Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Mickey wasn't that guy anymore, though, the one taught and raised by the pack of scumbags that he used to call family. At least, not that often. He didn't resort to violence to get revenge these days; the prissy places he now frequented forbid that shit—God, Westside fuckers were pussies. So Mickey used his mind instead. Carefully thought-out plans that had the same endgame as the violent ones did. Just less of a risk for breaking his parole.

Life had also taught Mickey to trust his primary instincts. There was no better way to protect yourself—really, the only person you should always protect—than learning to trust your own intuition.

Is this guy trying to kill me? Gut says probably. Am I going to end up in prison because of this? Eh, my brain's telling me don't fucking do it. Is it possible for Ian to kill me and end up in prison if I don't wipe the toilet seat again? Instincts are screaming yes.

And, since Mickey trusted his own mind, he trusted it when it advised him to make Trevor whatever-the-fuck-his-last-name-was pay. Mickey was aware he couldn't use his fists or his knives for the upcoming battle, but he didn't mind. It didn't matter he couldn't pick up his Ruger and march down to the LG-whatever-the-fuck center he called from. Who cares if Mickey couldn't pummel the guy with his fists until he lost consciousness for making Ian miserable the night before?

He just needed a proper plan.

Mickey did honestly believe the reason for Trevor's call was to get Ian to acknowledge his existence again; it was getting back together 101. Mickey had used those tricks on Ian a long time ago, and there was no way he could just dismiss the obviousness of it all like his husband did. Ian had always been oblivious.

If Mickey was being honest, the whole thing sparked a fit of certain jealousy inside him—who the fuck did this guy think he was?—and it also made him fucking angry. Angry that Ian was still as vulnerable as he had always been; that his confidence could plummet into a never-ending hole just over one stupid phone call. Angry that his asshole of an ex had the nerve to even fucking call him. Maybe a little jealous over the fact it was an ex, too.

Mickey felt as if Ian's pain was his own after seeing the defeated look on his face, the moisture of his eyes, as he asked if he really was selfish for not wanting to help.

"It's a mask, you know. I hate the mask. It's not me."

Mickey had told him the truth; Gay Jesus was in the past and should stay in the past. It didn't matter if Ian was letting somebody down (quote, unquote)—what mattered was that Ian was okay and healthy. And was Gay Jesus really the healthiest option for him right now?

Even if Ian wasn't sick at all—if his brain was just as average and stupid as any other Southside asshole's—the whole cult thing would still be nothing more than a dumbass way for Ian to get into trouble. Trouble with the press, trouble with the homophobes; trouble with his fucking ex-boyfriend that felt entitled enough to even fucking ask Ian for his 'obligated' help.

They were lazing around on the couch, hours after the conversation, tangled up in each other, watching some random movie Ian had picked out as a distraction for the entire situation, when Mickey asked Ian to tell him about it.

"Tell you about what?"

"Trevor. Gay Jesus. All of it."

Ian had scoffed. "We talked about it in prison. I think the word prison is enough to cover it."

It wasn't, and they hadn't. Ian had mentioned the whole thing just in passing; no details, no stories. Perhaps Ian worried about putting a strain on their newly renewed relationship by mentioning the initial reason for their breakup and his fucking ex. Mickey couldn't even blame him. But it was different now. There wasn't a single part of their marriage vulnerable enough to get torn apart by something as inconsequential as their past.

"Tell me."

And after a few hesitant looks, Ian did. He told him about how they met, the whole trans thing which reminded Mickey of one of his former acquaintances that was a dude one day, and showed up in a dress another (he really couldn't give less of a shit if you were a chick and now you're a dude, there were more important things in this world), and he went on about pronouns and shit, which Mickey didn't get, but didn't question. And when the whole Fiona-fiasco came up, Ian had finally come clean.

"I almost ran off to Mexico. And I lost you. I lost Trevor, and he was a great distraction back then. My mom fucking died, which was complicated as fuck. I think it all sort of came together, and, bam! I became a fucking cult leader. And the worst thing is, I lost my job then. I stopped taking my meds and me being an EMT was over. My life got ruined, and I couldn't blame anyone for it but myself. And then I went to fucking prison." His eyes glistened with unshed tears. "It was better after you showed up. It just was."

And Trevor brought that shit up again, and Mickey had held Ian as he let a few tears escape and roll down his cheeks—the whole scene was much to Ian's dismay, who had always prided himself in being the type of man who kept his emotions under a tight lid, despite how opened he seemed.

Now, Mickey was standing in front of the Youth LGBTQIA+ Center—what a long-ass name, he thought—and hoped that when he eventually lay his eyes on Trevor, he wouldn't immediately kill him.

Fuck, it was hard not to be jealous. He was about to meet his husband's ex; those assholes shouldn't even exist, and the fact there were multiple of them made Mickey's hands numb from the surge of adrenaline. He felt like murdering every single fairy who dared to put his hands on his man.

It wasn't Ian's fault—okay, maybe it was a little—Mickey was away, and the universe had stacked the odds against them. Despite that, it didn't mean Mickey had to like it. The only reason he had even asked Ian to tell him about the guy was so he could devise a sympathetic approach and so he could understand the whole situation better.

Based on his newly gained knowledge, the guy was bitter: Ian had cheated, then used his kids—the guy was a little over twenty and referred to teenagers that way, but whatever—to start a cult, and then subsequently blew up a van.

But if he was bitter, why the fuck did he call Ian? What type of protest was so big that it needed to have Gay Jesus? And why couldn't that snarky little redhead from their wedding call instead?

Getting back together 101.

Mickey knew all the tricks.

Sucks to be you, Trevor. You're lucky I didn't bring a fucking baseball bat.

"Can I help you?" A random girl who was standing a little off to the side of the door he was planning on opening in a few minutes once he got his anger level down to the maximum minimum, asked. It only startled him a little.

"I'm looking for Trevor? He here?" The girl had the rainbow flag tattooed on her wrist, a clear sign she was a part of the center, so Mickey supposed she had to know the leader.

The girl—she was about ten years younger than him, by the looks of it (when did he get so old?)—seemed wary. "Why are you looking for him?" She eyed his own crude tattoos.

Not all of us need rainbows to be out and proud, he thought, twirling the ring on his finger absentmindedly.

Mickey rolled his eyes. "I'm not a homophobe, sweetheart, don't worry. I just need to talk to him. It's a Gay Jesus thing."

Her eyes lit up. "Gay Jesus? Is he here?"

"No, I'm here on his behalf." Sort of.

"Oh." She seemed to deflate. "Well, tell him I said hi. If you know him, I mean." Oh, I know him better than you'd think.

"So, Trevor?"

"Oh, right this way." She sounded like a store employee, leading him to the item he had trouble finding. The girl did not know that, although Mickey wasn't a homophobe—he wasn't, okay!?—his conversation with Trevor might not be the prettiest, queerest thing out there.

When they entered the Center, the girl told Mickey to wait, and Mickey took the opportunity while she was probably going off to find Trevor, to eye the place. The Youth Center was, in Mickey's opinion, tacky. Why would they have so many colors in one place? And what is it with the mismatched shit? Fuck, you don't mix different fabrics!

Furnishing his and Ian's apartment on the Westside had done things to him—Mickey believed he had lost a part of his soul while researching color schemes and kitchen sets. Ever since then, he had been thinking way too many gay thoughts that had little to do with Ian, and that scared him.

He tore his gaze away from the rainbow flags, and other weird-looking posters taped on the crumbling walls that probably represented the plus in the LGBTQIA+. Mickey didn't even want to know what they all meant.

"You wanted to see me?"

Mickey felt a tinge of anxiousness, but he still locked eyes with the guy; short—well, shorter than Mickey—with a mop of curly hair on top of his small head. He had some facial hair, a sort of goatee, but all-in-all, he wasn't ugly. Mickey hated him.

"Yeah." Mickey counted to ten before speaking, just so he wouldn't lurch forward and rip the beard off of his face (Mickey knew it was extreme but the guy had been in a relationship with his husband, and fuck him very much). "I came to talk to you about Gay Jesus."

Trevor scoffed, and Mickey's fists clenched. The guy didn't have enough swagger or that scary of a reputation to be allowed to scoff at the mention of Ian. Maybe Mickey was being protective, but this guy was treading a dangerous line. Mickey dared him to say something shitty about Ian; that would be all it took for Mickey to end up back in prison for second-degree murder.

But Mickey came here to talk, and if he hurt Trevor, he would sleep on the couch for the next few weeks, and Mickey listened to his instincts when they screamed at him to calm the fuck down.

"What about Gay Jesus?" Mickey took a second to imagine this guy being a girl. He couldn't see it, but he looked like a bitch when he placed his hands on his hips.

"You called him last night. Attacked him for not wanting to come to your protest."

Trevor looked Mickey over, eyes squinting. "You seem familiar. Do I know you?"

"I don't know if you know me or not, but I came here to tell you to apologize."

"Apologize?" Trevor gave him an incredulous look, eyes wide. "He refused to help the movement he started. Fuck Gay Jesus. I'm not apologizing."

"Okay, how about we stop referring to him as Gay Jesus, and call him by his fucking name? Apologize to Ian. You were a fucking douchebag for no reason, and now he feels shitty for saying no. Just call him and tell him you understand his reasons for not wanting to do whatever the fuck you want him to do and I'll be on my merry way."

Mickey smiled a fake smile and clasped his hands in front of him, rocking slightly back on his heels.

When Trevor simply continued to stare, Mickey prodded. "I'm waiting."

"You're actually serious."

He was. "I am."

"Why should I apologize?" Mickey noticed this guy used his hands a lot. He had to dodge a few accidental karate moves while the dude was speaking. "He should do this to apologize to me. The guy is a complete and utter asshole, and a cheater above else."

Calm down. Don't hit him. Ian will be mad. Don't kill him, Mickey.

His breathing was shallower as he fought the anger building up inside of him; Ian wasn't an asshole. He was an amazing guy who would tear off his limbs and sell them for the people he cared about if he knew it could help. Trevor had no fucking right talking about Ian as if he knew him, and all the shit he had been through.

"I don't care if he cheated on you with a million and two guys. He's bipolar. The thing could be a trigger. You ever think about that shit? He was off his medication when he started the cult, and now he's healthy and okay, so you could have some fucking compassion, and understand how harming that shit can be."

Mickey's voice had been getting higher, and heads were starting to turn. Trevor cleared his throat and nodded at the curious eyes and quickly muttered that it was okay. Fuck that, Mickey thought. None of this was okay.

Mickey had taken a long time to understand all about manic depression; from the symptoms to the medication; it took him years of research and fucking head-on experience, but Mickey was a fucking expert. And it was true; Ian had a rough couple of years—fuck, he had a rough decade. Even after fucking getting out of prison; it could have been a trigger when he lost his job, when he lost fucking Frank (no matter how shitty the guy was), when he shifted his entire life from one place to another and dealt with the ensuing loss of his family who had always been around him, but now lived scattered across Chicago, far away. Each time something happened, something that might harm Ian could trigger him, Mickey begged it didn't.

Their lives were just starting; shit was finally good. Why would he risk somebody ruining it just because Ian had finally fucking said no? Mickey had been proud of him at first; he wasn't sure if that mattered, considering how much the feat hurt Ian.

This guy was fucking hurting Ian, and he seemed blissfully unaware.

Trevor seemed at a bit of a loss for words. Just accept it now, Mickey thought. Let's end this now. He could see the gears turning in Trevor's head. Call and apologize, and we're done.

"Who are you?" He asked finally, narrowing his eyes. Mickey couldn't suppress his groan.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"How do you know Ian?" He pressed.

"Does is it fucking matter? Just call—,"

"You're Mickey, aren't you?" Suddenly, Trevor was pointing a finger at him, as if accusing him of something. "I remember you from the news years ago. The infamous Mickey who Ian ran off with to Mexico."

Mickey couldn't help but correct him. "Well, he didn't run off with me. But hey, things still turned out pretty good."

Trevor just scoffed—what was it with this guy and scoffing?—waving his hand as if to dismiss Mickey. "Go back to your boyfriend. I won't apologize."

Mickey scoffed. "Ian's not my boyfriend."

He noticed the way Trevor's guarded expression now shifted into something else. Was it hope? Smugness? Mickey didn't care; he wanted to wipe that shit off the douchebag's face.

"He cheated on you, too? Or maybe he just dumped you for some other guy? Or maybe you're just not the relationship type?"

Don't kill him, Mickey. Don't use your fists to wipe off that smirk, Mickey! You have a couple of months of parole left, Mickey!

Mickey struggled to listen to his intuition (it sounded a lot like Ian), but his fists remained at his sides, fingernails digging into the palm of his flesh.

"He's not my boyfriend." His voice was clear as day, and it held a warning. "He's my husband. We got married a couple of years ago."

That was enough to make Trevor's shoulders rigid again.

"What do you want me to say?" He feigned disinterest. "Congrats?"

"I want you to call my husband." He took a step forward. "And apologize."

"He doesn't deserve my apologies."

Well, talking wasn't working much. Plan B.

"Do you know what I was in prison for, Trevor?"

Trevor didn't seem scared, but his posture was stiff, unlike the slumped shoulders he sported beforehand.

"Why should I care?"

"I was in prison for attempted murder." He took another step forward. Trevor didn't move. "The bitch ratted Ian out for some shit."

"So?" He audibly gulped.

"I have many ways to make you disappear."

"You don't scare me."

At least he's not a total bitch.

Plan C.

Mickey took a deep breath. "I'm not trying to fucking scare you. I'm just saying that Gay Jesus might not be completely against the idea of just merely supporting the protest from afar if you apologized. And maybe you wouldn't lose a few fingers." He added the last part as an afterthought.

If he couldn't talk or scare his way through this shit, at least he could bribe, right?

"Not apologizing."

What the fuck?

"Are you serious right now? Wow. Are you that bitter?"

"What?"

Mickey laughed. "You're jealous. You did this out of spite. Is there really a protest happening or were you just trying to get into my husband's pants?"

"I wasn't—,"

"I mean, I get he's hot and smart and fantastic in bed, but he's married, dude. Maybe you just don't handle rejection well. Sorry you're still in love with him."

"I'm not—,"

"And I'm glad I came down here. When I get back home, I'll tell my husband what you told me. He probably expected it, but hey, maybe he'll call you to let you down slowly. He hates leaving shit unresolved."

"Wait, no—,"

"Too bad we couldn't resolve this."

Mickey turned around and started heading out of the Center. The kids were giving him strange looks as he made his way out, but he paid no attention to them.

It only took thirty seconds before Trevor ran up behind him. "Wait stop! I'll apologize! Just don't say any of that shit!"

Mickey smirked, still turned away from Trevor.

Plan D always worked.

Mickey slowly pivoted to face him and his stupid face. "Good. Make sure you call him and apologize clearly. And energetically. If he isn't in high spirits by the time I see him in ten minutes, I'll really break your fingers. Got it?"

He nodded, jaw tight. "Got it."

Mickey was a few feet away when he turned around to look at Trevor again. He couldn't help but add, "And after you call him, lose his number. He's fucking taken."

And he was. And it didn't matter if Mickey was only saying that shit to rile Trevor up; Ian was Mickey's, and the next time an ex called, he won't hesitate to break his jaw.

Mickey was quite happy to see Ian indeed was in high spirits the moment he walked through the door of their apartment. A smile adorned his beautiful face, and Mickey couldn’t help but grin. It worked.

Ian, in all his glory, walked towards Mickey, eyes glinting mischievously. “I know what you did.”

Mickey hated the fact that he scoffed. “Yeah, and what is that?”

Ian replied a simple, “I love you.”

“I didn’t do shit. No reason for you to love me now.”

Ian snaked his hands around Mickey’s hips as he pulled him towards his chest. Their eyes met, lips teasingly close. “Baby, I know Milkovich-induced fear when I hear it.”

“Oh?”

Their lips met agonizingly slow. There was no point in denying it anymore.

“So, I’m guessing he called?”

“Yeah,” Ian muttered between quick pecks.

“You good?” With me? With the Gay Jesus thing?

“What’d you threaten him with?”

“Uncovering his undivided love for you.”

Ian laughed. “You just did.”

“Who gives a shit? Not like he’s going to call again. Made sure of that.”

“Good.” Ian gave him another languid kiss.

“Are you really okay?” Mickey asked, pulling slightly away from Ian’s embrace. “Did he actually apologize?”

“Yeah, don’t worry. He sounded like he meant it.”

“Good.” Mickey loved the way Ian’s tongue prodded into his mouth.

“I really love you.”

“I know.”

And Mickey loved him back, more than Ian could ever know.

Life had taught Mickey to be protective of everything he even remotely gave a shit about.

You simply did not touch what was Mickey’s.

And Ian was Mickey’s in every way possible. And if Mickey had to live knowing that there were guys out there who Ian had been with while Mickey was away; fine, he could handle it.

But they better not call, talk, or touch him, because Ian was fucking off-limits.

“Love when you’re possessive,” Ian whispered as he slowly started running his hands up his sides, fingers finding their way underneath Mickey’s shirt, tugging it up.

Ditto, Mickey wanted to reply but didn’t get the chance to, already interrupted by Ian hungrily smacking their mouths together and pushing him back into the couch.

And as Mickey observed Ian, lips against his skin, hands roaming Mickey’s body, he realized he was absolutely breathtaking. In every single way.

And you’re all mine.

Mickey was definitely the selfish one regarding Ian, that’s for fucking sure.

Could anyone blame him?