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Mickey's making dinner when Ian comes home. Spaghetti, because his culinary finesse doesn't stretch much further than that, but at least it ain't something he's heating up in the oven. He smiles at the sound of the door, opening the jar of sauce and adding it to the mince he's got cooking. He listens to Ian removing his jacket, then the soft sound of his voice. Mickey's head shoots up, and he strains his ears, frowning. Ian didn't say he was bringing anyone home.
“Okay, boy, let's get you cleaned up first, then we can get you something to eat, yeah?” Ian says.
“Ey. Who you talkin' to out there?” Mickey turns the heat of the hob down and heads through to the living room, a smile already on his face at the promise of seeing Ian. It fades when he sees what's in Ian's arms. “What the fuck is that?”
“I found him in an alleyway. Poor thing was starved half to death.” Ian shifts the scruffy brown mass in his arms, and the dog lifts his head, looking at Mickey with sad brown eyes. His fur is dirty and matted, his body thin.
“How's that our problem?”
“He's got a collar, so he must have had an owner at some point,” Ian says, ignoring Mickey's question. “No address, though. Just Cola Cubes. I guess that's his name.”
“Jesus, Ian. That thing could be fuckin' diseased or anything.”
“I'm gonna take him to the vet tomorrow. Get him checked.”
“Yeah? That's gonna cost a fuckin' fortune.”
“I'll take it out of my savings.” Ian hoists Cola Cubes a bit higher in his arms and passes Mickey. Mickey stares after him until he hears the sound of running water. He sighs, running a hand through his hair.
“I'll just talk to myself then,” he mutters, and goes back to the kitchen to finish dinner.
As Mickey's setting out plates on the table, Ian comes back with the dog wrapped in towels. He sets him in the middle of their living room. Now that Terry's been put away for fifteen years minimum, and most of the other Milkoviches have filtered out, they've set up camp here full time. Besides Iggy, and very occasionally Colin, they have the place to themselves. Cola Cubes pokes his head out of the towels, wet and stringy, but looking a bit more perked up. Ian starts rubbing him down with one of the towels, gently patting around his eyes and ears. Cola Cubes sniffs at his cheek, then gives him a tentative lick.
“You're okay,” Ian says softly, rubbing down his neck now. “Doesn't that feel much better? Yeah, it does. Good boy. What a good boy.”
In spite of himself, Mickey softens at the sight. Ian is so careful and tender with the dog. He ruffles his fur and pats him down until he's damp, but no longer dripping wet. Cola Cubes gives himself a little shake when he steps free of the towels. His front legs give out, and Ian catches him before he falls. He steadies him back on his feet and scratches beneath his jaw.
“It's okay, buddy. You just need to eat something. Hey, Mick, do we have any meat? I didn't get the chance to buy dog food.”
“There's some mince left over from dinner, but I don't think you should be feedin' our hard earned groceries to a dog.”
“I'll get some more later. I just don't want to leave him without food for much longer. He must be real hungry by now.” Ian leans in to kiss Mickey's cheek as he passes, then gets out a small bowl and puts the leftover mince in it for Cola Cubes. He pads closer, sniffs the bowl experimentally, then starts to gulp the food down. “Woah, boy. Slow down or you'll make yourself sick.”
“He ain't gonna understand you,” Mickey says. Ian rubs the dog's back, then gets a second bowl for water. He sits it beside the first. “Hey, you ever gonna come eat your dinner before it gets cold?”
Ian moves to the table, but keeps his eyes on the dog as he eats. Spaghetti sauce drips down his chin.
“For fuck sake, Ian. You're slabberin' everywhere. Just eat. The dog's right there. It ain't goin' nowhere.”
Ian glances at him sullenly, wiping the sauce away with the pad of his thumb and sucking it off. In any other situation it might be attractive, but his narrowed eyes don't invite sexual innuendo. Mickey rolls his own eyes and knocks his foot against Ian's beneath the table. Ian sighs, then smiles, catching Mickey's foot between his own. They eat in companionable silence for a while, until the dog comes slowly across to the table. He sits by Ian's side, props his head on Ian's lap, and closes his eyes. Ian smiles at him like he's the rising sun.
“We don't even got room for a dog,” Mickey says, but he's certain he goes unheard, and that he's already lost this battle.
*
Ian takes Cola Cubes to the vet on his next day off, gets him caught up on his shots and microchipped. Then the dog related items start appearing. First, a big dog cushion for the corner of their room. Then the bowls in the kitchen, kibble on the counter, dog treats in the drawers, toys scattered across the floor. The lead and collar on coat hooks near the front door. All of these appear without any discussion.
“You ain't even gonna ask me what I think about keepin' the dog?” Mickey says when Ian finally comes to bed, after playing fetch in the living room for the better part of an hour. Cola Cubes follows him into the room and goes to curl on his cushion at the foot of their bed.
“Well, I could, but then you'd say no.” Ian smiles. It's utterly charming, even if he is an asshole. He crawls across the bed and kisses Mickey, sweet and chaste.
“You just brought him into my house-”
“Our house. I live here, too. I pay bills. I buy groceries.”
“Okay, okay, our house.”
“I like havin' him around, Mick. He gives me something to focus on. A purpose at home. And anyway, they said it could be good for me to have a dog.”
“A specially trained therapy dog, Ian. Not some stray you picked up off the street, who may or may not be homeless.”
“We can't afford a therapy dog, and if he wasn't homeless, his owners didn't deserve him. He was starving and malnourished, Mickey. Please don't make me get rid of him. He's a good dog. He's house trained, and he already knows how to sit, fetch, and stay. He's well behaved on the lead, he doesn't bark at other dogs, and he's been no trouble so far. All he does is nap or chew his toys.”
“Yeah, notice you got him one of those annoyin' fuckin' squeaky toys.” Mickey scowls. Ian looks at him, wide eyed and frowning. He has to admit, Ian's been in pretty good form since the dog has come around. “Right. Fine. He can fuckin' stay. But if he starts chewin' my shit, or pissin' in the house, he's sleepin' outside.”
Ian face lights up in a grin. He presses Mickey down into the bed, kissing him hard. His hand slips beneath the blanket and starts to palm at Mickey's cock through his boxers. Mickey turns away from the kiss and Ian mouths at his jaw, down his throat.
“Ian, the fuckin' dog-”
“It's okay, he's asleep, he ain't watchin'.”
Mickey thinks about arguing further, because it's fuckin' weird, but then Ian's hand is down his boxers, fingers warm and firm around his cock, and any resolve is lost.
*
“Mickey!! No!”
Mickey jolts so hard at Ian's sudden raised voice he almost drops his cigarette. He fumbles with it briefly, swearing as he sends ash down over the stomach of his shirt.
“What the fuck, Ian?”
“You can't smoke in here.”
“Uh. Yeah I can? I always smoke in the fuckin' house.”
“It's not good for Cola Cubes.”
“Not good for-? Are you fuckin' kiddin me?”
“No.”
“Ian. I always smoke in the house. I even smoked in the fuckin' house when Yevgeny was here.”
“Yeah, but... It's different.”
“How is it different?”
“It's bad for him, and it makes his coat smell.”
“Then take the fuckin' dog outside.”
Two sets of puppy dog eyes later (blue-green and brown), and Mickey is pulling his coat tighter around himself as he smokes on the back porch. Fuckin' Gallagher and his fuckin' mutt.
*
Mickey wakes to a tongue at his ear. He makes a soft sound in his throat and rolls his head to the side. The tongue presses right into his ear. He laughs and squirms away, reaching up to press Ian away. His hand presses into a mass of fur. His eyes fly open. Cola Cubes is standing on the bed, attempting to continue licking the side of his head, tongue flicking empty air as Mickey holds him back.
“Okay, what the fuck.”
“Hey.” Ian's comes in through the door, dripping water, a towel around his waist. “I just got back. Didn't mean to wake you.”
“It's your fuckin' dog that woke me.”
“Yeah, I found him in the livin' room. You didn't let him in to bed?”
“I forgot. He ain't my dog.”
“Yeah, he's ours,” Ian says. Cola Cubes scrambles over Mickey towards Ian, his tail wagging furiously. Mickey swears as paws press into his stomach and thighs, the weight of Cola Cubes bearing down on him. Ian ruffles the hair of his neck, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of his head. “Down, boy.”
Colar Cubes obediently leaps down and goes to curl up on his bed. Mickey grumbles some more, then pulls the blanket over his head against the light. Ian potters around the room, getting ready for bed. After a few minutes, the mattress dips with his weight. He slides against Mickey's back, arm around his chest, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck.
“Missed you,” he says, rubbing circles onto Mickey's stomach.
“You talkin' to me or the dog?”
Ian laughs; a huff of breath against Mickey's neck. It tickles at the base of his hair.
“Both of you.”
Mickey kicks him. Ian just holds him closer.
*
Mickey hates the mornings Ian is on early shifts. If he doesn't wake him getting up, then he wakes to a cold, empty bed. He misses the solid warmth of Ian against his back. Sighing, Mickey pushes the blanket back and sits. Cola Cubes raises his head, tail starting to wag at the sight of Mickey getting up. Mickey rubs his tired eyes and staggers to the bathroom to have a piss.
He's drinking coffee and eating toast, leaning against the kitchen counter, when Cola Cubes comes to sit by his feet. He looks up at Mickey with ears perked, and his panting mouth makes it looks like he's smiling. He looks a lot healthier now. His coat is shiny, and he's at a much healthier weight. His stomach no longer dips in, and the bumps of his ribs are no longer visible. He's even starting to gain firm muscle along his shoulders and upper legs from all the running he does with Ian.
“The fuck do you want?” Mickey asks. Cola Cubes wags his tail excitedly at the sound of his voice. “You're the fuckin' only one.”
He tilts his head, one ear flopping forward while the other sticks straight up. He is kinda cute, Mickey's gotta admit. Warm, affectionate, persistent. Definitely Ian's dog. He pulls off one of the crusts of his toast and offers it to Cola Cubes, who sniffs it and looks at him with questioning eyes. Mickey holds it closer, and he gently takes it between his teeth, then tips his head back to bring the whole length of crust into his mouth. His tail wags again, and he nudges at Mickey's hand with his nose. Mickey relents and gives him a proper pet.
“You're not so bad, y'know.”
When Cola Cubes licks his fingertips, Mickey takes that as his way of tellin' him he ain't so bad either.
*
Ian sits between them on the couch; one arm around Mickey's shoulders, fingers absently toying with his hair. Cola Cubes rests his head on Ian's lap and the fingers of Ian's other hand work through the fur on the back of his neck. The parallel is not lost on Mickey.
*
“He ain't sleepin' in the fuckin' bed, c'mon,” Mickey says, when he walks in to find not one, but two lumps in his bed. Cola Cubes has his head resting on his paws, and he looks up at Mickey with his big puppy dog eyes. Ian has an arm curled around him. He doesn't raise his head from where it's pressed against his neck. “Yo, Ian, you hear me?”
Ian doesn't respond. Mickey hears him exhale shakily, then his body shifts, presses closer to the dog. His chest tightens. Ian's moods are more stable, but they still rise and fall like the tide, and his meds can still go out of balance. He's having flashbacks. Seeing the time he couldn't get Ian out of this bed for days. Feeling the same fear cloying his throat. He circles to Ian's side and sits at the edge of the mattress, placing a hand on his back.
“Hey. You okay?” Mickey's voice is soft. With some effort, Ian rolls onto his back to look up at him. He looks exhausted.
“Just tired,” he says quietly. His tone suggests it's code for feeling low. Mickey nods, bends to press a kiss to his forehead.
“He keepin' you company until I got home?” Mickey inclines his head towards the dog. The smallest ghost of a smile appears briefly on Ian's face, and he nods. “Alright. Well, budge over, then. At least gimme some space.”
Ian shuffles them across the bed and Mickey crawls in behind them. He presses against Ian's back, setting a hand over his hip. Ian takes it in his hand, lifts it to his lips and presses a kiss to the back of it. Then he lets their joined hands settle on Cola Cubes, his fur tickling against Mickey's knuckles.
“Thanks,” Ian says, so soft and muffled Mickey barely hears it. He doesn't respond with words, just a kiss to Ian's shoulder.
*
The cat comes later. Mickey's been smoking out of the window of Mandy's old bedroom, a room Cola Cubes doesn't frequent. Too fuckin' cold to sit on the porch. He forgets to close the window, and when he comes through to the kitchen to start dinner, there's a dog that is definitely not theirs eating out of Cola Cubes' food bowl. This is his first thought. On closer inspection, he discovers that the fluffy grey monstrosity is actually a monster sized cat.
“Whaaat the fuck. How'd you get in here? Yo, fuck face, move.” He tries to shoo the cat, who hisses viciously in response, swatting one of his claws through the air. He's almost as big as Cola Cubes, with sharp green eyes, and an ugly, battle scarred face. There's scratch marks on his nose and the tip of one of his ears is missing. “Woah. Tough guy, eh? We'll see about that. Yo. Cola Cubes. Here boy.”
Mickey waits. The dog doesn't appear. He calls again, and this time gets a soft whimper in response. That's when he discovers Cola Cubes cowering under the table. He moves when Mickey coaxes him out, but only to hide behind Mickey's legs.
“Seriously? You're the worst fuckin' guard dog ever,” Mickey says. He sighs and goes for a different battle plan; the brush. He opens the back door and swats gently at the cat, trying to chase him out the open door. The cat hisses again, clawing first at the bristles, then up along the wooden handle, catching two of Mickey's fingers. Blood spills to the surface. “Jesus Christ.”
Mickey drops the brush. The clatter of it landing sends Cola Cubes scurrying back under the table, but the cat seems unaffected. His tail swishes dangerously, and he stares at Mickey with those cool green eyes for a long moment, before returning to the half finished bowl of dog foot.
Mickey and Cola Cubes avoid the kitchen until Ian gets home.
“We're bein' held hostage by a fuckin' cat,” he says. Ian laughs. Kisses Mickey's cheekbone. “No, seriously. I think it's half feral.”
“Lemme see. Holy shit, that's a big cat.”
“He's fuckin' vicious, man. Look at this shit?”
“It's just a lil scratch, Mick.”
“Just a- Okay, you fuckin' deal with him, then.”
Ian uses a different tactic. He goes into the kitchen and sits a few metres away from the cat. He holds out his hand like an offering and coos. The cat, finished eating and now grooming himself nonchalantly, looks at Ian's hand for a long moment. Slowly, he lowers his front paw and pads across the floor. He sniffs at Ian's fingers, then butts his head against Ian's hand, rubbing his scent glands along the side of his finger. A low growl rips from the cat and it takes Mickey a few seconds to realise he's fuckin' purring.
“There, kitty,” Ian says sweetly, running his fingertips under his jaw. His angry sounding purr continues. “You're okay, aren't you? See. He's fine. He's nice as long as you are.”
“Okay, well, thanks for visiting, Mr Whiskers. Can you kindly fuck off out of my kitchen now?”
Ian uses food to coax the cat out to the back garden, leaving him eating there while Mickey makes sure the window is closed.
“Poor guy. I hope he has somewhere warm to go,” Ian says, watching him out the window. He's started yowling at the back door in protest.
“Not our fuckin' problem,” says Mickey. “Anyway, I never got a chance to make dinner, you wanna just pick something up?”
“Sure.” Ian smiles, kissing the corner of Mickey's mouth. Mickey turns his head to catch his lips properly, the sting in his fingers and the monster cat forgotten for now.
*
The cat doesn't leave. He sets up camp in the back garden. He yowls constantly, loud and insistent, day and night. Mickey is slowly losing his mind.
“That thing needs to shut the fuck up before I put a bullet in it,” he says, burying his head under his pillow.
“I think he's a Maine Coon,” Ian says. He's sitting on his side of the bed, Cola Cubes lying across his legs, scrolling on his phone. “I googled 'big as fuck cat breeds' and this looks like him, doesn't it?”
Ian holds the phone out and shows Mickey images of people holding cats that are, as Ian so eloquently put, big as fuck. He clicks up one that's several shades of grey, and it looks like a cleaner, happier version of their current menace protesting in the back yard.
“I don't care what it is. I need it to be quiet or it's gonna be dead.”
Ian just gives him a look that silently says “as if”. Mickey scowls in return.
“He's probably just cold. Or hungry.”
“Not my problem. Can't it go hunt some rats or somethin'? Gotta be plenty around here. And you.” He looks at Cola Cubes with an accusatory glare. “You couldn't even chase it off. Some dog you are.”
“Aw, leave him alone. He's not a fighter.” Ian scratches Cola Cubes behind the ear and he bumps his nose against Ian's wrist. Outside, the cat yowls again.
“Oh, my god.”
“Why don't you use my thighs to muffle the sound?” Ian smirks, suggestive. Mickey gives him a shove, but hey, if he's gonna be awake anyway it ain't such a bad idea.
*
He breaks within three days. Pulls open the door and scowls at the cat.
“Fuckin' fine. Here.” He sits Cola Cubes bowl down and the cat leaps up to the porch to eat. When Mickey comes back to retrieve the bowl, he runs in through his legs. “No you don't. This ain't a shelter, alright. I took pity and fed you, now you leave.”
The cat stares back at him from where he's seated himself on the kitchen table. Then he starts grooming himself. Mickey huffs through his nose, irritated.
“Get off the fuckin' table at least.”
The cat ignores him, and when he tries to shoo it off the table, he gets hissed at and scratched again. On the other hand, this time. Least he matches.
By the time Ian gets back, the cat has curled up in one of their armchairs.
“How'd he get in again?”
“Window,” Mickey says, because he doesn't want to admit to being nice to the bastard. “Made himself at home.”
“Don't like the cold out there, huh, do ya, buddy?” Ian smiles and offers his hand again. Like before, the cat sniffs it, then butts his head against. Fuck Ian and his Doctor Dolittle bullshit. Mickey's the one that fed the little shit. No gratitude.
“How come he's so friendly with you?”
“Have you tried bein' nice to him? C'mere.”
Mickey doesn't move for a moment. Ian gestures him over with a hand. Sighing, he crosses the room. This is stupid. He doesn't care if the fuckin' cat likes him or not. It's whatever. Ian takes his wrist and holds his hand out like an offering. The cat raises a paw and Mickey thinks he's going to get scratched again, but he only swats at his hand with nails retracted. Ian keeps him in place. After a couple of swats, the cat moves forward to sniff his fingers. Then it bumps his head against them and emits his angry sounding purr.
“See? He just needs a bit of patience.” Ian smiles at the sight, then kisses Mickey's cheek. “I'm takin' Cola Cubes for a walk. Wanna come?”
“Nah,” Mickey says, knowing he only holds Ian back from jogging. “I'll stick something in the oven for dinner while you're out.”
“Thanks. C'mon, boy. Walkies.”
Cola Cubes bounds excitedly across the floor, circling Ian, barking happily. Ian shushes him, pets his head, then grabs his lead from the hook. He clicks it on and leads him out the front door, and Mickey is left alone with the cat. He watches him butt his hand a few more times before he grows bored and goes back to grooming himself.
“Guess if you're gonna hang around I should give you a name, huh, fuck face?” Mickey says. The cat looks up from licking his paw, looking pissed off as usual. “Not a fan of fuck face? Okay. Well, you're big as fuck, and you look like a scary motherfucker. Maybe a warrior name?”
Mickey sticks some oven food in for when Ian gets back and then spends a while googling different warriors, reading through several pages of different names.
“How about Attila?” he says, crouching in front of the cat's chair again. He gets the same angry look in response. “I'm just gonna take that as a yes.”
*
“You named the cat.”
“Shut up.”
“So, are you adopting him?”
“No. It's just better than always havin' to say the fuckin' cat.”
“You named him, though. That kinda suggests you're a little attached.”
“Fuuuck off.”
“Hey, what about Cattila?”
“We ain't namin' him a fuckin' cat pun. You named the dog, I'm namin' the cat.”
“I didn't name him. Cola Cubes was on his collar.”
“You could have renamed him. You let him keep that name.”
“So should I pick up some cat food tomorrow then?”
“...Maybe.”
*
This time, it's cat stuff that starts popping up. A new bed, a scratching post, a toy mouse, a feather contraption for him to chase. Two new bowls lined up beside the dog's. Ian even gets him a collar and a little fish tag with his name on it. Mickey nearly loses his fingers getting that on him.
Attila seems to have warmed to him a bit now that Mickey is the one to feed him. Much to Mickey's annoyance, he's still friendlier with Ian. Purrs easier for him, will sit nearer him on the couch, will curl up on him if he's havin' a low mood. Mickey gets it; he loves Ian too, he wants to be close to Ian and comfort him. He can't blame either of their pets for favouring Ian, but he still feels a little betrayed. They might both care for the animals, but Cola Cubes is perky and energetic; definitely Ian's dog. Attila is a grumpy fighter; he and Mickey are alike, and Mickey feels like he's his cat.
He's been working with Tommy on the building site over the summer. Trying to go clean is tough when he's got little experience, no resume, and a criminal record following him around. Local jobs are all he can manage. He gets home tired and aching, his hands scratched up and his clothes filthy. He drops exhausted into the couch and closes his eyes. He needs a long hot shower. He needs a beer. He's too tired to move, though, so he just sits. His eyes only open when he feels a weight on his lap.
It's Attila. He stretches the front of his body out over Mickey's thighs. Mickey watches him warily. Attila gives him that piercing green stare. Then he butts his head against Mickey's stomach, and his body starts to rumble as his growling purr starts. Slowly, a smile makes its way onto Mickey's face. He trails his fingertips lightly through Attila's fur.
“Thanks, buddy.”
He only purrs in response.
*
“What the fuck are you lookin' at?”
“Mick, stop shoutin' at the cat.”
“He won't stop starin' at me.”
Ian gives him a sassy, raised eyebrow look, then turns his attention to Attila. Attila is stretched out at the bottom of the bed, lying across Mickey's blanketed legs, and staring at him persistently. Every so often he slow blinks.
“He's not staring. He's tellin' you he loves you.”
“Like fuck he is.”
“No, really, I read that when I was readin' about cats. They call it a kitty kiss. It's like a sign of trust.”
Mickey feels a giddy rush that he would absolutely never admit to. He scowls to cover it, shifting his feet beneath Attila, who makes a soft yowling sound of protest. His paws dart forward to stop whatever is shifting beneath the blanket, claws digging into Mickey's legs. He's so used to this kind of abuse now that he doesn't even flinch.
“I guess you're alright, too.”
Ian smiles at him knowingly. Mickey glares back at him. Ian leans in and kisses the expression away. As he moves back, he holds Mickey's gaze, then blinks slowly. Mickey can't help but smile, soft and far too affectionate, in response. He shakes his head, but then he slow blinks back at Ian. His wide grin is definitely worth it.
*
Cola Cubes and Attila get along surprisingly well. Cola Cubes has never challenged Attila's dominance, and so Attila has never felt the need to attack him. For the most part, they avoid each other, but Mickey sometimes finds them curled together on one of their cushion beds. The first time it happens, he takes a photo and sends it to Ian.
I should get that printed out and keep it in my wallet like people do with their kids.
Ur fckin weird gallagher
“Is it weird to love our little family?” Ian asks Mickey when he gets home.
“Ain't kids, though.”
“No. They're quieter, more affectionate, cleaner, easier cared for. I think they're perfect.” He cups Mickey's jaw and pulls him in for a kiss. “I think we're a perfect family.”
Mickey snorts and shoves him away, but he's smiling in spite of himself. Yeah, they're not conventional. They're all kind of outcasts in their own way; the abandoned, the downtrodden, the lost; but they've found each other and they've made their own happiness together. Maybe they are a strange little family.
“Yeah,” he says with a sigh of defeat. “Me too.”