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The thing is, Ian never imagined his life would turn out like this.
When he was younger, he always thought he would be a doctor. Or a teacher. Or maybe even a fireman, riding around on a big red truck and helping people. That’s really all Ian ever wanted to do—help people—but his youth was not kind to him. He stumbled into more than a few seedy places, and met one too many shady characters, and before he knew it, his whole life had been derailed.
Not that it had a great starting point before that—dirt poor, one of six siblings without a parent between them, an IQ that doesn’t break the bank—but by the time Ian reached seventeen, it was evident that his previous dreams of a strait-laced career were just that. Dreams.
He does alright for himself, despite all of that. Growing up in the southside made him overly familiar with the area, and the varied kinds of people he met during his teenage years gave him an understanding of the underbelly of the city that most cops would kill to have. It’s just as well; most cops around here couldn’t find a suspect if he was standing across the bar from them with a loaded gun in their hand.
Ian still gets to help people, in his own way. Or at least that’s what he tells himself. Most of the time the news he delivers isn’t exactly good, but if people are willing to pay him for answers, then that’s what he’ll provide. He doesn’t mind the work, honestly, and he really doesn’t mind the heavy weight of the title that sits at the end of his name.
Ian Gallagher, P.I.
That’s what it says on his office door in shiny brass letters, and Ian always feels a sense of pride when he reads it every day when he comes into work. Wednesday morning is no different, and he can’t help but smile to himself while he pulls his keys out to unlock the door.
Only to find that it’s already open.
Ian freezes. He pushes his suit jacket to the side, reaching around for the gun pressed against his back, tucked into the waistband of his pants. His fingers loosely grip the handle, and he pushes the door open slowly.
It creaks just as Ian’s getting a visual of the room, and he mentally kicks himself for not fixing that last week like he said he was going to.
There’s a woman sitting across from his desk, and her head turns when she hears the noise. She doesn’t look at Ian, just twists her neck far enough to see him out of the corner of her eye before staring back at his desk.
She waits.
Ian loosens his grip on the gun and walks fully into the room. It’s a small office, not much bigger than a glorified coat closet if he’s honest, but it has a desk and two chairs and a secondhand coffee machine that only sparks in the outlet sometimes. Ian hangs his jacket and his hat on the hook on the back of the door, then slowly makes his way around his desk.
He takes in the woman before him. Big eyes with lots of makeup, a heavy fur coat, a carefully trained expressionless face, and a lot of perfume. Way too much for eight o’clock in the morning—if it is indeed morning for her.
Ian narrows his eyes. “Hello.”
“The door was unlocked,” is all she says in a thick Russian accent.
Ian knows it wasn’t, but he doesn’t tip his hand. On second inspection, he sees the smudged lines of her makeup at the corners of her eyes, and he thinks the fur coat might be fake. She looks tired, in the way that everyone on this side of town always looks tired.
“Okay,” he says with a steady voice, dropping a few folders and this morning’s paper on his desk. He lowers himself down into his chair, never breaking eye contact with the mystery woman. “What can I do for you, Ms…”
She looks him over for the first time since he entered her line of sight. Her gaze is scrutinizing, but Ian doesn’t flinch under her hard stare. When she meets his eyes again, she hums.
Ian raises his brows.
“Does it matter?” she asks, crossing her legs. “Names are just words.”
“Great,” Ian deadpans. “How ‘bout you give me one?”
She waves him off as she peers out the small window to her right. “You can call me Svetlana.”
Ian watches her for a second. He can’t tell if it’s fake.
“Okay, Svetlana,” he says, trying the name out for himself. It’s slow and clunky on his incredibly American tongue, but he pushes past that. “What brings you to my office?”
She stares at him for a long minute before finally opening her purse.
Svetlana digs around for something inside, and Ian studies her. Her hands move quickly, shuffling around the contents with precision. Her nails have a fresh coat of dark colored paint on them, and she wears a simple gold band on her left ring finger.
She wordlessly places a photograph on Ian’s desk and sits back in her chair.
Ian blinks at the picture a few too many times and his entire body goes rigid as his blood runs cold.
Svetlana taps the corner of the photograph. “You follow this man. You find out where he goes, and when. You see who he talks to, and what he says. Details—as many as your small orange head can carry—and you bring them back to me.”
Ian stares down at the picture and blinks again. It’s a black and white photograph of a man taking a drag of a cigarette, smoke pouring from between his lips and the stick held loosely between his fingers. He’s not looking at the camera, but somewhere close to it, and there’s an annoyed crease between his brows and a scowl on his face. His hair is dark and slicked back, and his knuckles are branded with his family’s trademark tattoos.
Ian looks up at Svetlana for a long second before taking another look at the photograph. He stares at it for so long he’s pretty sure he’s committed it to memory, even though he really doesn’t have to. It’s a face almost everyone in the southside knows—and knows to avoid.
Ian sits back in his chair and absentmindedly swipes at his mouth. He studies Svetlana carefully, trying to decide his next move.
He nods at the photograph. “Do you know who this is?”
Svetlana arches a brow at him. “Do you?”
Ian narrows his eyes at her. He can’t get a read on this woman, and it’s really starting to piss him off.
“Look, lady,” he starts, “I don’t know what you’ve got yourself mixed up in here, but my advice? Look the other way, and back away slowly. This man… He’s dangerous.”
“Dangerous,” Svetlana scoffs under her breath. “He is not man; he is boy.”
She says it with such conviction that it throws Ian for a second.
“Svetlana,” he says slowly. “Do you know who this is?”
She tilts her head up and looks down her nose at Ian.
“He is piece of shit husband,” she spits back, looking him straight in the eye. “That is who he is.”
Ian’s mouth falls open.
He can count on one hand the number of times he’s been stunned by something he finds out about one of his clients, and two of them—count it, three of them—have happened in this office, today.
“We have agreement,” she tells him, like they’re business partners who also just happen to share the same bed. “No secrets. And yet—he lies.”
Ian can’t do anything but blink again.
“About what? I do not know,” she says calmly, picking at her nails. “This is what I pay you to find out.”
“Your husband,” he says, finally responding to her sentence from two minutes ago. He speaks slowly, like he almost can’t believe what he’s saying.
Svetlana nods, the barest dip of her chin.
“You’re… Svetlana Milkovich.”
She doesn’t say anything back. She just stares.
“And you want me,” Ian continues, “to tail Mickey Milkovich. The son of one of Chicago’s most infamous crime lords.”
Svetlana quirks a brow at the use of her husband’s first name. “You know him?”
“Know of him,” Ian corrects. “We grew up in the same neighborhood, a couple blocks apart. I think he went to school with my brother. I know his reputation more than anything, really.”
Svetlana looks him over again. “So, he knows you?”
“No,” Ian says, shaking his head. “I don’t think so. We ran in different circles back then.”
He doesn’t tell her about the one summer Mickey used to rob the corner store Ian worked in. He doesn’t tell her about the time Mickey beat his brother Lip to a pulp. He definitely doesn’t tell her about Mandy, the infamous sister of the Milkovich brothers, who Ian befriended at sixteen before she ran away. Before she got out.
He’s not lying, exactly. He really doesn’t think Mickey knows who he is. The last time he saw the guy was seven years and two prison stints ago. Ian was a foot shorter and forty pounds scrawnier; just another freckle faced kid who blended into the background of whatever terror one of the Milkovich boys was inflicting on the neighborhood.
“So, you will do it?” Svetlana asks, breaking Ian out of his memories.
It’s a bad idea. It’s a really, truly bad idea, and the thing is—Ian knows it’s an awful, awful idea.
But he stares at the picture sitting face up on his desk, his eyes raking over every minuscule detail of Mickey Milkovich’s expression, and—not for the first time—Ian’s curiosity gets the better of him.
“Yeah,” he tells Svetlana. “I’ll do it.”
She stands from her chair, tapping her fingers on the edge of her purse as she stares at Ian and weighs something in her head.
“One week, orange boy,” she tells him, taking a stack of high denomination bills out of her wallet and laying them on Ian’s desk. “You have one week. Then I want answers.”
Ian shakes his head, leaning back in his seat. “It might take longer than that.”
Svetlana eyes him carefully, then adds a few more bills to the pile.
“No,” she tells him. “It will not.”
She turns to leave Ian’s office, her perfume wafting over to him with her movements. She doesn’t bother to say a goodbye. Neither does Ian.
And while he watches her walk out the door, the one with the fancy brass letters on the window, he taps his finger along the edge of the black and white photograph, and he can’t help but think of two things.
He is so monumentally screwed—and her fur coat is definitely fake.
Ian Gallagher knows exactly three things about Mickey Milkovich.
One: He is the youngest son of the feared crime lord Terry Milkovich. He has four older brothers, all of which have done at least some time in the Illinois State Penitentiary, two of whom are currently behind bars right now.
Two: Despite being the youngest (and smallest) Milkovich brother, Mickey is by far the smartest—and the deadliest. He served seven years for attempted murder just after his eighteenth birthday, and rumor has it he finished the hit from the inside. Even though no judge could ever make a subsequent murder charge stick.
Three: Mickey Milkovich is fucking hot.
He’s been good looking for as long as Ian can remember. Even back when they were kids, when Mickey was sixteen and constantly bruised or bloody or dirty, Ian couldn’t help but notice how beautiful the boy was. With his slicked back hair and his perfectly arched brows, Ian was constantly sneaking looks when he wasn’t supposed to.
Ian has always had an eye for danger; has always been attracted to those who can give him that thrill. That’s one thing he hasn’t grown out of yet—though he’s not sure he ever will.
Ian had almost forgotten entirely about his childhood crush on Mickey Milkovich until he saw that black and white photograph sitting face up on his desk. Svetlana had called him a boy, but Ian thinks he’s anything but. His hair is still gelled back, but with a little more practice now, a little more finesse. He’s filled out his oddly shaped frame, with big arms and a broad chest, and that same fuck-off swagger to his walk that even prison couldn’t shake from him.
He might’ve gone into lockup still a little wet behind the ears, but he came out the other side a man. That much Ian is sure of, as he watches Mickey duck out of an apartment building halfway down the street.
The apartment is where Mickey lives, along with Svetlana and their son—which, Ian supposes, is the fourth thing he knows about Mickey Milkovich, knows that he’s a father—but that’s not out of the ordinary. It’s late, which isn’t a crime, but it is suspicious, and Ian makes a note of it in his journal before stepping out onto the sidewalk and following Mickey from a good distance behind.
It's been four days since Svetlana showed up in Ian’s office. He spent the first twenty-four hours trying to do research on his latest target—turning up with shockingly little information on the man—and the last two days doing this. Following him every time he goes anywhere.
So far it’s been routine stops to his father’s old stomping grounds and the meat packing plant on seventh where Mickey supposedly works while he’s on parole.
But tonight feels different.
It’s almost midnight on a Sunday, and the whole city is practically asleep. There are only a handful of places with open doors at this hour, none of them good, and Ian dreads venturing to any of them as he watches Mickey round the corner into downtown.
He gets on the L, and so does Ian. He takes a shortcut through a back alley, so does Ian. He ends up on a sidewalk in Boystown staring up at a neon flashing Open sign, and so does—
Wait a minute.
Ian can’t help but stand there and let his jaw slowly drop open as he watches Mickey fucking Milkovich square his shoulders and take a steadying breath just outside of one of Chicago’s most notorious underground gay bars.
One of Ian’s personal favorites, if he had to choose, but that’s not saying much.
Mickey quickly looks around, but Ian makes sure to stay hidden in the shadows of a nearby parked truck. Mickey jogs across the road with his hands in his pockets, and nods at the bouncer as he dips inside.
Ian hesitates, then follows.
His eyes adjust quickly to the dark rooms and neon lights, and Ian isn’t surprised to find that this place is just as busy on Sundays as it is any other night of the week. Men in tight gold shorts dance on raised platforms, and other men tuck dollar bills into their waistbands. Ian finds a couple of guys already trying to hold his attention with their eyes, but Ian doesn’t let his gaze linger on any of them as he quickly scans the room searching for his target.
He finds Mickey by the bar, weaving through the crowds of people all alone.
Ian casually makes his own way over to the bar, taking a seat on a barstool a few seats down from where Mickey sits. He pretends to be fascinated with the rows of alcohol on the shelf in front of him, like he hasn’t sat here many times before whispering into the ear of whatever guy was sitting next to him at the time.
“Hey, Ian,” the bartender greets, and Ian can see Mickey turn his head out of the corner of his eye. “The usual?”
Ian’s entire body goes rigid, and in his panic, he can’t remember the bartender’s name. Even though he’s pretty sure they’ve made out in the bathroom at least twice.
“Yeah, thanks,” Ian says with a weak smile, once again looking everywhere but at Mickey. He’s usually better at this sort of thing, the close-range stake out. He doesn’t know why he feels so flustered.
Or maybe he does—and that’s the problem.
The bartender places a bottle of beer in front of Ian and Ian takes a casual sip. He chances a look down the bar, not quite at Mickey, but close enough. He watches the bartender nod at Mickey and Mickey taps twice on the bar.
Ian wonders briefly if that’s some sort of code, wonders if some drug deal or scam is about to go down. But then the bartender pours a double shot of whiskey, and Ian thinks he needs to get a fucking grip.
His head is still spinning from the fact that Mickey fucking Milkovich is sitting at the bar in a gay club in Boystown, and Ian can’t figure out why.
Or maybe he can.
But that’s a different problem altogether.
Mickey picks up the glass with his drink in it and spins it in his fingers for a moment.
Ian finally chances a glance at Mickey, looking at his side profile for the first time. Ian studies the straight line of his nose and the soft curve of his lips, watching intently as the thumb of Mickey’s free hand comes up to stroke along his brow. Ian stares at him, probably for longer than he should, but he can’t tear his eyes away.
The blue and purple lights of the club streak along his face every few seconds and Ian thinks he looks absolutely beautiful.
And then Mickey turns, his glass still held halfway to his lips, and looks right at Ian.
Ian gasps. He turns away as quickly as he can, but he knows Mickey saw him staring. He blinks down at his beer bottle for a long few seconds, panicking in his head before he decides to chance another look over. Maybe he can play this off.
But when he looks back, all he sees is the blur of a black button up scrambling off the barstool, and a few crumpled bills thrown down on the counter next to his untouched drink.
“Shit,” Ian mumbles, paying for his own drink hastily as he runs off into the crowd.
Mickey almost loses him in the middle of the dance floor, but Ian is a trained professional. He sidesteps and squeezes by too many people to count, his eyes catching a glimpse of slicked back dark hair every few seconds. He follows Mickey over to the side wall, then down the back hallway, and past the bathrooms.
When Ian finally rounds the corner into what he thinks is a dead end, he watches Mickey shoulder his way through the double doors marked Emergency Exit Only.
The threatened alarm bells never go off, and Ian rolls his eyes.
Ian follows him out the double doors, stepping out into an alley on the north side of the club. Or is it the east? He blinks against the streetlight filtering in from somewhere to his left, trying to get his eyes to readjust to the sudden brightness, when two hands grab him around the collar and throw him farther down the alley.
Ian stumbles, but he doesn’t fall. He catches his balance and spins around, grabbing his gun out of the back of his waistband and aiming it at the dark figure in front of him.
Mickey takes a half step out of the shadows.
“Don’t make me shoot you,” Ian says evenly, straightening his arm holding the gun.
Mickey’s brows jump, but he doesn’t move. Ian puffs up his chest slightly, feeling a little more confident than he did a second ago. Maybe he sounded more threatening than he thought, or maybe Mickey’s just more scared of guns than Ian assumed. Doesn’t really matter the reason, because right now he has Mickey fucking Milkovich bending to his will.
For the moment.
Because when Mickey’s gaze flicks down to the gun, Ian sees his mistake.
The safety is still on, and Mickey clocks it a split second before Ian does.
Before Ian can even think about making a move to turn it off, Mickey’s on him, grabbing his shoulder and twisting his arm until Ian drops the gun, one of them kicking it away by accident and sending it scattering across the alleyway. Mickey twists his arm again, going for pain instead of just disarming, but Ian fights back. He lands a blow to Mickey’s ribs, and then they’re off to the races.
The two boys struggle against each other, pushing and pulling in a half lit fight in a back alley in Boystown. Ian gets the upper hand, with the taller stature and longer arms, holding Mickey’s swinging fists at bay, but Mickey is scrappy in a way that everyone always underestimates, and he takes Ian out at the knees the first chance he gets.
It’s just enough to throw Ian off balance, and a second later Mickey has him pinned up against the brick wall, his fingers digging into Ian’s shoulders.
“Who sent you?” Mickey asks, breathing hard.
Ian squirms against Mickey’s hold, trying to break free. One hand is trapped behind his back, and the other holds Mickey’s forearm in a vice grip, tugging and squeezing and twisting, but Mickey doesn’t let go.
“You a cop?” Mickey asks.
“Fuck no, I’m not a cop,” Ian spits back, slightly offended he even had to ask.
“Then who sent you? Huh?” Mickey asks again, slamming Ian’s shoulders against the brick wall. “Was it Terry?”
“Terry Milkovich?” Ian asks, his eyes going wide. His blood runs cold just thinking about Terry Milkovich even knowing his name. “Are you insane?”
Mickey’s knuckles collide with Ian’s cheekbone.
“Fuck,” Ian groans, spitting blood to the side.
“Was it the fucking Mexicans?” Mickey asks. He tightens his grip on Ian. “Like I told Dante—I’m out. For good.”
Mickey winds up to hit him again, but Ian cuts him off.
“No, it wasn’t… Nobody sent me!” Ian lies. “I-I saw you in the club, and I just… I wanted to buy you a drink. That’s it.”
Mickey scoffs. “Try again.”
Ian’s thoughts are racing a mile a minute, but he doubles down on the lie.
“Look, man,” he starts, sounding more confident than he feels. “You were sitting alone, and you’re hot. Can you blame a guy for staring?”
He’s half expecting another punch to the jaw for calling Mickey hot, but when one doesn’t come, Ian almost starts to relax.
Mickey stares at him, his eyes studying his face. His head tilts slightly to one side, and Ian thinks for a minute that maybe Mickey is actually buying it, until Mickey leans in so close his lips are hovering just next to his ear, and every thought Ian has ever had suddenly flies right out of his head.
“Bullshit.”
Ian can feel Mickey’s breath on the flushed skin of his neck as he whispers the word, and he’d be lying if he said this wasn’t turning him on at least a little bit right now.
“You’ve been tailing me since long before the club, Gallagher.”
Ian’s blood runs cold at the use of his last name and the knowledge that Mickey knows exactly who he is. He squirms against Mickey’s grip again, but it’s halfhearted.
Mickey pulls his head back, his face expressionless as he stares Ian down. “So why don’t you stop lying, and tell me the real reason you’re here?”
Ian swallows. He’s got one more card to play.
“Who said I was lying?”
There must be just enough truth in his voice when he speaks, because for a moment—for one, single moment—Mickey’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly, and his gaze drops down to Ian’s lips.
And that’s when Ian strikes.
He shoves Mickey off of him in the split second of distraction, pushing and twisting until he has Mickey pinned up against the wall instead. Except, his hands don’t land on Mickey’s shoulders, or his wrists, and all Ian can really do is stand there, with his chest hovering inches away from Mickey’s and his hands wrapped around Mickey’s hips.
Ian’s brain short circuits for a few seconds, but so does Mickey’s, because his own hands are wrapped around Ian’s biceps—and he’s not fighting back.
He looks at Ian with raised brows and a slight curve to his lips and Ian has the intense desire to kiss that stupid look right off his face.
“What were you doing at the club, Mickey?” he asks, his brain finally coming back online. He has a job to do, and while this has turned into a less than subtle approach, it’ll have to do.
“What the fuck do you think I was doing at the club, Gallagher?”
There’s that name again, the one that Ian’s always had to share with five siblings and his deadbeat dad, but the way it rolls off Mickey’s tongue makes it sound like it was made just for him.
And if he’d asked Ian a half hour ago what the fuck Ian thought Mickey Milkovich was doing at a gay club in Boystown, he would’ve given twelve different answers ranging from drug deals to money laundering to full blown attempted robbery. But now, as they stand in an alleyway with Mickey pinned against a brick wall and Ian’s fingertips just starting to disappear under Mickey’s shirt, he has a completely different answer for that question.
“I think…” Ian starts, then trails off.
His hands slide up under Mickey’s shirt, his palms caressing warm skin, and Mickey’s lips fall slightly open. Ian swears he can hear his breath hitch.
“I think you were looking for some company,” Ian says, almost diplomatically. Sue him if he’s still hesitant to call Mickey gay to his face.
Mickey’s brows rise, and one side of his mouth curls into a slight grin. “That an offer?”
Ian’s grip tightens around Mickey’s waist, and Mickey’s hands slide up to Ian’s shoulders.
“I don’t know,” Ian says, and he’s never meant anything more in his life.
Because the signals in his brain are absolutely fucked, misfiring everywhere with crossed wires at every turn, and Ian’s lost the thread entirely of why exactly he has Mickey pinned up against this wall in the first place. It sure doesn’t help when Mickey’s hand reaches up and curls around the back of his neck, tugging him gently until Ian has no choice but to step forward.
Ian gets close, but it’s Mickey who closes the final gap between them, slotting their lips together and kissing Ian Gallagher with a surprisingly soft touch.
It only takes a second for Ian to absolutely melt into it, pushing Mickey against the wall fully as he kisses him back in earnest. He presses in with his hips and slots his leg between Mickey’s, connecting them from knee to shoulder as they make out in the dark alleyway. Ian’s hands roam up Mickey’s back, nails digging into the soft flesh as they drag down.
Mickey’s tongue touches Ian’s lip one second, and the next it’s fully in his mouth as Mickey kisses him hard and pulls him impossibly closer with a fistful of Ian’s jacket in one hand. The other one lands in Ian’s hair, his fingers carding through the red locks softly before pulling them tight.
Ian gasps as Mickey tilts his head back, his eyes rolling back in his head as Mickey presses open mouthed kisses down his neck.
“Fuck,” Ian moans, low and breathy in the night air as his body stars to go completely boneless. He haphazardly rolls his hips against Mickey’s with absolutely no finesse, searching for more friction, or a closer touch, or—god, anything really. Just something. More.
He can’t get enough.
His hands slide out from under Mickey’s shirt, and he leans back slightly. He reaches up, wanting to cup Mickey’s face and pull him somehow even closer, but as soon as he leans in to kiss him again, Ian is knocked completely off balance.
“Shit,” he mumbles as he trips over his own feet, flying backwards and unsure how he’s still upright until his back slams into the brick wall again and he grits his teeth in pain.
Fuck.
He pants as he stares down at Mickey, who still has that crazed lust in his eyes, but the rest of his features are schooled into a tight expression as he shoves his forearm harder against Ian’s throat.
“Who. The fuck. Sent you.”
Ian glares at him, half pissed at Mickey, but more pissed at himself for getting into this mess in the first place.
Like he said—it’s the dangerous ones that get under his skin.
“Your wife,” Ian spits back, dropping all hints of the façade.
Mickey’s brow furrows slightly before he rolls his eyes hard and steps back, effectively dropping Ian from the wall.
“Fucking Svetlana,” Mickey mutters to himself, rubbing at his brow with one hand on his hip.
Ian coughs, then rubs at his throat as he stands up straight and watches Mickey pace in the alley.
“Who the fuck are you, anyway?” Mickey says, whirling on him. “Ex-military? Ex-con? A fucking—hit man, or some shit?”
Hit man? Ian’s face scrunches in confusion.
“Private Investigator,” Ian tells him.
Mickey’s brow furrows again. “Private inves…” He trails off as he puts the pieces together in his head, then looks at Ian incredulously, and yells, “The fuck does she think I’m doing?”
Ian runs a hand through his hair, finally catching his breath. “If she knew that, she wouldn’t need me to figure it out for her.”
Mickey rolls his eyes again and scrubs his hands over his face. He blows out a slow breath, then walks over to the wall again, leaning against it as he fishes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.
“Best guess? She probably thinks you’re cheating on her,” Ian supplies, taking a tentative step closer to Mickey. “That’s what half of my clients come to me with, anyways.”
When Mickey doesn’t stop him, Ian takes another step. He’s still trying to figure out when this whole thing took a turn. He’s a little out of his depth here.
Mickey scoffs, lighting up. “That’s the least of her fucking worries.”
Ian purses his lips. “But… you are.”
Mickey glares at him, then shakes his head.
“We have an agreement,” he says, blowing smoke out of his nose.
“Yeah,” Ian says slowly, moving to stand next to Mickey and boldly plucking the cigarette right out of his hand. “She said the same thing in my office.”
He takes a slow drag, exhaling purposefully, and he doesn’t miss how Mickey watches his mouth the entire time.
Ian hands back the cigarette. “What is it, some kind of open marriage?”
“It’s not a marriage, period. It’s a fucking piece of paper.”
Ian rolls his head to the side and watches Mickey, staring at his tattooed knuckles as Mickey brings the cigarette to his lips again. “D’you love her?”
“No, I don’t fucking love her,” Mickey says dryly. “It’s a goddamn business arrangement, and a shitty one at that. I know it, and she knows it.”
Ian shrugs. “She’s still worried about you.”
“She is not worried about me, trust me,” Mickey says, taking another drag. “She’s more worried I’m making extra cash on the side and not telling her about it. Probably hired you so she can blackmail me into a cut for her and the kid.”
Ian doesn’t say anything for a minute. Mickey hands him back the cigarette, and Ian takes another hit while he absorbs all this information.
“She knows you’re lying to her,” Ian says in a softer voice.
Mickey’s head falls back against the wall. “Yeah.”
They stand there together, their shoulders nearly touching, for what feels like forever. Ian doesn’t know what to do. It’s not the first time he’s found out a client’s husband is secretly gay—far from it, actually—but this feels different. Maybe it’s because it’s Mickey. Maybe it’s because they were making out less than ten minutes ago.
Maybe it’s not really different at all, but Ian’s just too close to it to see that.
“Why don’t you just tell her?” he tries, and Mickey scoffs.
“What fucking world do you live in?”
Ian blows out a breath. He was half expecting Mickey to say something like that. He has a point, Ian supposes. Not everyone is as accepting about shit as Ian’s family was when he came out—especially not in the southside. Hell, Terry alone would probably kill Mickey if he knew. Ian has no reason to think Mickey’s wife would be any different.
Still, it doesn’t stop him from being an optimist.
Ian shrugs. “She might understand.”
Mickey stares at him for a long minute, his gaze intense. “Yeah, well, not everybody gets to just blurt out how they fucking feel every minute.”
Ian doesn’t say anything.
Mickey finishes the last of the cigarette and throws it on the pavement. He stares at the butt as it sizzles out in a puddle.
“This is the kind of shit that gets you shot back on our side of town,” he says without looking up.
Ian knows it’s true.
But there Mickey goes saying shit like our side of town again, and Ian’s imagination runs wild.
“How’d you know who I was?” he asks, changing the subject.
Mickey shrugs. “I didn’t.”
“No, I mean—” Ian shakes his head. “You knew my name.”
Mickey looks over at him, eyes scanning his face.
“I recognized you a while back,” he answers honestly. He fiddles with the lighter still in his hand before slipping it back in his pocket. “You’re one of Frank’s fuckhead kids from the old neighborhood.”
Ian ignores the thinly veiled insult and tilts his head. “A while back?”
“Yeah.”
“Svetlana just hired me a few days ago.”
“Yeah, I know,” Mickey says pointedly. “Tuesday, right? Or maybe Wednesday?”
Ian just blinks at him, words suddenly a foreign concept.
Mickey grins. “You’re a shit tail, man.”
“Fuck off,” Ian laughs, shoving Mickey’s shoulder playfully. He thinks, briefly, that he should be madder at the blow to his professional skills. “I am not that bad.”
“Nah,” Mickey agrees, rolling his head to the side and looking right into Ian’s eyes with a devilish grin. “I’m just better.”
Ian’s dick twitches in his pants.
His eyes search Mickey’s, flashing back and forth between them before dipping down to his mouth briefly. Ian rolls to the side, leaning his shoulder against the wall instead of his back, and when he speaks it’s softer, quieter than before.
“When did you recognize me?” he asks, looking for details.
“Few weeks ago,” is all Mickey offers. He breaks the intense eye contact and stares across the alley again. He shrugs. “Seen you inside a couple times since then.”
Ian leans his head against the wall. “I didn’t see you,” he says, his voice gentle.
“I know.”
The thing is, Ian knows that it was intentional, that Mickey was actively avoiding him on purpose to keep some semblance of anonymity inside the one place he’d rather die than be caught in, but Ian still can’t help himself.
“You should’ve let me see you,” he says gently, his voice barely more than a whisper. “You should let me see you.”
Mickey shakes his head and lets his eyes fall closed. He sighs, exasperated.
“That’s not how this fucking works, man,” he says, running a hand over his face. “I see anyone from the southside in there, I run the fuck the other way. This shit is between me and my fucking grave.”
Ian studies his profile again, like he did in the bar. Arched brows, curved lips. A jaw that’s begging to be kissed.
“And now me,” Ian says quietly.
“And now you too,” Mickey sighs. “I fucking guess.”
Ian doesn’t know what makes him do it. He knows it’s a bad idea—can literally feel the pull of his body begging him not to do it—but he reaches his hand out anyways, and lightly tangles his fingers with Mickey’s
Mickey pulls away like Ian held a lighter to his palm.
Ian opens his mouth to say something, to apologize maybe, but before he can get a word out Mickey turns on him. He presses his hand to Ian’s chest and pushes him flush against the wall again, but this time with a lighter touch.
“So what’s it gonna be, Gallagher?” Mickey asks, staring him down. “You gonna keep my secret? Or are you gonna tell my bitch of a wife you had your tongue down my throat outside a club in Boystown?”
“I think it was your tongue that was looking for my fucking tonsils,” Ian teases, but Mickey doesn’t flinch.
His gaze is harsh and unwavering, but there’s something else in it too. Fear, maybe, but Ian’s never known Mickey to be afraid of anything. Vulnerable. Maybe that’s a better word for it.
Because this… This is Mickey’s weakness. This is his Achilles heel.
But Ian doesn’t want it to be.
His hands find Mickey’s waist again. They sneak up under his shirt and tug him closer, and Ian rubs soft circles into Mickey’s skin.
Mickey visibly relaxes in Ian’s grip. One hand stays spread out on Ian’s chest, but the other settles on Ian’s side, fingers curling around his ribs.
His eyes dart down to Ian’s lips—and stay there—and Ian grins.
“How ‘bout you buy me a drink and find out?” Ian teases.
Mickey shoots him an annoyed look, like he wants to call him out for being a huge fucking dork but he’s still not sure which way this whole thing is going to swing yet.
But then his eyes shift to the brick wall next to Ian’s head for a second, and he gets an idea.
“Does it have to be here?” Mickey asks.
And honestly, if Ian never has to go back inside another club in Boystown for the rest of his life, he’d be more than fine with that.
“No,” Ian answers easily, eagerly squeezing Mickey’s hips.
Mickey slides out of Ian’s grasp, walking backwards for a few steps before he turns and keeps walking away, his hands shoved in his pockets.
And Ian, absolutely enamored with the man that had him pinned up against the wall, can do nothing but slouch against it, watching him go. He’s smitten.
It’s the dangerous ones he has to look out for—but he never fucking does.
Mickey gets halfway down the alley before he looks back over his shoulder with a poorly concealed grin.
“You comin’?”