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midrashic · 5 years

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[headcanon] a map of hidden places i: new york city

{ a map of hidden places }

the first time james visits new york is more accident than anything; there’s a weapons expo and it’s january, and surely new york in january can’t be any more unpalatable than scotland in january. there are restaurants and boutiques whose names were, even then, synonymous with luxury, but james spends most of his time in the hotel room with the nanny playing with the puzzle ball he’d received that christmas. enid takes him to the natural history museum to see the mammoth bones, to central park to stare at the bare, shivering tree skeletons while he mounds old snow into various blobby shapes.

he doesn’t remember any of this; by the time he’s ten, new york is just a vague smear of concrete and solitude in his imagination, a glimpse of a faded marble facade that blends into all the other glimpses of all the other cities of everywhere else his father has ever had a conference.

for years, there’s the odd holiday abroad with his aunt, a trip with a school friend whose father owns a major hotel in the city or something. then there’s the navy. he learns new york in thirty-six hour stretches of shore leave, and he learns new york through the eyes of dozens of royal navy sailors, which mainly means that he learns very fast which bars near the harbor serve something roughly as strong as paint thinner for a measly two dollars per drink, or a dozen for a twenty.

but he learns other things, too. he saves up the days of walking on solid earth for the weeks when his feet won’t touch dry land and wanders into the neighborhoods that his well-to-do parents and guardians never let him anywhere near: bushwick, the lower east side, basically all of the bronx. new york city’s just hit its peak for violent crime, though someone only attempts to mug him once and gets a broken jaw for his trouble besides. the strangest thing for a brit is the gunshots that will ring out randomly, multiple times a night, but that’s true for every american city he’s ever visited.

he experiments with the subway. the tube in the 80s and 90s was no picnic, but hell, he learns, is a suspiciously empty new york subway car.

one strange thing: over the course of one particular weekend, he runs into a girl he slept with on shore leave in kingstown in a pizzeria named something uncreative like “48th street pizza,” an old university professor in a rare book store, a boy who was in the class above him at eton in bryant park, and then the girl again at a bar that night. (there is indeed a repeat performance.) this is a statistically accurate sampling of how often he recognizes a face from his past. back then, it was the third-largest city in the world, after tokyo and osaka, but it could sometimes feel very fatalistically small.

& then he’s in new york fairly often as a junior agent, but he doesn’t really tap the veins of the city until he’s a double-oh.

the thing about new york is that, for all that you tend to run into people you haven’t seen in years fairly frequently, it’s a great place to disappear. there’s no way to cover every possible exit when planning an ambush and a thousand laundromats, bars, and, hell, magic shops to duck into when you’re being tailed. vaguely seedy fleatraps that bill themselves as “youth hostels” where you can rent a room for four months and leave without anyone having asked you your name. the city seems to boast a disproportionate number of people sitting alone in the corners of coffeeshops, bars, hotel lobbies. it’s the first thing he thinks of when the name shows up in a mission briefing or news article: the pure relief of being quietly ignored, of being anyone, of being no one. he kills a drug kingpin and sips espresso at a café patio ten feet away as the police begin to boredly take statements. he garrotes a man in a bodega bathroom and no one notices for three days because it’s always out of order anyway. new york makes it so easy, so very easy to let a face become a file become a statistic. it has a carelessness with its people that he’s used to seeing in the third world, in places where the corruption is overt, in places that don’t even pretend to have a functioning police system. new york doesn’t care about you.

it also makes it so very easy to pick people up.

in a lot of ways, new york is a lot like london. it’s not every city in the world where you can get a sandwich at four am because the son of a bitch you were surveilling spent five hours haggling over uranium shipments with his contact, which was four hours and fifty minutes longer than he needed to spend. there’s a certain level of mercenary profit-seeking required to keep a sandwich shop open all night, damn circadian rhythms.

but new york takes it to excess. in london, you can probably find 24/7 takeaway within a reasonable walking distance, but in new york, you’re guaranteed to have at least five in the immediate neighborhood and eight more if you’re willing to go a little further for a substantial uptick in quality. during a particularly frustrating bit of downtime not longer after the quantum incident, bond strolls into a midnight karate class for no other reason than he’s bored and wants to see what kind of people can only do karate in the middle of the night. it’s a surprisingly friendly bunch, two night shift workers, a sleep-deprived college student, a jumpy little tweaker, and a single mother who decides to do this with her scant two hours of free time weekly. it’s taught by a petite woman who hits with the precision of an architect and used to practice jiu-jitsu competitively until a back strain caused her to switch to a sport with more standing and less rolling around on the ground.

he does try to sleep with her, but they actually end up sharing a platter of nachos in between (fittingly) manhattans at a bar and chatting about differences in karate conditioning techniques and shitty b-movies. the bartender joins in for the latter. he walks away that morning to another endless round of negotiation with the cia feeling strangely refreshed for a man who got no sleep and no sex.

bond ends up censoring his new york reports more than any other locale, not because missions go wrong in new york more often than anywhere else, but because they tend to go wrong in utterly baffling and sometimes embarrassing ways when he’s in new york. in the reports, he changes the timely plague mask-wearing flash mob that allowed him to escape his pursuer to a traffic jam, the girl wearing a dress made of lettuce that beat a terrorist into submission with her tomato purse into a well-placed police officer, the message he got painted on his nails in gold glitter to a simple note (it worked, the fsb searched him and found nothing and apparently manicured men in brioni are common enough in the city that no one even gave him a second look). new york is many things, but it spits on the dignity of the profession.

felix hates new york, hilariously. he calls it “the big asshole.” he hates the garbage sitting out on the streets, the way you can never tell whether a puddle is rain or urine, the flimsy little metrocards, the food deserts, the traffic, my god, the traffic. (bond has to agree: it’s bad. he once walked to laguardia instead of waiting for a taxi.) the only places he hates more than new york are minnesota and south sudan, which are the foreseeable consequences of a boy from texas spending his first winter away from home in the midwest and being a sane person with a functioning sense of smell. but for some reason, international criminals turn up in new york a lot more often than they do in ann arbor or south sudan, so felix has no choice but to spend sometimes weeks or months at a time in his third-least-favorite place in the world.

(bond knows why he really hates new york: in 2003 he was chasing a jewel smuggler and ran straight into a fruit cart. he was washing fruit juice out from behind his ears for a week and he lost the target. after that, anyone would hate this place.)

when bond is in midtown west, he makes a point of stopping by the trenta tre pizzeria, which boasts pizza that isn’t oily, isn’t too chewy or crisp, and boasts a sauce with a salty-to-sweet balance of flavors that make his eyes roll back in his head. he’s had the real deal, pizza lovingly crafted by hand, topped with buffalo mozzarella, and wood-fired in a tiny neapolitan back room. he knows better than to tell an italian--or anyone who he needs to think of him as a well-traveled sophisticate--but he prefers this.

coincidentally, the pizzeria is located next to a bodega that displays its fruit on wooden stands on the sidewalk. behind the peaches lives a cat, well-fed and sleek and a shameless thief of chicken parm pizza toppings. he doesn’t know her name--the owner is from rural ethiopia and doesn’t speak english, mandarin, arabic, french, german, spanish, russian, or any of the four other languages bond speaks--but in his head he’s named her selina after that greatest of feline burglars, catwoman. selina is good company after a violent mission, and almost never sheds on him, which is more than he can say about the other cats in his life. if he lingers after the pizza to pet her a little longer, no one needs to know.

the events, the new trends, the previews, the releases, blah blah blah. the access is touted more than it actually matters. he’s sure that- if he actually lived in new york he would appreciate the convenience of dwelling in the obligatory stop of every tour and the go-to place to drum up media attention. but he doesn’t and he has enough frequent flier miles that his grandchildren will probably be getting complimentary upgrades and if he really wants to be at the premiere of a much-hyped performance of la traviata he’ll make it there somehow. he does notice that the access has given new yorkers a strange sense entitlement--when a fashionable event happens someplace other than new york, the resentment is deeper, the sense of loss sharper--as if everything important should happen in new york. still. he brings home a tea flavored with the newly discovered ruby chocolate months before it becomes widely available as a souvenir for q. there are compensations.

when q finally punches down his fear of air travel for long enough to make it to new york, bond keeps him out of manhattan. they drift around brooklyn and queens, wandering streets balanced on the knife edge of an existence that is almost suburban--dogs everywhere and strollers between the specialty shops and markets. they sit in a soda fountain famous for its egg creams and share a sundae named after elvis. q orders three different sodas--he’s a connoisseur of exotic beverages--and pronounces the house blend the best cherry soda he’s ever tasted. bond smiles at him around his ice cream float. the place is packed, every seat filled, but here, at a little round table tucked into the corner, he and q might as well be invisible, being aggressively ignored by everyone except the soda jerks. just two people, forcefully alone together. the last two people in the world.

#007 fest #teambondvillains #fandom: this is the end #relship: your loving arms (keeping me from harm)#ch: secret agent man #ch: shiny new steamship #event: gee brain what do you want to do tonight 2019 #ella headcanons #series: a map of hidden places

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shamelessly4shameless-blog · 7 years

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The Sand In Your Shoe (pt 15)

Watching Mickey and Mandy serve customers is a bit like watching kids play shop with plastic cans of beans, pretend money and no clue about the service industry. They are haphazard, their manner toward customers is as far from compliant as it is possible to get but their shot pouring is often generous to the point of lunacy and the customers keep coming.

The clientele is mostly young people but Mickey is scrupulous with ID checking, he can’t afford to get into any sort of legal mix up with the police if a fifteen year old gets taken to the ER with alcohol poisoning. He doesn’t seem to mind them hanging out though as long as no one is causing trouble and everyone is buying something.

Ian starts off just sitting back and watching but after a while the place starts to fill up and he begins to help Juan clear the tables and serve up nachos and fries from the kitchen – the two items on the food menu.

“You don’t got to help me, man. I got it.”

Juan glances awkwardly at Mickey and then back to Ian

“I don’t mind helping out.”

Ian smiles and Juan shrugs. He doesn’t mind having the help as long as Mickey doesn’t think he’s slacking off.

Ian is doing his third or fourth sweep of the room when he sees a couple of kids topping up their cola with vodka from a bottle under the table and turns to see if anyone else has noticed only to find Mickey staring straight at them.

“Should I say something?”

Ian asks, leaning across the bar to be heard over the music. Mickey pushes his tongue into his cheek considering. He’s changed into a black button down shirt and dark jeans, Ian is having a hard time concentrating on anything besides the way Mickey’s shoulders stretch the fabric, and is absurdly jealous of the belt slung low round his hips.

“Nah. They ordered food earlier and this is their third soft drink. Let ‘em have this one and I’ll bust them if they do it again next round.”

Mickey nods to the washing bowl of dishes in Ian’s hands

“You know Juan can take care of that right?”

“Yeah but I like to help. Makes me feel useful.”

Ian grins and Mickey shrugs, happy as long as Ian is happy.

“Okay but you know … Jesus Christ! What the fuck is this …”

Mickey breaks off, turning to glare at a young man who is banging on the bar for service

“Do that again and I’ll shove the next shitty martini you order up your ass.”

The young man is momentarily stunned and then frowns over his glasses at Mickey.

“You’re the one making them! If they’re shitty, that’s on you.”

“If they’re shitty it’s because they’re a shitty drink. Try this instead.”

Mickey pours a half-shot of tequila and puts it in front of him

“One hundred pesos for this or two hundred for a martini.”

“Dude! It’s not even a full shot!

“Because you’re already in full asshole mode. Don’t bang on my bar for attention again if you like your hands attached to your body”

The guy grudgingly hands over the money and Mickey finally releases him from the glare he has been withering under since the exchange began. Ian feels a little for the glasses-guy but watching the exchange was seriously hot! He is almost desperate to kiss Mickey but isn’t sure how okay that is in front of a bar full of people. His hesitance isn’t even about the possibility of Mickey having one foot still in the closet. He clearly lives an out and proud life here, but he always hated public displays of affection and even when he and Ian were an acknowledged couple back in Chicago, Mickey tended to shy away from his touch if there was an audience. Ian hovers undecided for a moment and it is a moment too long because Mickey is already moving down the bar taking next orders.

Mandy and Juan are so obviously an item that Ian can’t believe Mickey doesn’t seem to know. The sly little touches and lingering looks that fly between them would be cringe worthy if they were not clearly in love.

As the initial early evening rush subsides at around nine and Ian sidles over to her and whispers

“Mandy and Juan sitting in a tree …”

She grins and presses a finger to her lips.

“Oh c’mon, you don’t really think Mickey is going to mind do you?”

“No, but Juan feels weird about dating the Boss’s sister so we’re on the down low.”

She wraps a length of hair around her finger, her darkly lined eyes already slipping from Ian’s face searching for her boyfriend.

“Tell me about it later?”

Ian asks and Mandy nods, shooing him away impatiently. Mickey’s own gaze is raking the bar in search of Ian and he can’t help but smile at how similar the Milkovich siblings are in subtle little ways.

“Hey!”

Mickey’s slight frown instantly clears as he spots Ian’s read hair bobbing toward him and he pours four shots of top shelf tequila.

“It always gets a little quiet now, the shack down the road sells churros and when they close up the old guy who runs it practically gives the days left overs away.”

“Cool.”

Ian accepts the drink and smiles as Mickey delivers Juan and Mandy their shot before having his own. Mickey would never admit it but he is something of a natural leader. Ian can see why Juan so casually calls him ‘Boss’, in this place that is exactly what he is and Ian loves it.

“Yeah, nice guy. He likes us cause we sorted some trouble he was having a little while ago so he makes sure to send everyone back here once the free grub is gone.”

“Trouble?”

“Yeah – no biggy. Some kids havin’ fun. I suggested they might take it elsewhere and they did.”

The calm, authoritative tone that is no doubt the front to a story that involves far more than a suggestion does things to Ian that make him squirm on the barstool uncomfortably. Mickey glances down at Ian’s lap and his tongue pokes into the corner of his mouth, a brief flash of pink against the tan of his cheek.

He turns in that lazy, wide armed way that Ian loves so much and the air frizzes around them with kinetic energy. Ian is half way out of his seat when Mandy dumps herself onto his lap, pushing him back down.

“Ian, do you want to go try a churro? They’re really good.”

Mandy hands Mickey back her glass and strokes Ian’s arm, her nails digging in slightly and he nods obediently.

“Yeah sure. Mick, should I bring you one back?”

“Nah. Gotta watch my figure.”

Mickey grins and slaps his flat belly lightly. Mickey cocks his head to the side and gives Ian the briefest of winks, stealing a moment of gentle intimacy from the humming bar, and then looks past him.

“Hey! You two! Yeah that’s right, Thelma and Louise, I see you over there. This ain’t a BYOB party. You want vodka? Get some older friends to buy it for you from my bar or scram.”

The girls Ian noticed earlier both giggle and hastily gulp down their drinks before sliding out of the booth.

“Ugh. Those two are in here all the time. They can’t get enough of Mickey telling them off.”

Mandy stands up and scowls after them as they dash out with shy little waves

“Really?”

Ian raises an eyebrow at Mickey who shrugs and grins a little bashfully and begins taking glasses out of the dishwasher, wiping them on the cloth, which seems to live over his left shoulder from the second the bar opens.

“Yeah, they might have a little crush goin’ on. Harmless though and not a fuckin’ word of English.”

“Then why …?”

Ian begins and Mandy collapses dramatically against him, fluttering her eyelids and pouting.

“It’s his big, pretty blue eyes and bad boy growly voice.”

Mickey salutes her with his middle finger but Ian thinks he looks positively smug about the whole thing.

“Should I get myself a sexy school girl outfit?”

He teases, arching both brows suggestively

“Ew. No. Don’t even joke about that shit. If I want you to play dress up, I’ll get you a suit I can rip off.”

Mickey wrinkles his nose disdainfully as Mandy grimaces and tugs Ian toward the door.

“So gross. Later, Romeo!”

She calls over her shoulder and Mickey rolls his eyes, drying another glass.

“She’s a dick. No wonder she’s single as fuck.”

He gives Juan a little half-smile and poor Juan nods as if his life depends on it.

“So? Juan?”

“So? Mickey?”

Mandy counters and Ian huffs an amused sigh

“I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours and made him talk about his feelings twice.”

“Well you’re still alive after that so I guess you have any other answer you need.”

“Funnily enough I think he feels the same.”

Ian laughs squeezing her arm and slows his stride so that Mandy doesn’t have to skip to keep up.

“He seems different though. Gentler, you know?”

“Yeah he is. I think it’s cause he feels safe here. It’s his place, his space and no one bothers him.”

“You think I’ll fit in?”

“Of course you will! Even if you didn’t fit, Mickey would kick the fuckin’ walls in to make space for you.”

Mandy nudges Ian gently in the side with her elbow and he gives her a wonky smile.

“I think I freaked him out earlier.”

Ian tells Mandy about his mini-meltdown on the beach and she listens with complete non-judgmental sympathy.

“Don’t worry about it. You could have spaced the crazy out a little for him but you guys always seem to do everything all in.”

“I guess. I mean I think it’s fine. We fooled around afterwards, not like that … I mean yeah that too but …”

“Please! Ian, stop!”

Mandy laughs.

She asks about Lip, Debbie … all of the Gallagher’s and Ian tells her what he knows, which he realises is not really all that much anymore. Ian rolls his shoulders before changing the subject.

“Ok, seriously I need to hear about Juan?”

“Juan is a sweetie. Like, sometimes he’s too sweet. Keeps talking about marriage and babies and blah!”

“Sounds like he’s smart enough to see what a catch you are.”

Ian nods approvingly and Mandy bobs her head a little shyly

“He treats me right. Doesn’t yell at me, doesn’t hit me, makes sure I cum first.”

“Shit! He’s a better boyfriend than I am.”

“Ew. Gross.”

“How is my sex gross and yours is fine?”

“Yours is with my brother.”

Mandy thumps his arm lightly and Ian switches the subject back a bit.

“How long have you guys been together?”

“Just over a year.”

“Wow! Serious then?”

“It is. We are.”

Mandy is radiating happiness and Ian wraps an arm around her shoulder hugging her tightly and pressing a kiss to her head.

“Do you think you’d marry him?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Marriage is basically agreeing to put up with someone elses shit for the rest of your life and having to give them half your stuff if you bail.”

“Jeez Mandy! So romantic!”

“Well that’s what it is! And before that is was a way of a transferring a woman from being her father’s property to being some other assholes. It isn’t really a romantic idea.”

Ian glances down at her a little shocked and Mandy sticks her tongue out

“Okay, so fine. Would you get married?”

“Yeah. Maybe. I guess one day.”

“Milkovich or Gallagher?”

“Gallavich?”

Ian laughs and Mandy pauses mid-stride considering this.

“That could work. Milkovich is probably fucked with Mickey’s situation and who would even want to label themselves as part of our shit-show of a family anyway?”

“Gallagher isn’t much better. What is Juan’s surname?”

“Sanchez.”

“Be more Mexican?”

Ian grins and Mandy punches him again, a little harder

“I like it. Mandy Sanchez sounds cool.”

“Yeah it does.”

Ian agrees and then hangs back as Mandy bounces up to the window of the churro stand and waits for her to come back with one of the sweet little pastries and as they walk back to the bar, she shows him the photos she captured on the beach. Ian chooses his favourites and Mandy sends them over. By the time they get back, Ian has a new phone wallpaper and is smiling broadly.

The final couple of guys stagger out of Galagers just after 1am. The place is cleaner than usual thanks to Ian helping out and Mickey, cigarette already dangling from his lip, tells them all the call it a night, they’ll clean up properly tomorrow.

Juan says he feels like getting a little high and invites them all back to his place. Mandy pretends to think about it and then nods. Mickey declines slips and arm around Ian’s waist, gliding his hand discreetly under the sweaty fabric of Ian’s t-shirt.

“Cool, laters amigos!”

The second the door closes behind Juan and Mandy, Mickey’s lips meet Ian’s with bruising force. Ian grabs Mickey’s denim-clad ass firmly and lifts him up, practically throwing him onto the bar top and running his hands from Mickey’s knees to his hips, hard.

“God! You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to do that all night.”

“Yeah?”

Mickey smirks and wraps a leg around Ian, pulling him in with a heel in the crack of his ass.

“Mmhmm. Watching you strut up and down, running that smart-mouth at everyone …”

Ian takes Mickey’s cigarette from his mouth and puts it in his own drawing deep, lightly dragging at Mickey’s lip with the pad of his index finger as exhaled smoke curls down over it. The corners of Mickey’s mouth turn up at the way Ian’s eyes follow the movement.

“You like it when I run my mouth?”

Ian nods, crushes the cigarette under his heel and ducks his head, lightly kisses along Mickey’s lower lip.

“I like everything your mouth does.”

A very fine shudder runs through Mickey, happiness and lust sending his nerves skittering across each other. He always loved it when Ian would get like this, a little imposing, putting himself firmly in Mickey’s personal space and turning it into his own. Making it so that even the breath in Mickey’s lungs might actually belong to Ian, and if he demanded it, Mickey would have no choice but to surrender that too and suffocate beneath the fierce green gaze.

In a way that Mickey cannot possibly begin to explain, the more domineering Ian gets, the safer Mickey feels and to just give every ounce of himself over to Ian to do with what he will. In a very specific way, to be controlled is to be free in Mickey’s world.

Perhaps that is what makes him still Ian’s exploring hands and look up at him from beneath shyly lowered lashes.

“You mind if we wait a minute?”

“Really?”

Ian removes his lips from Mickey’s throat immediately but doesn’t relinquish his hold on his waist.

“I just … I want you to see something. It won’t take long.”

Mickey hops down from where Ian put him and catches his hand, leaving Ian no choice but to follow as Mickey leads him toward the door.

They step outside and Mickey stops abruptly. With his black hair and dark clothes he effectively blends into the darkness and Ian squeezes his fingers tightly to make sure he doesn’t let go. The fierce heat of the day has been replaced with a refreshing chill and Ian shivers slightly, though he is glad of the change.

“Close your eyes.”

“It’s fricken’ night time Mick. I’m basically blind already.”

“C’mon, don’t be a dick.”

Ian laughs but obligingly does as he is told. Mickey doesn’t often do things like this but Ian adores it when he does, so he tries to be extra cooperative in the hope of inspiring more little surprise moments.

“Don’t look until I say, okay?”

“Okay.”

Ian doesn’t need to have his eyes open to know that Mickey is peering up at him trying to make sure he is being obeyed.

“They’re closed, Mick!”

Ian hears a satisfied grunt and grins into the darkness. Mickey’s hands guide him down the steps and onto the beach, Ian is a little wobbly on the sand as they get closer to the sea and the ridges become deeper. His shoes are filling up and he makes a mental note to buy flipflops tomorrow.

“OK, I got you, sit down, don’t look.”

Ian sits as gracefully as he can and almost breaks his promise as he feels Mickey sit down behind him, settling Ian snuggly between his knees and urging him to lie backwards until Ian’s head comes to rest on his chest.

“Ready?”

“Um … yeah?”

“OK, Go ahead and open ‘em.”

Ian blinks and then his jaw drops. The entire galaxy is spread above them, a swirling chaotic mass of stars shining brilliantly in the blackness.

“Holy shit!”

His voice is barely above a whisper and he feels the resulting chuckle reverberate in the chest behind his head a split second before he hears it.

“Cool, huh? Blew my fuckin’ mind the first time I came out here.”

There is the sound of a lighter, the brief scent of burning paper and then the sweet smell of marijuana floats down to Ian. His head bobs as Mickey’s chest expands and then releases and cool fingers brush against Ian’s lips offering him the joint.

Mickey’s other arm is wrapped around Ian’s chest, not stroking, just keeping him close. Ian reaches back and carefully tuck a stray lock of hair back behind Mickey’s ear, caressing from helix to lobe.

“What a difference a day makes, huh?”

Ian whispers, smiling and there is an answering smile in Mickey’s voice.

“No shit. When I saw you this morning …”

The joint is withdrawn from Ian’s lips as Mickey trails off and Ian sees the tip grow suddenly bright as Mickey turns his head and inhales.

“It was weird right? Like, I don’t even know how I got from the steps to you. I sort of blacked out.”

“You fuckin’ tripped down three of them and then took a running dive at me.”

Ian nods, it might be the pot but this actually sounds like exactly what he thought happened.

“I was fuckin’ terrified you were I thought you might hit me.”

Mickey’s hand tightens involuntarily as he shakes his head

“I wanted to kiss you so badly … thought I was gonna fuckin’ cry or some gay shit.”

Ian cracks up and after a seconds pause Mickey is laughing too and the laughter builds until Ian can’t breathe and Mickey is coughing a lung up.

“Fuck off, you know what I mean.”

This sets them both off again and Ian retrieves the smoke, taking another drag.

“What were you saying to me? When you had your face in my chest?”

“Huh?”

“You kept saying something but I couldn’t hear it.”

“Ah … I don’t …”

“Don’t say you don’t remember!”

Ian tries to sit up and Mickey makes an affronted noise and quickly pulls him back down.

“Alright, alright. I … I was saying I knew you’d come. It was corny as fuck but you kinda shocked me just showing up. I think I lost my mind a bit.”

Ian reaches beneath Mickey’s leg and toys with the firm curve of his ass cheek.

“Did you really know?”

“I figured one day… yeah. I hoped so anyway.”

Mickey shrugs and the doobie is exchanged again. His free hand drops away from Ian’s chest, giving him a little more room. He is more than willing to have Ian touch him however he wants as long as he doesn’t try and move.

“I tried to forget you.”

“Yeah, I figured that too.”

There is no hurt in Mickey’s voice and Ian marvels at it. If Mickey said such a thing to him, he would probably fall apart again.

Fingers stroke gently through Ian’s hair and he looks up, not at the miraculous sky above but at the smooth curve of Mickey’s jaw, pale and almost silver in the starlight.

“How the fuck did I get so lucky to find you?”

“My sister blabbed.”

“I mean … like, in life?”

Ian grins but manages to fight down the next round of giggles.

“You’re so great Mick. You accept me better than even my own family and even after years apart, you’re just like … there! You’re just right there.”

“Okay, no more of this for you…”

Mickey jokes and licks his thumb and forefinger before pinching the thinning end of their smoke.

“I’m being serious. I rock up and cry all over you, I freak out and get pissed at you and you still show me the stars! Why are you like this with me?”

Ian traces the jaw he can’t stop staring at with the back of his hand. Slim fingers close around his and Mickey dips his head to kiss Ian’s fingertips.

“You set me free, man. I don’t know what I … I mean, really, without you, I’d have probably killed myself or done something crazy. I was in the fucking gutter, crawling out of my skin but you showed me I was okay. You made me okay, Ian.”

They sit silently for a little while then, looking up at the stars, both of them well aware that they are not in the fucking gutter anymore.

At some point Ian stands, repositioning himself behind Mickey and gently pulling him close, kissing the black silk of his hair. They share another joint and Mickey has a cigarette as well. They swap softly spoken stories, painting the years for each other, drawing honest pictures and occasionally pausing to kiss or whatever else is needed for reassurance. Eventually the sky begins to turn from inky black to navy and patches of indigo begin to appear toward the horizon.

Mickey huffs a gently sigh and rolls his neck. Ian stands and gently pulls him to his feet.

“Home?”

“Yeah.”

#shameless #shameless us #shameless fanfiction #mickey milkovich #ian gallagher #ian x mickey #Mickey and Mandy #mandy milkovich #mickey in mexico #fan fiction

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