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Everybody in the Southside was acutely aware of how possessive Mickey Milkovich was over Ian Gallagher.
It was no secret that the shit-talking, bitch-slapping, piece of southside trash wouldn't think twice about bashing your face in or breaking a limb or two if you even looked at his husband the wrong way. It's not like people weren't aware of how loyal the Milkovich's were, but this sort of fierce protectiveness ran deeper than just blood and engraved sense of responsibility that the other Milkovich thugs had.
The Milkovich family always ran together -- they were like a pack of rats, scurrying through the dirt in groups, battling through shit together -- but it wasn't because of the love they shared for one another nor the familial bond. Fuck no. The Milkovich's were like a gang -- they were a dangerous whole and would protect one of their own against the enemy no matter what, but still, behind closed curtains, it was always every man for him-fucking-self. Mickey Milkovich was a part of that whole, and he always protected the ones he needed to, whether it be his sister when she came whining about some dick of a guy that rejected her, or his brother when he asked Mickey to help with some drug runs. He didn't do it out of love, per se, but rather because it was expected of him -- protect your pack, your supposed family.
It wasn't until much later when Mickey would truly realize what it meant to need to -- to fucking want to -- protect someone. And it was the furthest thing from the shit his family taught him. Not even close.
The others began to understand that too, quite quickly. It was obvious the Milkovich's would beat your ass if you fucked with them, and that they would band together to dig a grave for your still-warm body -- but you wouldn't know true fear until you decided to fuck with someone they absolutely fucking loved. And since the family wasn't quite loving, with a few colorful exceptions -- it was easy to forget that. Good thing Mickey never let them forget for too long.
Mickey, to the outside eye, was dangerous, scary, and relentless. He had a mean bark and even meaner bite -- but once you grew on him, and once he decided to let you in -- whether it be on the bare outskirts of his inner circle, or right in the center (a place only reserved for one person) -- you could easily see past the cold exterior and get to know the laid-back, easy-going, happy Mickey. And that, again, made people forget who they were fucking with.
They were already finished with their cash pickups when the couple decided to head home, freshen up, and then head to the Alibi for celebratory drinks. Ian and Mickey scored a major profit that day, large enough to want to enjoy it today, and get drunk off their asses. It was getting easier and easier for them to enjoy themselves and each other these past few months. Ever since this job opportunity presented itself, and ever since they were smart enough to take it, they were a lot more care-free, and just genuinely happy. It didn't matter there was too much shit going on around them -- from Terry to the newest Gallagher feud -- they reveled in the moments they had with each other, and those moments were perfect.
Seating themselves at the bar, a couple of stools from Tommy and Kermit, they grinned at each other, and then turned to Kev who was polishing a glass, eyeing them with a smirk.
"Two shots." Mickey placed a ten-dollar bill on the table, and Kevin raised an eyebrow,
"You guys got married again or something?"
Tommy and Kermit snickered, watching the scene unfold before them -- it was like a show they got extra with their shitty, usual beers.
Ian flashed his pear-white teeth. "Life's good Kev, just give us the shots."
The large man poured the whiskey in two glasses, filling them up to the rim, sliding them carefully towards the couple. Mickey grabbed his glass, and shot Ian a grin, wiggling his eyebrows, "How many 's't' gonna' take you to get drunk?"
Ian smirked, "Even on my meds I can drink you under the fucking table."
"Uh-uh, Big guy. Let's see whatcha' got."
They downed the shots, sharing a look. Even a blind person could tell they were in love from a thousand miles away. It was in the way Mickey asked for a refill and then pushed the shot glass towards Ian, and it was in the way Ian gave his husband heart eyes every time he did something small like laugh at a stupid joke Kevin made or told Kermit to fuck off.
Ian was already drunk by their third shot, so Mickey just asked for beers as Ian kept giggling at stupid shit.
"'I can drink you under the fucking table' " Mickey mocked as Ian kept laughing. "You're fucking wasted already."
"I'm not." Ian giggled again -- he wasn't completely drunk. Tipsy, yes -- although Mickey would probably clock him if he used that pussy word. He glanced at the love of his life, laughing at him, making sure he took it easy, keeping tabs on his behavior and moods. So much love.
They rarely showed any physical affection when they were out in public, mostly because they just weren't the types to just randomly make out in the middle of the street or hold hands in a large crowd -- it could happen when they were alone, or when they just simply didn't care -- but they never forced themselves to do anything to accommodate others. They simply didn't work by those rules.
But now, now Ian wanted to kiss Mickey -- he wanted to make out with him until they were both breathless, screaming for air. Mickey noticed the shift in Ian's gaze and he held it, a small knowing smile playing on his lips. Just as he was about to lean in, a voice rang out.
"Milkovich, my man!"
Mickey turned around to look around the bar, trying to find the source of the voice, oddly familiar, and when he zeroed in on the man whom it belonged to, he raised his eyebrows in surprise.
He looked towards Ian as the men approached them, leaning in slightly and whispering, "Some old friends, haven't seen them in years."
Ian nodded, gaze unfaltering, winking at Mickey as the men approached. He knew his husband well enough to know that, if he wanted Ian to be the part of the conversation he would make him, but if he didn't, it was for a good reason. He trusted his husband's judgment about these things always, so he turned his body towards the front of the bar, sober enough to keep himself sitting straight as he sipped his beer slightly.
The guy that called out Mickey was short and rough, tattoos lining up his entire visible body and face, making Ian internally cringe as he assessed him out of the corner of his eye. The men behind him were acting like minions, or rather yet, guard dogs -- it was eery and made Ian uncomfortable. Mickey had a dangerous past, but sometimes Ian forgot how fucking scary the past could be.
"'Sup, Dal," Mickey said, no particular worry etched to his voice. "Whatcha' doin' here? Thought you were makin' bank up on the Eastside."
Dal nodded, "Was. Have been since the last time we saw each other. When was that? Eight years ago? Man, you changed." His voice wasn't malicious either, and Ian felt himself relax, realizing there wasn't any need for tension. There was obviously no bad blood between the men.
"You did too. What brings you back to this shithole." Mickey asked, raising his beer to his lips.
"Bussiness."
Mickey smirked "Ah, and here I thought it was pleasure."
Dal's lips gave a clipped smile, "Mickey Milkovich, always the jokester."
"What can I say, comes naturally."
But then Dal's eyes focused on the ginger, a crease forming between his eyebrows. "You Frank Gallagher's kid?"
Ian realized he was talking to him, and he raised his eyebrows slightly. It was a dangerous question. Frank was a piece of shit, and he could easily bring Ian to his grave with just a simple question like this. Dal seemed like the sort of guy you wouldn't wanna fuck with, and the sort of guy Frank definitely wouldn't be friends with. So, he simply replied, "Nah, man. Got the wrong guy."
Dal's eyes narrowed, but so did Mickey's, immediately. "I don't like being lied to. You're Gallagher's boy." He took a step towards Ian, but Mickey stood up abruptly.
"Think you need to back off."
Dal cracked his knuckles. "Frank owns me money."
"He's owned it eight years and you've been pretty fucking patient, I see. So back off from his kid, and go to him. Not like you don't got time. Kill him, for all I care, save us all the fucking trouble."
Although Ian knew it wasn't smart, and although he was sober enough to not let it slip, he still didn't like acting as if he was a fucking bitch. So, he let it slip past his beer-covered lips, "Yeah, fuck off. I ain't got shit to do with Frank."
"The fuck you say to me?" Dal's eyes turned stone cold, but Ian wasn't gonna back down from a fucking fight.
"You fucking heard me, asshole."
Mickey pulled him down as he tried to stand up, hissing, "Sit the fuck down, and chill."
"You really fuckin' protecting this piece of shit. Just back off so I can show him who he's dealin' with."
As aforementioned, Mickey was not just loyal and loving towards Ian -- he was also really fucking protective. So the moment the words tumbled out of the man's mouth, his eyes turned steely, and his fists clenched.
"I'm not gonna play nice anymore." He lowered his voice. "I came here to have a good fucking time with my husband, but here you are threatening to, what, "show him who he's dealin' with"? Listen here, pal, if you don't walk out of this fucking bar right now, I'll show you who the fuck you're dealing with. Got it?"
They held each other's gazes for several moments before Dal muttered "let's go" to his goons. They walked out of the Alibi and the tension dissipated. Mickey sat back down and looked to his husband who was sheepishly drinking his beer, "Really, you couldn't keep your mouth shut?"
Ian shot him a crooked smile, "Sorry...?"
Mickey kept his eyes on the redhead for a little while before breaking into a smile, "You're un-fucking-believable."
"Yeah, I blame the shots."
Mickey pulled Ian's stool closer so they were right next to one another. "Fucking love you."
"Thank you for defending my honor," Ian whispered against Mickey's lips.
Mickey smiled, "No problem."
Lips meeting, the world around them faded.