey even had tear ducts.
“Help is coming,” Mickey assures Ian, rubbing Ian’s cheek with a thumb, the tenderness in the gesture startling Ian to look into his face. Ian resents what he sees there and is suddenly even more afraid to die.
His head rolls to the side. “I’ll try not to bleed out,” Ian says, stroking Mickey’s forearm but Mickey doesn’t laugh, and just presses a dry kiss to his forehead.
Mickey squeezes his shoulder hard enough to hurt.
When the edges of his vision turn white, Ian grabs blindly for Mickey’s hand and hopes for the best.
--
The next time Ian opens his eyes, he’s in a hospital bed, his chest swathed in bandages.
He reaches up to swipe at the gunk he feels has crusted on his face and raises an eyebrow when he realizes what it is. Make-up.
Debbie leans over the bed, waving at him. “Sorry. I was bored. Did you sleep well? You were out for four days.”
Ian attempts to sit up.
“Fiona and Steve went to get some breakfast. Lip is outside with your boyfriend.” Deb starts putting her make-up kit away. She hands Ian a juicebox with a bendable straw. “Thirsty?”
Ian nods, slurping gratefully, before violently backtracking. “My boyfriend?”
Debbie shrugs. “Fiona says that’s who he is although personally,” she whispers, “I think you could do better.”
Ian laughs. Debbie leaves the room to go fetch Mickey. When the door opens, Ian’s heart does a little somersault.
“I thought you had died,” Mickey says by way of greeting.
“Well,” Ian says, setting the juicebox aside. “I didn’t. Here I am. Alive and well.”
A ghost of a smile flickers across Mickey’s face but disappears just as quickly as it came.
Mickey’s wearing the same shirt he always wears, the threadbare grey t-shirt that was once, at some point or another, probably somebody else’s, the print faded beyond recognition.
Ian beckons him over but just before Mickey could take another step, the door bursts open and in spills Fiona and the others.
Even Veronica and Kevin are there, armed with pastries and coffee and balloons, all of them talking on top of each other and rushing to his side.
Ian watches helplessly over Fiona’s shoulder as Mickey quietly leaves, ribs hurting when she squeezes too hard.
--
Mickey comes back in sometime in the afternoon, after Lip’s big speech about family and never wearing the cape again. Ian dozes off a few times watching the news but he hears Mickey come in almost instantly and jerks awake, recognizing the steady rhythm of his footsteps anywhere.
“You look like shit,” Mickey tells him, flinging himself over to the chair next to the bed.
Ian feels sheepish, remembering the make-up on his face, and wonders what he must look like to Mickey. He can’t think of a proper response so he shrugs his shoulders, and turns the TV off.
Mickey’s back faces the windows so that it looks like the light seeping in through the blinds is making his head glow.
“I’m sorry you were dragged into this,” Ian says before Mickey can think about leaving. “I’m an idiot.”
“Yeah, you kind of are, Gallagher,” Mickey agrees.
Despite his best efforts, Ian breaks into a yawn.
“Tired already Sleeping Beauty?” Mickey asks him, voice low and raspy like he’s tired too. Lip said something about him dropping in a couple of times and staying the night though Ian wonders if that was just something Lip said to make him feel better because that doesn’t sound like something Mickey’d do.
Ian scratches at where the IV drip is embedded into his arm then drops his head back against the pillows.
“Maybe,” he says, trying his best to fight the wave of sleepiness descending over him. “Will you still be here when I wake up, though?”
Mickey’s face doesn’t change when he picks up a magazine from the rack and makes himself comfortable in his seat. He moves the chair closer and puts both his feet up on the bed, one on top of Ian’s shin as he unfurls his magazine.
Ian cups his knee and closes his eyes.
“Sleep wonderboy,” he hears Mickey say.
It’s the first time ever that the nickname’s made Ian smile.
also for reference: x.
